Page 37 of Torn

“Trust me.” Anger shifts his weapon toward Malice’s dick. “I don’t have to think about it.”

“I might have improvised, made Merry seem a little…,” Malice wiggles his taloned digits, “…mutinous. I might have told the Fate Court that she’s planning to communicate with mortals, betray the true secrets of our mythology to society, recruit fellow outcasts who adore her, and spark a revolution for free will—on a grand scale. It’s rather kamikaze of her, but she has a fixation with the topic, if you haven’t noticed.”

Anger has noticed. They’d bickered about it before the attack.

“And why would I tell them that?” Malice prompts. “Because tipping off the Court about anything hazardous makes our side look credible. It gives us brownie points, which throws them off our scent. Think of it as a safety net. The less they sniff our treasonous plans, the better. They’ll focus on Merry.”

“And me,” Anger bites out. “Since I shot back at them, which negates your whole scheme.”

“Au contraire,” Malice says. “Protecting Merry inspires her to trust you. She has a flare for the dramatic, which’ll influence her to worship you even more. As to the rest, the Court is astute enough to know you were acting on self-defense, playing bodyguard because you had no choice. You’re a loyalist, Anger. That makes you vulnerable when your loyalty is divided, but you weren’t looking to disable your superiors—just to block them. After everything that’s happened in your past, they’ve surmised this. Am I right? I like being right.”

Anger relaxes the bow, twirls the arrow, and stabs it into the quiver.

Malice had designed a mind game. He’d concocted propaganda, convincing the Court that Merry means their people rebellious harm, intending to expose their existence in the name of free will against destiny. Mortals have a false vision of mythology; that very falsehood gives the Fates anonymity.

And that anonymity—the invisibility, the mystery—keeps deities alive.

Exposure to humanity is a death sentence to immortals.

In the carnival, Merry had advocated for free will. She’d done it vehemently, thus they’d gotten into an argument. Who’s to say the Court wasn’t already there, witnessing the quarrel? Why wouldn’t they assess the situation, confirming Malice’s tip before charging?

If so, they’d heard Merry’s hyper recitation. They’d heard Anger’s inflamed protest. That would have proven Merry radical and Anger guiltless, which would have trigged the ambush.

In retrospect, his superiors hadn’t been aiming at Anger. They’d been aiming at Merry.

He shakes off the guilt, evicting it from his conscience. It has to be this way if he wants his home back. If he wants that singular moment with Love.

Not to mention the consequences if he fails. The plot has been set into motion, past the point of no return. If Anger aborts, or if he doesn’t meet with success, he’ll lose the remnants of his powers. As will Merry.

Surely, she’ll recover her heart. The same cannot be said about magic.

“You took an extreme gamble,” Anger judges.

“A necessary move,” Malice testifies. “The Court doesn’t suspect us, they’re preoccupied with Merry, and she trusts you implicitly. I keep tabs on mine, and you weren’t doing the best job charming her at the carnival. The courtship needed a turning point. You needed a wing man.”

“You’ve placed her life at risk!”

“Ahh, that’s true. I forgot how much you value life.” Malice genuflects. “I guess you’ll have to keep protecting her. When the time is right, you can always tell the Court that you persuaded Merry out of her mercenary, sacrificial plot. Problem solved. You see? First rule of manipulation: The simplest answer is always the most effective.”

And the most believable. That edict applies to magic as well.

The demon god is cunning. He’s so cunning that whenever he opens his trap, his sentences end with audible ellipses, as if there’s more to his agenda and why he’s bent on returning to the Peaks.

More he isn’t saying.

Malice spreads his arms and offers a crooked smile. “What do you think? Would I make a killing as a chess player? I like to think so.”

“Just leave Merry to me,” Anger says.

He hates that his evening with Merry hadn’t been private. That Malice had spied on them. That the Court had joined in.

His night with her had been…memorable. It should have been theirs, alone.

Malice cants his head, the patina of unruly curls slanting sideways. He grazes a long fingernail across his chest, a muddiness leaking into his eyes. “For Christ’s sake,” he groans, because evidently he has a penchant for mortal blasphemy. “Has she given you a toothache? Do you need a fucking root canal? Tell me you’re not about to get all hackneyed over a female.”

“I don’t make the same mistake twice—what now?” Anger demands as Malice begins to search the terrace garden crammed with juniper saplings and herb beds. “What are you doing?”

“Searching for your cock. It seems you’ve misplaced it—”

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