Page 12 of Torn

Anger takes inventory of the compact blond waves and the saber fingernails.

This must be the one called Malice.

The exile raises his hand, brandishing a bow. “Looking for this, mate?”

“Looking for stitches?” Anger threatens, because it’s disrespectful to handle another deity’s weapon. Not to mention plain stupid.

Malice hardly seems to care. He walks up to Anger, clad in a loose-fitting leather sweater, the material shifting with his movements. He hands over the bow and quiver, then waits until Anger harnesses the archery. “Well, aren’t I the fortunate one. It’s an honor to meet the archer who defied the Fate Court—and didn’t get away with it.”

“Was it an honor knocking me out?”

“Ah, that. My apologies, mate. I didn’t realize who you were at first. Not until I found your weapons. Only two archers in history have forged their arrows from iron—you’re one of them, if I’m correct. I like being correct.”

“You know a lot for an exile.”

“I know more than a lot.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I wasn’t. Knowledge is one of my specialties, among other hostilities.” Malice juts his chin toward the west side. “Let’s go someplace more wrathful and have a talk. I swear, I won’t bite.”

Yes, he will. If dissatisfied, he will. Anger knows this kind, because it used to be Anger’s job to know. This archer is less god, more demon.

Malice is also unarmed. At the moment.

Anger laughs without humor. “I’m not in the mood for an ambush. In other words, I’ll pass on the invitation.”

“I think not,” the demon god answers. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Is that so? What for?”

“To have a drink with me.” Malice grins. “And then to break Merry.”

4

Anger

For what Malice has just proposed, Anger isn’t above reciprocating that concussion the archer had given him. Anger’s scarcely a friend of Merry’s, much less an ally. But he’s not an assassin, nor a subservient to this exile who seems to think Anger will eviscerate an innocent deity on command—at the behest of someone he isn’t even indebted or duty-bound to.

“My arrows may no longer wield rage, but my fists are another story,” Anger warns. “If I were you, I’d retract that order.”

Malice shrugs. “It wasn’t an order but suit yourself. At least hear me out.”

“I would rather continue wandering this city aimlessly than get in the middle of a petty, territorial war.”

Anger shoulders past, but the archer has the gall to snare his elbow. “Christ, it’s not about territory in this hovel,” Malice says. “It’s about getting back what’s ours.”

“How very cliché of a nemesis. Getting what back?”

“Our place in the Peaks.”

Anger stiffens. How can they possibly win back favor in the Peaks? How does breaking Merry accomplish that? What does she have to do with such a goal?

His banishment has been a torment. His identity has been peeled from him, sacrificed because of some misbegotten feelings for the Goddess of Love.

Love. The mischievous vixen of his past.

The one he can’t seem to let go of.

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