Page 96 of Torn

“Lower your archery, Demon,” she seethes. “Or I’ll—”

“Will you?” he contests. “Will you really?”

“Yes!” she screams, and it might be at him or herself.

The scene slants, escalating in momentum. Malice shouts something to Wonder, and she pelts out a word of outrage. The noise, noise, noise collides. Love experiences a second wind and wrestles with the bindings, as if sensing an explosion of activity.

Merry shifts nearer to Love, settling a foot on the skateboard. Anger registers the movement.

“Merry,” he growls.

“Choose,” Malice repeats.

But Merry just casts Anger a sad grin, then says to Malice. “He already has. And so have I.”

“Merry!” Anger roars.

She rockets on the board. And Malice shoots. And so does Wonder.

And so does Anger.

One shot. A thousand shots.

Arrows slice from longbows, whistling through the air. Anger’s weapon launches, ripping into the projectile heading for Merry and shredding it off course.

Wonder’s shot pierces through the second arrow, either too late or aimed incorrectly, because the surviving tip keeps flying. Just before Merry can reach Love and block her, a form crashes into the vault, racing across the ground and getting there first.

A human shape. White hair and black coat. Limbs that barrel forward with a speed that defies impairment.

Andrew. Love’s beau.

The mortal hammers in front of his girlfriend and whips up a messenger bag, the only shield he has. It catches the arrow, the head spearing into leather and stopping it, even as he staggers backward from the impact.

For a human, he’d beaten Merry’s pace. Perhaps the adrenaline had empowered him.

Another excited grin peels across Malice’s face, as if he’s playing a game that has just raised its own stakes. He rips another arrow from the quiver. Anger is already prepped and about to fire when Wonder rams into Malice’s side. They careen to the stone floor, but before Malice lands, he releases the arrow. It cuts a line for Andrew and Love, who don’t see it coming.

Anger does. He’s not the only one.

Merry, who once stood atop a counter in the Ethereal Arcade and played hostess. Merry, who wields the skateboard, whose sparkler eyes slit with determination. Merry, who believes in heroines and heroes, who glorifies romance—and tragedy.

“No!” Anger’s feet slam her way. But he won’t make it. He can’t get to her fast enough, can’t shove her out of the way.

And he understands. He’s about to know what grief feels like.

Merry curbs and sends her board into the air. She lurches sideways, directly into the arrow’s path. The board’s flat surface pivots like a shield.

The bladed tip pierces the atmosphere. And finds its target.

26

Merry

She hears a final, fatal whistle, a mortal arrow spearing the night. The basement tilts, starlight from the low window wheeling in her vision as she catapults the board into space. It’s a trick that she’s achieved before. Except in these cramped quarters, she lacks the leeway to roll up, and she senses the distinction.

A shaft darts toward her, lancing the atmosphere. A vicious tip slams into matter, breaking through a surface.

She hears the impact before she feels it. Her initial response is a proper lamentation, because she’d be more useful if she excelled at archery.

---