Page 21 of Torn

From across the avenue, a pair of intense eyes watch her. The irises are not wholly iron black, not quite steel. They’re graphite and fixed on Merry, catching her by the throat mid-chorus.

It’s the second time he’s done this to her. By the way, she hasn’t stopped shrieking. It’s not a startled response, nor an attractive one. No, it’s a disastrous screech of mortification, of yet another missed opportunity to impress him.

That’s not all that happens. She slips sideways and hits the counter, her fanny sliding across the brim before she topples off the edge, the velocity sending her wheeling across the platform like a renegade waffle cone. She bursts into a cyber landscape, destroying virtual planets and uncharted civilizations along the way before coming to a stop.

Rocketing upright, Merry swats at her hair, hunting the carnival for him. She’s disgraced and hallucinating. The spot where the God of Anger had been witnessing her tonsil-deep performance and inevitable wipeout, is vacant.

Is she so forlorn that she’s having visions? She draws the line at illusions meant to torment her. She’s better than this.

Honestly, if Anger were her true love, he would have gotten a similar spark and remained in the observatory, hell bent on ravishing her. Since he hadn’t, she must have been wrong.

This verifies that she’s a failed star. That intrinsic, misguided and undesirable part of Merry has led her down this false path.

Very well. She dusts herself off and watches a few more gaming rounds. It’s therapeutic, and by the end of the night, she feels better.

Based on her latest experience, even neutral ground can be a threat. She’s never had a bow, definitely wasn’t in the Peaks long enough to forge one, but she’s brought her skateboard, which is optimal for a quick getaway.

The carnival lights blink out, the rides lock into place, and the patrons leave. The gates have closed, but that’s not a problem, and she likes being in the amusement park when it’s quiet, when it’s dark, when it’s all hers. It’s an homage to magic and mystery. It’s a galaxy of rides without a pinch of rust, no chipped paint on the edifices, not a speck of deterioration.

There are lawns and trees. There are lampposts and trails lined with sparklers. There are lavender drinking fountains beneath awnings and star-patterned signs pointing toward each venue.

The stars come out, brighter than when the carnival had been alive, white specks dotting a cobalt umbrella of sky. The wheels of Merry’s skateboard spin down the vacant path. As the breeze toys with her hair, she makes a choice and lets her wireless headphones hang around her neck, the better to detect the person behind her, the one who’s been following her for the last five minutes.

Even with music blaring, Merry would have heard him coming, but she’d rather be fully present in this moment, the sound of his approach consuming her whole. It’s déjà vu, the sensation of an otherworldly being on her tail. She can’t help milking the anticipation for all it’s worth, because the pursuer isn’t an enemy this time.

Maybe she hadn’t been seeing things, after all. Maybe the curse of banishment can indeed be broken.

Headiness eclipses the embarrassment that she’d suffered earlier. Her mouth wreathes. She has a strange feeling that his own lips are doing the same thing.

He’s close.

She speeds up, not nearly as fast as she can skate, nor as fast as he can move. But it’s enough to incite a small chase.

Track sparklers buzz on either side of the lane. At a fork, Merry curves right—and she brakes. The board kicks upward, skidding across the planks as she halts in place, her heart launching into her throat.

Anger stands in front of the carousel as if he’d guessed her destination. He’s changed his wardrobe, opting for jeans and a sinful Henley that outlines the muscles of his chest. The sleeves ride up his olive forearms, creating a traffic jam of bunched material and exposing those fingerless leather gloves. His quiver is hooked across his back while he aims the longbow at her, the weapon nocked with an iron arrow.

“I win,” he says.

“I object,” she blurts.

There it is: His lips betray the faintest of quirks.

Gracious, he’s lethally stunning. Though he seems mystified by the humor in his voice and the course of his actions—even annoyed by them, flexing his jaw to curb further impulses. She can’t decide if she wants to see him smile or see him deadbolt those chiseled features.

Ultimately, she yearns to lick the rim of his mandible. In fact, she might make that her life’s work.

She’d just made a promise to herself. But now, teetering atop the dimple in his cheek, she tumbles once more.

She falls in love all over again.

He lowers the bow and inspects her. What does he see?

Merry becomes acutely aware of the high-tops tickling her ankles, the corset dress flaring beneath her black denim vest, and the frock’s skirt revealing her upper thighs.

Her hair flows freely tonight, puddling to the collarbones. Of all nights, she’s decided to wear more eyeshadow than Cleopatra.

But what snares his attention are her fingerless gloves, the fishnet straining across her knuckles. He stares at them in puzzlement, disturbed by the sight.

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