Page 4 of Torn

Malice must sense her, because he nocks an arrow. Merry hears a quiver jangle, the stranger’s own weapon materializing in her periphery, penetrating the space beside her cheek. He nudges her out of the way with his foot.

On her majestic board, Merry had evaded Malice. But in general…

“He doesn’t miss,” she warns.

“Neither do I,” the voice says.

“Who are you, rebel?”

The moniker surprises him, stunting his grip on the bow. “I’m no rebel.”

“A savior, then,” she improvises. “A gallant hero.”

“I’m none of those things.”

“But whyever not? That’s such a pity. It would render this scene much more enticing. I’ve always thought—”

“Do you ever shut up?”

She’s hardly said anything, yet his question crackles like dynamite.

“Well, I never,” she humphs. “I have a mind to—”

“Duck,” the stranger says.

His arrow launches, intercepting Malice’s shot, both shafts colliding and vanishing. One of them reappears in Malice’s quiver. Merry concludes the other has returned to the stranger’s cache.

A flurry of bladed tips surge. She and her companion dodge, flinging themselves out of the way, onto the grass. The stranger tears to his feet and storms into the clearing amidst the ignorant crowd.

Malice falters, confusion warping his face. Apparently, he doesn’t recognize this newcomer, either.

The trance breaks. The stranger takes another shot, missing by a hair’s breadth as Malice twists. Another aim, and Malice’s bow skids over the ground, so he charges with his fists. His opponent averts the punch, crouching and then whipping upward with his own blow.

Such vigor! That slug could have uprooted a lamppost.

Malice simply staggers and pummels the stranger’s stomach, the attack mighty enough to crack marble.

Merry hops onto her skateboard and forges ahead, driving into battle. She’s weaponless but not about to let her savior—or whatever he prefers to be called—perish because of her. Not without an epic scuffle.

The board whisks. She spirals from Malice’s arrows, the slat whacking his jaw midflight, whipping his head sideways. When Merry lands, she squats and rams into him again, pitching his body into the air like a bowling pin.

Once he lands, his body tumbles, then he blasts to his feet, ready for a second brawl. The stranger indulges, and the two club each other with knuckles instead of arrows, their weapons distributed across the lane.

Suddenly, Malice backs off. His expression contorts, fixing on Merry’s companion.

She rolls her board toward the stranger and hooks her fingers around his arm, steadying him since he’s radiating with pent-up aggression. The visual of her touching this rebel becomes the focal point of Malice’s sniper pupils, so that he obsesses over the sight for a second.

He gives the archer a full-bodied appraisal, his lips crooking. He swaggers backward, then snatches his archery and tramples into the masses.

It’s a retreat that’s not actually a retreat. Merry has known him long enough. He wouldn’t turn the other cheek without a reason, without a plan festering in his mind.

The carousel whirls, cranking out a melody that tinkers into the atmosphere.

Not once has Merry seen her kindred’s face, barely having any chance to sketch his features. Now she turns, burning with anticipation. “Thank y—”

He crumbles to the grass.

Yelping, she falls beside him. “No! No, wait! Don’t pass out. You haven’t told me your name, or where, or why—”

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