Page 82 of Torn

The calmest words often make the deadliest threats.

Wrenching back his arm, Anger snarls, “Touch me again, and I’ll take your hand with me.” Then he gets nose-to-nose with Malice. “We’re done. Find your own heart to break. If you have a qualm about that, I can always spill your intentions to the Fate Court. I may be as exiled as you, I may have disobeyed them like you, and I may have been forced to fire at them because of you. I may have just broken another rule in that library, but you’ve been with me every step of the way, and I’ll make sure they know that. I don’t care if you concocted lies that got them to place some modicum of faith in you. I’ll take my chances.”

“What’s your honesty worth to them?” Malice drawls.

“Very little, at this point,” Anger acknowledges. “But you were once an Archive troll, whereas I was once their most trusted archer, and that counts. I’ve lost everything, a fact they’re aware of.

“But you? I’d say you still have something to lose. Are you willing to bet your deviance against my humility? Which one will have a more pungent stink?” Anger grins without mirth. “Of course, if you’re going to be obstinate, there’s the issue of Wonder.”

At the shape of her name, Malice twitches. An inexplicable reflex.

“Oh, that one,” he mutters belligerently. “It’s a pity about her hands. Scars are so eternal. She probably deserved what she got.” Then he tosses Anger a sideways glance. “Go ahead. Call me a son of a bitch. That way I can say, ‘I’m the son of no one.’”

“I don’t know. Satan comes to mind.”

“Come now, mate. At least think mythical, not biblical. Think, Hades.”

Either way, the rage god registers the facts. Wonder’s an active goddess. She’s an acute goddess, plus a witness to what happened in the library, cognizant of the fact that Malice had been present.

And that it hadn’t been a coincidence.

Malice narrows his eyes. Anger’s prepared to punch his way from the archer’s vicinity, but Malice doesn’t move another muscle. Perhaps he knows that in Anger’s state, it’s a losing battle.

Or who knows why Malice reacts the way he does to anything? One moment ferociously insistent, the next deceptively flippant.

Again, the root of his motivations is debatable. Any exile would want to reclaim their place in the Peaks. Case in point, Merry and Anger’s classmates have stressed how that’s becoming a vengeful subject amidst the immortality discarded, as well as handfuls of active deities. It’s brewing into a considerable impetus.

But for Malice, there’s more. He might have an axe to grind with the Court, or he might want to prove himself.

Or he might want entry back into the Archives. Back to the Hollow Chamber.

And once there, what additional wisdom might Malice seek?

“Suit yourself,” the outcast says, swinging his arm toward the street and inviting Anger to leave.

Anger stalks off, the fountain’s purple haze and Midnight Park’s sculpted hedges pounding by on either side of him. In spite of the deviant company he’s been keeping, he doesn’t blame Malice. That outcast dropped this situation in Anger’s lap, but he hadn’t forced him into anything, hadn’t told him what to do. Anger had made his choices of his own free will.

This time it’s not hard to be furious with himself. In fact, it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.

His quiver beats against his shoulder blade, the arrows clattering, his fingers strangling the bow. His boot heels strike the pavement. His clothes cling to his form, making it difficult to shift.

A horn blares. A door slams.

Where is he going? Where are his feet carrying him? Why can’t he stop them?

Never mind where or why. He knows the answers to all of those questions. Without dwelling, he knows.

At ground level, moss spouts from grout between slabs of cement. A poignant swatch of orchid neon stains the sidewalk. It comes from the window of a record emporium, causing Anger to quicken his pace.

When really, he should backpedal. He should walk it off, from one end of this misbegotten city to the next. He should take stock of what he’s feeling, why he’s feeling it.

He should give Merry time. He should give her space. He should let her be.

He should not, not,notbe self-destructing toward the observatory.

This is why the heart is an untrustworthy weapon. It does things without his permission, misaligning with reason, going off on a tangent, and pursuing what he has no right to claim.

The tempo of his pulse accelerates, punctuated by urgent footsteps. Fright coils around his ribs, while inadequacy runs a close second.

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