Page 2 of Tempt

The vault is drafty, a place where rare books should be stored but aren’t, because perhaps this room lost its purpose long ago. Perhaps the mortals running this repository have found a different area in which to put them. As a result, humans rarely spend time down here.

Even if they did, they wouldn’t see what she sees, since deities and their possessions are invisible to humans. Thus, they wouldn’t have the capacity to view the fire pit that produces a curdling funnel of smoke from the fuming logs. Neither would mortals see the rustic telescope in the corner, a model from another century. Nor would they see the rocking chair with the saddlebag draped over its shoulder, nor the crate of sepia stained envelopes on the floor, beside the chair’s rockers.

This used to be his domain. Now it’s his prison.

And he’s her captive.

His howls multiply and radiate down Wonder’s spine. In the cavernous vault, she halts on the final step and gulps at the sight before her. Lunar light flashes through the window and leaks across the floor. In the murk, a nimbus of golden hair breaks through, gilded at the roots and coiled with tension at the ends.

Tucked beneath those locks is his face. His countenance of taut cheekbones and square jaw. He sits on the rocking chair, his eyes locked shut, creases burrowing into his flesh. From those twisted lips comes the proof of a nightmare: irritated roars as though he’s annoyed more than traumatized, as though he wants to figure out the nightmare, to unpuzzle its secrets rather than recover from it.

The chair’s joints creak, bearing the weight of his tirade. His fingers clench, those long fingernails resembling talons. The folds of his leather sweater shift, following his movements as he thrashes.

This often happens at midnight. He shouts through his nightmares, and she catches the sounds.

Two grilles shimmer within the room. Conjured by her classmates, who’d beseeched the stars for assistance, the grates barricade this vault from the stairs and the basement window, thus preventing escape.

Like a cage. Like a dungeon.

Like an asylum.

Wonder steels herself, evicting that cursed notion from her mind. At least the bars provide a compromise, precluding the necessity for shackles. This god may be villainous, but she and her peers refuse to treat any soul like a beast.

They’d even offered to supply a bed for their prisoner, but he’d spat at their attempt. He prefers the rocking chair, though how he stands the lack of comfort, Wonder cannot comprehend.

She swallows, lifts her chin, and hazards through the star-dusted grille. In one swift move, she kneels before him and grasps his arms, alert to the muscles flexing beneath her grip. She digs into the leather sweater and gives a shake.

“Malice,” she says, jerking back as he writhes unconsciously.

“Malice,” she tries again, fending off his claws.

“Malice!” she demands, only to receive a shove as her reward.

The force of it sends her to the ground, her backside bouncing on the floor, her weapons jostling. It’s not a surprise; where he’s lean, she’s fleshy. Yet Malice is athletic under those clothes, taller and even more robust than Wonder. Therefore, if it’s necessary for her to snap him out of it, he can take a measure of aggression.

That fact is enough to leach the guilt out of her. He’s not whom she thinks he is, whom she wants—and doesn’t want—him to be. He’s not good, nor kind.

Moreover, he’s a maniac who would kill her if given the chance. The only reason he hasn’t yet is because he’s unarmed; her classmates took his bow and arrow.

He flails as though invisible restraints strap him down. His fingernails cleave through the seat’s arm, those claws peeling a thin layer of wood from the surface. Any more of this, and he’s going to hurt himself.

Wonder lurches upright. Grappling his elbows, she hoists him from the rocking chair and slaps him across the face. The crack of her palm splinters through the vault. His head whips sideways, the contact immobilizing him, so that she dumps his weight back into the seat.

Malice slumps. There, he’s all right now, spared the rest of the nightmare. She should leave him like this, let him segue into an easier dream, whatever that dream may be.

Yes, she should leave. She should leave now.

She waits until his features relax. Lost in slumber, he resembles…he looks like…looks just like…

Wonder’s throat clogs. Squatting to the ground, she plucks an envelope from the crate, the paper yellowed with age—one of many artifacts that remind her of someone else.

Someone who isn’t him.

Any resemblance is merely a coincidence. This prisoner is no one to her, nothing but a stranger.

The envelope crinkles in Wonder’s grasp. Smoothing out the creases, she tucks the item into his hand. Dormant, he clings to the paper, his claws curling around it and his breaths evening out.

If her peers knew about these escapades and how she dares to step through the veil of bars, they would try to stop her. They would try because they care, and because they’re careful.

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