Page 39 of Touch

As Ulrik unwinds a chain from the tow truck, Love scrubs her face in abject misery. Only one person can assist in cleaning up this mess.

But she really, really, really…

…really, really, really…

…really doesn’t wish to ask for his assistance.

“Fucking hell,” a voice grumbles from behind her. “What now?”

The Stars couldn’t be more vexing. Even in the daytime, they’re awake in that cursed sky, ready to help a goddess summon a god—whether that goddess had intended to or not.

With a sigh, Love turns to face her visitor.

Tattoos. Earrings. Grimace.

Anger.

13

“I cannot do that!” Anger seethes.

“Of course, you can,” Love argues. “You simply refuse to!”

Barking out a savage growl, the rage god whacks a container of engine oil. It flies across the auto repair shop, and one of the mechanics ducks at the last minute to avoid getting his skull crushed. The container smacks against a wall, dents the facade, and hits the floor. A group of startled men twist and stare, searching for the culprit.

“Jesus,” one of them utters.

“What the living fuck?” another one asks.

Ulrik pokes his hard-boiled head out from beneath Griffin’s car. He scans the shop, then mutters, “Hate this ghost village.”

The remark brings to mind the arrow Love shot into Andrew’s house.

Drilling tools and blaring rock music fill the repair shop’s garage. The space smells of mortal aftershave, fatigue, and Anger. He’d been holding back. A true strike, and that container would have exploded. Or more to the left, and the rusted motorcycle beside them would have taken the blow and launched into the air.

Love quirks an eyebrow. Anger’s incensed by her involuntary summons—not that he’d needed to answer—and had refused to speak with her at Holly’s residence.

Anger grouses about having a job of his own to do. It’s on the tip of Love’s tongue to suggest he was probably in the neighborhood anyway, given he’s been spying on Love, but she prefers to ignore that fact.

They’d followed Ulrik’s truck as it dragged Griffin’s car away, with its surly owner tagging along. Holly’s lover has parked himself in the waiting room and is presently alternating between tearing through a magazine and texting his mate. Love hopes Holly hasn’t gone to the bookstore in the meantime.

She wants her to. Naturally, she does. But not without Love to accompany her.

Love’s least favorite god broods next to her, looking tall, cantankerous, and inconvenienced. That fierce expression must exhaust his facial muscles.

“They’re perfect targets for you,” she solicits. “An ounce of your power will —”

“Enough,” he bites out. “I cannot do what you ask. Not outside of my territory and not impulsively. It’s our law.”

“The Fate Court will forgive you in this case.”

“They don’t give a rat’s ass who’s fucking with your mortal. Matter of fact, they won’t mind if the assailants disembowel Andrew with a hatchet and spare us the trouble.”

Love bares her teeth. “Keep talking about him like that, and that same hatchet will find its way across your throat.”

“Not long ago, you argued that killing him was the pragmatic route.”

“I’ve said many things in the past. If you require a reminder, The Stars have spoken. They wish for me to match the human. In which case, The Court will care a great deal if interlopers divert my task.”

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