Page 36 of Torn

Much more imperial.

Up here, he can scream and curse without worrying he’ll be heard by other outcasts. He can kick things and hurl things. He can dent pipes, mow his feet through terrace shrubbery, and exasperate pigeons. He can have a sufficient temper tantrum.

His teeth clench because he’d once accused Love of this same deplorable behavior. The difference? Rage is his foundation; therefore, he’s trained to manage it.

He hasn’t been managing it for days.

On a garden parapet six stories high, Anger aims his bow at the congestion of people below, a constant flux of insects slipping around one another. They’re running on fumes, on stress, on automatic. Neglecting to restore themselves, they operate without nourishment or a sense of where they’re truly headed. Some of them have their faces plastered to phones, one rock away—or one rift in the pavement—from tripping and breaking a bone. Or from smashing into another person.

The collision might cause strangers to bark at one another—or to fall in love. It hinges on the couple and which deity is present to steer the outcome. Anger or Love.

But Love doesn’t exist anymore. Not until she’s replaced.

And Anger doesn’t exist anymore. Not until he’s replaced.

Or until he reacquires that privilege. Until he smashes an innocent heart, in order to get it.

In the meantime, he surmises that the Fates are still scrambling to recoup their losses and recreate the missing archers. Even though Anger’s plot to salvage his identity will spare them the trouble, it will also deem him insubordinate and immune. Not encouraging, since their feelings on the matter had been palpable when charging at him and Merry in the carnival.

How had they found out?

Anger misses the art of targeting and shooting, righting the wrongs in humanity. He misses being necessary. But he lowers his weapon, because if he fires, he’ll accomplish nothing but injuries. These arrows don’t stir emotions any longer, lately only capable of fractures or shoving people off balance.

That’s the thing about the arrows. The magic is highly complex and not always in the Fates’ favor.

Like the stars. They can be allies or not. They can serve the Fates or not.

From this distance, he studies the Carnival of Stars, where the cable cars droop in the air. Someplace below that is the carousel where Merry had claimed Sagittarius, asked him too many questions, and shared too many intimacies.

On the streets, tires squeal and mopeds rev. One soul shouts, another raps on a door. There’s a faint echo of footfalls, but it’s not coming from down there.

Anger tenses, sliding his fingers over the arrow.

A set of palms slap his back, propelling him forward. “Don’t fall!”

The world jolts. Anger tips over the rim, then rights himself. In a flash, he spins into a crouch, the arrow pointed at Malice’s chest. The outcast god doubles over and breaks into a raucous laugh, those nails of his slicing at nothing and everything. How the Fates does he anchor a bow with those pincers?

Anger straightens. “Very funny, you bastard.”

Malice hoots. “Your senses require a tune-up. You didn’t hear me coming—”

Anger has Malice pressed against a brick wall before he’s finished, Anger’s forearm digging into the knave’s larynx. “Did you sensethatcoming?”

Malice flashes chiseled teeth.

The sky pivots. In an instant, Anger’s on his ass with the deity leaning over him. “Apologies, mate.”

Anger rolls him over, mashing the god’s frame into a patch of herbs, crushing a few biennials. He rises, helping Malice up as they call it a draw, smacking away clumps of soil.

The demon archer whistles, harnessing the hickory bow. “You’re wound up. Too bad our skirmish didn’t help release the tension, since I’m not about to fuck it out of you. I draw the line at being a whore.”

“Either you’re bored, or you’ve heard what happened.”

“Even better. I watched it happen. I made it happen.”

An uprising. A riot of blood that has him nocking the bow again. “What trick are you playing?”

Malice bats the arrow out of his way. “It’s called tactics. I used the stars to send a message to the Fates. For what purpose, you ask? Think about it.”

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