Page 3 of Torn

Merry plants the flat of her sneaker against the board’s upturned nose. Drums whack through the speakers as her gaze deviates toward another building—toward a silhouette standing vigil from a roof backdropped by the sky. From what she can tell, it’s a masculine physique, as immobile as a star.

Whoever that person is, he’s watching the pursuit. Maybe he’s been watching it for a while now.

And what’s that shape attached to his looming form? Is it a…a bow?

He could be with Malice, yet his body language doesn’t imply malevolence or vitriol, at least from this distance. Rather, he has the posture of a mere observer, perhaps a skeptical one.

His eyes fixate on her. It’s a fact, even if she can’t make out his face.

Merry’s about to venture toward the building, but that’s when Malice leaps off the park’s edge. She yips and keeps going. Firing toward the carnival, she heads for neutral ground on a mode of transport that would leave its mortal counterparts—including the electric-powered ones—in the dust.

Within the tree arena, rides corkscrew and spin like asteroids, their nodules flaring. Merry jets past the entrance of arched branches dripping with heliotrope purple bulbs, the spastic sounds of the Ethereal Arcade competing with track ten on her playlist. To the thrum of keyboards, she careens through the spectral carnival, inhaling mysticism and hairspray.

Circuiting the Constellation Carousel, she stops and wrenches off the mauve headphones, letting them cinch around her throat. She chances another glimpse of her stalker prowling only a few feet away. Immortal blood has that effect, granting deities the luxury of expediting their travels.

In other words, her people move stupid fast. Like, speedily enough to give cheetahs a workout, matching the velocity of a deity’s skateboard.

Scratch that: Awould-bedeity.

Scratch that again: Anever-has-beendeity.

Malice’s head slithers, searching for her. His glare is about to collide with Merry’s gape when a hand covers her mouth. She shrieks into the palm just as it yanks her into the shadows, her spine hitting some captor’s chest.

A chest as solid as a machine. A male, muscled chest.

A fellow immortal: able to touch her, to make physical contact. So he must be a rancorous ally, which means that she’s been caught. He and Malice will take her prisoner, haul her to Malice’s burrow and torture her like a true heroine, until she meets her untimely but fateful end. It’s a cataclysmic vision, albeit one for the history books. Maybe the Fates will share tales about her lost potential and grievous end.

Finally, her kind will actually know and care that she exists.

Then she remembers the part about being tortured. Such a penalty merely for crossing into Malice’s territory, because he’s just that homicidal, because sometimes his theatrics exceed even hers.

I’m a leading lady in this death-defying scene. If I escape their clutches, I’ll be…still an outcast.

But alive. Alive is a pleasant thought.

She can finish the narration later, envision a thrilling outcome when she’s safe. Her teeth retaliate, chomping on the offensive hand. Whomever has captured Merry disengages from her mouth with a grunt. She’s about to turn and knee his groin, but that same hand gets a second wind and smothers her anew.

She thrashes, but he’s strong, so very strong. And he’s tall, his height surpassing the other repugnant beast who’s hunting her.

“Shh,” his voice gripes, revving like a motorcycle.

Merry freezes. His timbre is intense, like it comes with a speedometer and a loaded tank of fuel, like it might accelerate at any moment. The sound of him knocks the wind out of her, makes her feel a little wild, a lot amorous.

Her grand imagination runs rampant. She pictures herself taming that alpha voice, slowing it down like only a soul mate can.Sighhh.

With his free hand, the stranger points ahead, his digit extending past her nose. She snaps out of it. The fingerless gloves set this newcomer apart, since no other immortal in the city touts that accessory—except for Merry.

Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe they’re kindreds.

Maybe the stars haven’t forsaken her.

The mysterious index finger aims toward the glowering figure of Malice, who’s scanning the carnival. When Merry doesn’t fight back, the stranger releases her. She hopes this means he’ll put a pedal to that voice again, gun that engine right into her ears.

But he’s too focused on her pursuer. He must know that Malice is after her, though he can’t know why, right? Can she trust this person? Does she have a choice?

She lacks a pointy weapon. But from the sound of it, he’s packing arrows and a longbow.

A longbow! She remembers the silhouette, the spying figment who’d witnessed the action from a rooftop. In addition to visible perception, he’d caught up to her as rapidly as Malice had, so there’s no question he’s one of them.

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