Page 7 of Tempt

A hand pops into her line of vision. She blinks at the set of masculine digits that presents a hefty book bound in leather, gold embossing the surface. It’s a tome about the history of meditation.

Wonder’s gaze roams from the title to a pair of broad shoulders, then to a countenance inset with pewter irises and crowned in a froth of messy white hair. The male props himself against the shelf and regards her with a lopsided grin. “This looks like a pile of boring,” Andrew says. “But desperate times call for desperate measures.”

Wonder laughs. Andrew is good at this, making her peers chortle in spite of themselves. He’s also good at finding her, his thirst for narrative matching her own, except he leans toward the fictional. Back when he was a human, he used to work at a small-town bookshop, fancying tales about dragons and time travel.

In contrast, Wonder frequents the factual. They harmonize with each other this way, and they’ve had plenty of invigorating discussions about it, since they both spend a lot of time here, ever since Andrew became immortal.

It happened five years ago, when he and her peer, Love, met.

Love had been an invisible goddess, and Andrew had been an unsuspecting human, and their friendship had been precarious at best. Yes, mortals don’t have the power to see or hear deities—with one exception. Only the purest soul can breach that rule. Hence, Andrew. His ability to see past the myth had rendered him universally dangerous to their kind, therefore essential to vanquish, for the sake of the Fates’ preservation.

But when Andrew and Love fell for each other—a forbidden relationship—that bond had rescued them from annihilation. It’s a long story, but ultimately, it took another series of events in order for Andrew to become immortal like Love.

Wonder accepts the meditation book. “I’ll trade you, dearest,” she says, giving him a chastising look as she extends the volume on Hades and Persephone, because again, it’s doubtful that Malice had weaseled a specific title from Andrew without an agenda.

That becomes clear when a pink azalea hue rushes up the young man’s neck. “Ah, goddammit. He punked me.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“The douchebag punked me. I swear, his noggin needs its own distorted Dewey Decimal system. Talking with him is like dropping peyote with Satan; it screws with your mind until it’s tangled up like a pretzel.”

“Oh, your time was coming,” she jokes. “You were the only one left.”

It’s true. Andrew had been the only one whom Malice hadn’t yet manipulated in some way, shape, or form. Up until this point, perhaps Andrew had been immune because he used to be mortal, which somehow empowers him, rendering him a tad resistant to the demon’s tongue.

From one former human to another?

It’s best not to go there. Besides, Andrew deserves more credit. He’s snarky and inquisitive enough to have detracted Malice all this time. Indeed, Andrew had won the heart of Love, which alone proves his abilities to take on a deity.

Also, he’s adapting to immortality. Despite the inexplicable retention of his limp, and the fact that he’s not actually a god, he has been endowed with tenacious reflexes. He moves as swiftly as any of their rebellious class, able to predict an arrow’s direction and evade its strike. Though unfamiliar with weaponry, it’s essential for him to prepare himself for a prospective battle. To that end, he has opted for a crossbow granted by the stars and forged of frost because it reminds him of home. With time, he’ll prove himself formidable, especially with Love as his instructor.

Back to the subject of Malice. Luckily, Wonder had the presence of mind to confiscate the Greek title before departing his lair.

Andrew is about to swap books with her, but he pauses. “If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, you might want to give this a peek. Just in case.”

He’s right. Wonder should pour through the pages before shelving the title, so she piles it atop the meditation book.

Sunlight seeps into the lane, trickling across green book spines like a path leading someplace pertinent. It’s nothing unusual, a mere stream of illumination. Yet the visual is familiar, steering her into the past, to a bygone era when she’d witnessed a similar effect in another repository.

In fact, the illusion is identical.

When Wonder blinks, the trail of light vanishes. How queer.

Anyway, is the book she’d collected from Malice the only mythically themed manuscript worth checking? Or must she be thorough and expand her reading?

What had Malice said about the romance section? About retellings?

Had that been a random inquiry or a duplicitous one?

She would do best not to underestimate the demon god. Whatever he’s hunting for within these chapters—some sort of bribe or manipulation—it would behoove Wonder to stay on top of it. Matter of fact, to stay a thousand leagues ahead of him.

The last thing they need is for Malice to play another mind game. Or Fates forbid, plan an escape they never saw coming. They all have more important things to contend with.

Things like plotting a revolution.

***

The glass arrow spears past her face. It lances the air, flitting by her navel and stabbing the gullet of an oak tree trimmed in fairy lights.

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