Page 41 of Touch

The god must see in Love’s expression something forlorn because his pupils soften, then flash like explosives. Swearing under his breath, he bolts toward her, the force of his movement urging Love to retreat.

Her reaction works like a barricade, halting Anger in his tracks, restraint pulling taut across his features. He checks himself, a covert and unaggressive emotion dulling his orbs. It’s so unexpected, so unsettling, that Love braces herself, waiting for whatever is afflicting him to subside.

Another cacophonous drilling noise grinds through the garage from one of those horrible tools, the vulgar sound coming from the belly of the shop, as if someone is attempting to forge a crater into the ground and locate the earth’s core. The mechanicsemanate whiffs of stress and depression, one of them humming to herself while another takes a cigarette break.

Ulrik’s entire consciousness is narrowed to his occupation, which involves harnessing a new tire onto Griffin’s car. Currently, the older man is the only soul who emits no particular stink, as if anything remotely resembling life and spirit have been squeezed from the test tube of his body. Love would almost call that a talent if it didn’t mean complimenting him, and if she weren’t determined to ruin him for eternity.

Eternity happens. An arrow slices through the air and plows into the man’s heart. He flies backward and rolls from side to side across the ground, groans of pain grinding from his mouth.

Love turns toward Anger just as he lowers his bow, his countenance steely. “Never say I don’t listen.”

Because he’s Anger, his strike is even harder for mortals to recover from than her own arrows. It looks as though Ulrik’s having a coronary. The other mechanics drop what they’re doing and charge his way, but he bats them off while one of the men fishes out his phone to dial an emergency number.

Anger cuts through the garage with Love on his tail and takes care of Griffin in the waiting room, shooting him in the chest. Love won’t lie to herself. She relishes watching him topple out of the chair and flop around like a flounder. Meanwhile, the mechanics are too preoccupied with Ulrik to know what else is happening.

An archer decides how long the magic of their weapons lasts. It could be anywhere from seconds, to an hour, to a year, to forever. The sizzle of Anger’s arrows indicates he’d released life shots. The antagonists will behave themselves from now on.

Minutes later, a wailing ambulance swerves into the parking lot. Its presence is unnecessary, but that’s for thehumans to find out. Before they reach the emergency room, Ulrik will be fine, as will Griffin, who has finally been discovered.

She and Anger relocate several paces from the shop.

Twisting toward the rage god, she murmurs, “Thank you.”

“We both chose iron,” Anger replies in concession. “Perhaps that means we understand each other better than we think.”

He jerks his longbow across his back, the motions accentuating the fire tattoos blazing up his forearms as if the sun has branded him. Once more, those volatile eyes flash on Love. A joke shall diffuse whatever thoughts are kindling there, but Love cannot think of one. As a shadow manifests, her eyes drift over his shoulder, drawn by instinct.

Andrew.

He stands at the back of the ambulance while the paramedics load his brittle stepfather inside. It looks as if Andrew had been walking alongside the man’s stretcher when he’d noticed Love. The mechanics must have called him.

His eyes drag from Love to Anger in surprise. Love’s steps backward, then feels something strange against her elbow, a quick but tentative pressure.

A touch.

Anger’s touch. He’d reached out to alert her, or perhaps to steady himself since he’s never been seen by a mortal before and is daunted by Andrew’s penetrating gaze. Then his fingers disappear. The forsaken god evanesces, which makes them both appear guilty of something.

Andrew stares at the place where Anger had touched Love. Amid the bookshelves in Georgie’s shop, she’d claimed there was no one like her in this world. No other souls who can put their hands on her.

As if it’s been twisted by a wrench, Andrew’s visage tightens, viewing Love for the liar she is. When he climbs into the ambulance, the mortal doesn’t spare her another glance. The emergency vehicle skids onto the road and speeds down the lane, the siren howling and the red lights rotating as the frigid landscape swallows the conveyance.

She doesn’t understand why he’s furious, nor does she comprehend the sudden restlessness in her limbs. Love may have lied, but she’d never said she would tell him everything.

Or perhaps he thinks Anger is her mate. Well, let him. She does not have time to play into this drama. The panic is unpleasant, and it’s doing unfavorable things to her composure.

Love returns to her tree and attempts to rest, but she tosses and turns—as best as anyone can toss and turn on a branch. The memory of Andrew’s livid expression, how it contorted the bruise on his mandible, makes a mess of her. She has no book to distract her thoughts, the weather is uneventful, and the forest is vacant of all other life, as if it only has room for outcasts like her.

14

Andrew’s still vexed. There’s nothing Love can do about that, and there’s nothing she should do about it. Instead, Love spies through the windowpanes of Andrew’s office, her face pushing through a snowy hedge gap.

He spends the morning writing, his fingers sprinting across a laptop, which is outfitted like a moody library. Dark walls. Aged books. He struggles to concentrate, pausing at regular intervals, silent thoughts creasing his face.

By comparison, Holly spends most hours at her fencing studio. Griffin is no longer an antagonist, redeeming himself and mending their courtship. He surprises the woman with those marshmallows she loves, his behavior docile and less smothering. The gesture charms Holly, who willingly melts into his arms.

This is anticipated. While Anger’s strike seems counterproductive, it’s safer to moderate Griffin’s competitive side and prevent hostility between him and Andrew, thus reducing the risk of Holly tiring of both males.

Be that as it may, Love’s attempts to matchmake are catastrophic. At one point, she stations herself on a crowded avenue and shoots Holly’s purse from her hand. Whipping out a series of arrows, Love strikes the bag in rapid succession, propelling it across the concrete toward Andrew, who’s unlocking his truck.

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