Page 38 of Torn

Anger closes the distance. Malice goes flying into a patch of rosemary, the impact eviscerating crops and pulverizing the plot’s brick border.

The archer stumbles to his feet. Chuckling, he straightens his clothing and retrieves his weapons, which have skidded across the building.

Spitting out blood, Malice waves an arrowhead lazily in Anger’s direction. “Be careful, mate. Number one, try not to cramp my nitty-gritty style with your piss-poor timing. Confessing about Love on the cable car? I know you were trying to break Merry quickly, but you have to earn her first. Number two, it’s fine to bend her over if you need a release, but don’t prove me right by going lame. As it is, the world’s overpopulated with enough pussies.”

“Number three, go to hell.”

“Now that you mention it, I could use a vacation to the afterlife when this is over. I’ve heard the weather’s fantastic in hell.”

Anger has no plans to wheedle Merry into his bed or anything remotely similar. He cannot afford an emotional handicap when there’s plenty to do, plenty to consider without additional impairments. As if he would be tempted by such a hindrance.

Is it still worth it?

He recalls a time when his bow still flexed with magic, when he still had a home, a class. He recalls one special dawn beside a frozen lake, where a goddess’s lips had brushed his cheek as she said good-bye to him.

His skin prickles in the spot where he last felt Love’s touch. He remembers the very second when she lost the remnants of her memory, when he became no more than a blot in her mind. That instant when she looked in his direction but no longer saw him standing there, no longer knew he’d ever existed.

And so Anger holds out his hand for Malice to shake.

***

The hammock is a nightmare. A veritable fraud of comfort.

Anger thrashes in the contraption, this topsy-turvy excuse for a bed swooping, incapable of being still. Sardined within the basin of material, he attempts to find a comfortable position without crashing to the ground.

A slew of profanities blows from his mouth. He’s going to commit genocide on every forsaken thread count.

Like an idiot, he’d opted for this alcove instead of actual accommodations in the observatory, or at least one of the outdoor lounge chairs. Merry had been elated when he’d agreed to bunk here, her face flushed from the early morning rest and a day’s worth of downtime without Anger. She’d waxed poetic about the charm of sleeping in the open air, beneath infinity.

Anger had simply wanted to black out. Nothing a handful of hours can’t cure, enough to revive him for the next few days.

Midnight. Dammit. He’s far from comatose.

Strands of light twinkle, peeking between the ferns draped overhead. Too many sheets ensnare him, courtesy of Merry. Too many quandaries congest in his mind, also courtesy of Merry. Muttering more obscenities, Anger batters the pillow.

Life capsizes. His pride follows.

The alcove’s canopy inverts as the miserable cot rotates him, flipping him upside down. Anger’s reflexes spare him from crashing. He fists the canvas while his legs wrap around the belly of the hammock. He dangles one foot off the ground, swinging like a bell. Really, he should just let go. It wouldn’t even be an impressive crash landing.

And it’ll appear less funny to the female who’s watching him.

Merry’s silhouette fills the entrance, a jubilant specter outlined in a nimbus of pink. Her hand clamps over her mouth, and her shoulders shake.

Anyone but her. No one but her.

Ultimately, he cannot decide if she’s the best or worst person to witness his demise. “Go ahead and laugh,” he says, indignant.

“You look like a rotisserie trout—”

“I changed my mind. Go away!”

“—with the mouth of a blowtorch.”

A dainty nightgown clings to her body. Unfortunately, the cloud slippers—literally, puffed clouds—and a fuzzy robe spoil the effect. Without them, she would have exemplified the term,goddess.

Anger resents that atrocious robe for existing. It’s a tasteless design and blocking the rest of her flesh from view, which pinches at his curiosity.

Fates, he should be grateful for the concealment. Yet his eyes strain for details.

---