Page 17 of Torn

Back to the enigma called Merry. How quickly after her birth did the Court chuck her from their sight? How much of a chance had they given her?

Anger shakes himself. It’s a moot subject.

He lowers his bow.

“Well, at least your temper is as consistent as your cock,” Malice says, running a bladed pinky nail over his lower lip. “You still have blue balls for the infamous Love, and it’s pissing you off. Don’t worry, resentment is healthy. By the way, I can see why the Fate Court used to pamper you, before they dropped you like a turd. You react with unprecedented speed and a fuse shorter than my middle finger.”

“I was not dropped like a—”

“Mate? Yes, you were.”

“I know corruption when I hear it. You think I’m that bitter over Love? So petty that I’d look for someone else to punish? So wound up that I’d break one, merely to spite the other?”

“I never said that,” Malice preens in sing-song voice. “You did.” He carries an exceptional tune despite its gruffness, as though he’s some type of hybrid, like the spawn of some one-night stand between a nightingale and a raven.

This hardly makes his point digestible. And so, Anger’s outrage is complete. He chokes the arrow’s shaft, then jams it into his quiver, making the contents rattle.

The window offers a sliver of nightlight. Someplace beyond, where he can’t see from this lair, there’s a star that refuses to shine, unnoticed and stubborn. It’s the star that Love had been born from, the vessel that brought her to life.

Anger tastes the vinegar of his own contempt. It assaults his palate, clashing with the tartness of anguish.

Why deny it? Of course, he’s bitter. She’d broken his heart without effort, because he’d allowed it. He’d never told her how he felt until it was too late, until she’d already fallen for a puny, magic-less subordinate.

Anger had been gutted, concealing that pathetic inclination beneath a veneer of indifference. Sentimentality in deities is weak. Love may have been easy prey—go figure—but thinking himself susceptible had packed Anger’s chest with humiliation.

When she lost her head over that mortal peon and became his equal, she’d ceded all memory of her ancient life. It was the price she’d paid for such an infraction, such a second-rate future.

Likewise, the boy named Andrew had surrendered his memory of her being a deity. All they’d retained had been their feelings for each other.

And that had been enough.

As a result, Anger had been swept from Love’s recollection as though he’d never existed. As though he’d never sat with her in a mineral cave when they were younger. As though he’d never confessed his fear of snowstorms to her. As though they’d never shared a thing.

Anger had monitored Andrew’s ability to keep Love happy. And that blemished inferior had done so. He’d filled her days with joy.

After wasting the first three years of his banishment auditing the quality of Love’s life without her being aware of it, Anger’s agony had corroded into a grudge. Witnessing her with someone else while he lurked in the shadows, invisible to her, forgotten to her…the grief had compounded, its hue darkening.

So yes, he’s bitter. And yes, he wants to punch something. And yes, he blames Love. And yes, he would enjoy ridding her from his system. And yes, if he can’t retaliate toward her, he might use someone else to placate himself.

And yes, he resents the Fate Court as well.

And yes, he dreams of home, of the Peaks. The morning mist. The blooming cliffs. The drone of dragonflies. The stars hovering so close, much closer than in the mortal realm.

And yes, trumping the Fate Court’s decision, the prospect of reclaiming his place, rinses the brackishness from his tongue. He samples the temptation, as thick as syrup and laced with a salty pinch of selfishness.

Selfishness. Like a true deity.

And validation. He senses himself leaning, teetering on a precipice. But this time, he doesn’t conceal it, because if there is any kind of archer like him, it’s this demon god. It’s the emotions they’d been taught to regulate, which have the same textures, the same reeks, the same boiling points.

Anger demands, “Give me proof.”

Malice demurs, “I thought you’d never ask.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

“And I wasn’t fibbing.” Malice is ahead of him, having retrieved a scroll from the crate of sepia envelopes on the floor. He flicks the rim, and the brittle parchment uncoils into a leaflet, a relic of ancient times.

Anger reads the script. He’s acquainted with the pamphlet’s chiffon material, the stardust ink, and the bespangled emblem at the bottom.

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