Page 93 of Torn

Anger’s arms drop, the archery pivoting downward. What the Fates?

Malice tsks. “You had one job, famous Anger. Break Merry’s cupcake heart.”

“What?” Merry spins toward Anger, her face brightening with confusion.

“More to the point, chew up that extremity and spit it out. Cupcakes have the consistency for it. But I suppose I’ll have to take your advice and do the dirty work myself,” their nemesis rambles. “Of course, you’ll still get a choice. Allow me to demonstrate.”

In a flash, Malice stands. He’s got two arrows poised in a longbow. And he’s pointing them in two directions.

One, at Love. The other, at Merry.

He grins. “Go ahead, mate. Choose.”

25

Anger

When Anger was an archer in training, he had difficulty mastering a double shot. Balancing twin arrows had not come easily to him, and his temper had done little to rectify it. Whenever this happened, he’d curse, which only served to further impair his skill, as if he could expect cursing to achieve anything but a migraine.

Sufficiently vexed, he’d sequester himself in his favorite place—the mineral cave, where he’d rant aloud to himself and to the dragonflies, his voice leaping off the jagged walls. His grievances would expand, an army of complaints ricocheting down the cavern’s throat. His inadequacy had to do with blocking as much as targeting, achieving a fluency with his weapon in order to thwart an attack.

Serving the mortal realm, there have been incidents when he’s needed to target two humans at once. By then, after decades of practicing, he could let two arrows fly while blindfolded.

But in this moment, in a lair belonging to a maniacal exile, Anger feels that old handicap twitch in his knuckles. That, amidst dumbfounded shock. Too much crowds his mind, yanking it in a miscellany of directions. He has seconds to register what’s happening.

Then the moment passes, narrowing to one thing.

One person.

Merry’s standing there, in direct range of that arrow. Merry, in her frothy lilac dress and quirky sneakers, those fishnet gloves covering her fingers. His girl, who’s staring at him, her pink eyes scrolling across his face as they forage for an explanation. She doesn’t fear Malice’s arrow so much as his words.

Anger should have told her. She shouldn’t have to find out this way, not from anyone but him.

In his periphery, Love thrashes in her restraints. Anger doesn’t have to look to know that her eyes are bounding all over the forsaken room, searching for her captor so that she can flay him with her gaze. Even when scared, she gets furious. She hasn’t lost that temper, a counterpart to Anger’s.

Nor has she lost her lack of foresight, since she refuses to keep quiet.

Anger regains the presence of mind to whip his bow toward Malice. This is unfathomable. Unless one is a member of the Fate Court, it’s impossible to kill with an immortal arrow, constructed to wield emotions rather than death. That’s what alternatives are for, weapons such as daggers and swords—if one carries those substitutes.

Otherwise, an astute archer will find ways around a bow’s pacifistic nature. Painful ways, using a suitable amount of force to fracture vitals or snap a neck. Or blow the adversary off their feet and send them flying into sharp objects.

Malice is certainly an astute archer. And reckless. And a lunatic.

Go ahead, mate. Choose.

He won’t miss. Neither will Anger.

The only choice he wants to make is to shoot Malice. To cripple him and thus reconstruct this moment. But Anger doesn’t have that choice.

This isn’t about mastery of aim. It has to do with speed, a question of who lets it fly first—who’s faster and stronger.

Focusing on his enemy, Anger belatedly perceives another crucial fact: That’s not Malice’s weapon.

The outcast’s longbow is made from hickory. However, the one he’s presently brandishing is crafted from polished maple and fiberglass.

Where did he get it? To whom does it belong?

How the Fates did he even succeed in capturing Love, when he can’t physically touch her?

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