Page 9 of Torn

A thespian deity with a penchant for chatter. Hair the color of prom night—an insipid, mortal rite of passage to which his peer, Envy, had once been assigned. Plus, heartfelt pink irises to match. And those sparkler pupils, as blinding as a marquee.

How pathetically idealistic. Who the Fates is she?

Because Anger says nothing, Merry does an astounding job of filling the silence to capacity, babbling about last night’s events. It comes back to him slowly and surely. He’d just arrived in this city and had been prowling a building terrace, seeking a panorama of the area. Plagued by the past, no matter how far he’d fled, he had paced the ledge while fighting the temptation to wallow.

That’s when he’d noticed a pastel rainbow. That’s when he’d spotted a girl across the divide, her skirt flapping like a propeller as she skated at inhuman speed through an elevated park. And that’s when he’d noticed the deity hunting her with a nocked bow.

It hadn’t been Anger’s battle. It hadn’t been his business.

But the motley female had puzzled him with her chromatic ensemble and weaponless flight, escaping while listening to headphones. The spectacle had magnetized him, his rationale tilting on its axis.

He’d torn after the pair, without a plan and without an ounce of logic.

Yes, he remembers her. The carnival, the carousel, the concussion.

Anger recalls the archer who’d landed a blow to his head. This young woman had aided him afterward, lugging Anger’s bulk across the city.

Merry offers him a glass of water. Anger guzzles, aware of her gaze idling on his Adam’s apple. He sets down the refreshment. It’s best not to request a refill, since that will encourage her to continue ogling him.

Reading his features, she perks up. “It’s coming back to you. Oh, I’m glad. I was beginning to worry our chance encounter would never be relived. That would be awful, don’t you think?”

“You haven’t answered my question,” he says, irritated. “Who are you?”

“I already told you. I’m Merry.”

“And who exactly is Merry?”

“She’s a deity, like you.”

He drums his fingers on his knee, instructing himself not to blow a gasket. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“You’re an outcast, right? Me, too. What other immortals end up in this city but the exiled ones? And well, that means we’re not necessarily active anymore, but we’re still graced with most of our powers, and we can live forever, right? Aside from being wounded by another deity, that is. You’re lucky Malice’s fists didn’t drive you into anything metal and pronged. But then, I’ve also heard that living forever might be overrated, especially by the time you reach a thousand, which tends to complicate things. Have you heard that?”

A deliberate frown slides down Anger’s face. “The only thing I’m hearing at the moment is you.”

Merry wiggles on the bed. “I’ve been here since I was born, while you have the shine of a newcomer, besides the fact that I’ve never seen you until today.”

“Since you were born?”

“Mm-hmm. I was banished from the Peaks at infancy—not because I did anything wrong. Immortal infants don’t hatch with offensive intentions, as far as I know, but I’m what you’d call a dud.” Her sigh rivals the lamentation of an opera diva. “Like a failed star, I fizzled out before my time, from a promising goddess to a lemon.”

Anger is thrown. The Fates had discarded Merry for some reason having to do with lameness, some lack of abilities or promise. The prospect is worse than banishment for a crime. In the latter case, at least a deity has had the opportunity to exist amidst kin, to prove themselves.

Anger once had that chance. And he’d risked it.

And now he’s here, an exile sitting across from another. On the outskirts of his mind, he registers that Merry’s still talking. And she’s constantly striking different poses like there’s a glitch inside her.

Is this a ploy to entice him?

If it is, she’s wasting her time. Prattle isn’t his type.

Moreover, someone else already occupies his daft heart—someone who doesn’t deserve to, someone who hadn’t desired him back. A goddess whom he’s failed to vanquish from his mind.

But what can he expect in a scant four years? That’s a hiccup’s worth of time.

Contrary to that, somehow the lapse has felt longer. Much longer.

“On what grounds were you cast off?” Anger asks. “What emotion were you supposed to wield?”

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