Page 35 of Torn

“What are we?” he asks, stunned at the huskiness invading his tone.

What the Fates is the matter with him lately?

Merry nibbles on her lower lip. “We’re kindred, and we’re tragic, and we’re still here. And because of that, we’re stronger.”

He closes his eyes, struggling to smooth out the ripples in his thoughts. Hasn’t he always been strong? Or has he only ever been strong because of the Fates? Have they always conducted his might?

“Why did they come after us?” Merry asks, more to herself than him.

“You don’t have an idea?” Anger inquires, just in case.

She tucks into her mug. “Nope. You?”

“No,” he says, the lie repelling him. “I’ve been a recluse for the last four years. I can’t figure out why they’d show up, since I don’t know them anymore. I wonder if they ever knew me.”

On the other hand, he’s forgotten which parts of the reply are fact and which are fiction. He wishes that neither of them had spoken, nor shared a thing with each other. And yet he wishes they would share more.

A universe more.

Honesty slides precariously across the flat of his tongue. He clenches his teeth before it’s too late.

Merry sets her cup on the ground and wiggles under the throw, a socked foot sticking out. “Then we’ll do reconnaissance.”

“And find out,” Anger agrees.

Except how? How can he do that without revealing his plan?

Anger deflates into the cushions. Right now, he simply concentrates on the sound of that blanket shifting over Merry’s body.

10

Anger

It’s the snoring that snaps Anger out of it. He’s been festering—festering with dignity, fuming in silence—for the past three minutes. Apparently that’s how little time it has taken for Merry to fall asleep.

She cannot possibly be tired. Even mortals last longer than this.

But then, they’d just survived a breakneck chase, and he can’t account for how long it’s been since her last slumber. Her nostrils flap, and she rests with an open mouth, a wishing well emitting tiny ruffles of noise. It’s the perkiest, percolating snore that he’s ever heard.

Pigmented hair slumps over her dark brows. Her hands bunch under her chin as if she’s a damsel praying. All right, she’s somewhat cute—in a greeting card type of way.

Anger studies her. Strangely, the vision comforts him, loosening the kinks in his muscles.

Which is why he launches to his feet. This sort of repose is likely fleeting, definitely foreign. He doesn’t plan on getting acquainted with it, getting used to it. When people get used to things, it’s harder to let them go. It’s disorientating.

Merry’s throw blanket falls from around her waist, landing in a puddle of cashmere on the floor.

Anger takes a step to the roof’s edge, but then he stops. “Dammit.”

He stalks back to Merry, picks up the blanket, and drapes it over her. He makes sure to tuck the material around her legs, swaddling her feet.

This is a practical move, nothing more. She doesn’t need the warmth, because their kind is impervious to cold. But it will give her something to hold on to while sleeping, since she’s the snuggly type.

A whiff of vanilla swirls from her mishmash of clothing. He is careful not to touch any exposed skin, such as her cheek or her fingers. In this respect, he pulls away without a fuss, without effort.

Fates. He’d almost left his weapons behind. Grunting, Anger collects his longbow and quiver from the basket.

All day, he wanders the tops of residential buildings, as he used to before meeting his doom in the form of a popsicle-haired god-groupie. It’s much easier to stew from this elevation, much easier to delude himself into feeling robust.

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