Page 42 of Torn

Yet here they are, standing before him.

Envy. Sorrow. Wonder.

11

Anger

Anger hasn’t seen them in years. Neither has he heard from his classmates in all that time. Not one message through the stars, not a single salutation or greeting.

They hadn’t even said good-bye to him. They’d simply vanished to their assigned realms in the mortal world.

Once the most elite class of archers in the Peaks, which had included Love, they’d grown up and trained together. In a way, they’d been friends as well as comrades. But that hadn’t mattered after his banishment.

Envy, dressed in tweed slacks and a button-down shirt. Envy, who can seduce any god or goddess with a flick of his finger. Envy, whohasseduced nearly every god and goddess, making sport of their lust and pitting them against one another for his amusement.

Sorrow, in a shredded skirt down to her ankles and a vest fixed with stitching needles. Sorrow, bisected with half-moon eyes and razor cuts up her arms. Her purple hair used to be short and spiky, but now it bobs at her chin, tucked behind her ears. And the rectangular bandage patched across the bridge of her nose is new, either literal or an accessory—with her, guesswork is futile.

Wonder, with her curvy proportions, long tresses the color of yellow marigolds, and scarred hands. Wonder, in an off-the-shoulder blouse and harem pants. An elastic band cuts across her forehead, holding a posy of blooms to one side of her face.

Each of them has elaborately crafted archery strapped to their backs, the quivers loaded with varying breeds of arrows.

Envy, glass. Sorrow, ice. Wonder, quartz.

Envy crosses his arms. “Well, old furious friend? Don’t you have anything to say to your infamous class?”

Anger doesn’t have anything to say. But he has something to do.

He’s got Envy jammed into a trellis of plants before the archer has time to simper. A lot of henpecking ensues, Wonder and Sorrow clamoring for Anger to stop this instant. Meanwhile, Envy flaunts a look of mild cynicism.

“Still so beautifully aggressive,” the bastard taunts. “I take it this means you’ve missed us. Go ahead, abuse my debonair self.”

Anger asks, “Does that include your face?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Gracious, Anger.”

Merry. Her voice streams toward him, the sound tugging at his wrists. It’s not that the radiance of her voice pacifies him…or does it?

It has to be something else. There’s no skip in her tone, no drama to indicate that she’s been taken off guard.

Visibly, Merry’s composed. She isn’t surprised to behold these archers.

One of them, at least. Her expression of familiarity means that she’s seen Wonder before.

How? When? Why?

Anger releases Envy. He backs up, rolling his eyes as Envy smooths down the starched shirt. The vainest of vain Gods prefers high-maintenance clothing, hardly practical for fighting.

Sorrow’s elbow jabs into Anger’s side. She shoulders past him, hustling up to Envy and shoving him. “You had to bait a rage god, didn’t you?”

Envy flashes his teeth and collects her hand, pressing it to his pecs. “I love it when you worry about me.”

“Idiot,” the female mutters, hiding a grin behind her purple hair—and not pulling away from him.

The sight brings Anger up short. “What the…you two?”

“Don’t blame her,” Envy teases. “Everyone finds me irresistible.”

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