Page 47 of Touch

“I’ve served those countries, and I will again, but even the unlikeliest of places are filled with heartbreak. Pick your battles, you exhausting creature. Not everything can be rationalized away—not us, nor you, and certainly not your many religions.”

Andrew fastens his gaze to hers. “I’m not asking because I want to know the reasons for everything. I’m asking because I want to know about you.”

Love stalls, unnerved by how much this admission gratifies her. “It would be helpful, but I don’t have to exist everywhere at once to make a difference. You would be surprised how one spark of perfect love has a ripple effect on other pairings.” But when Andrew appears conflicted by her declaration, she asks, “Do you remember what we said in the archery range about celestials?”

“I remember every word we said that night.”

“There’s grandness in mystery.”

“There is,” he agrees, yet his eyebrows crimp from some unspoken thought.

Love tells him that when it’s an archer’s turn to become a Guide, the previous instructor retires. They pursue interests like art and music. And every deity is ruled by The Fate Court, five monarchs who reign for a term of five millennia.

“It sounds like our system here. To be honest, I was expecting something more elaborate,” Andrew admits.

“Feel free to keep writing your own version of magic,” Love invites. “Except another difference is that deities cannot conceive children. So neither am I the offspring of an Aphrodite equivalent.”

“So you have no family.”

She flinches. “No. Procreation is impossible. Our relationships aren’t what your people assume them to be.”

“Shit,” Andrew hisses. “I didn’t—that was thoughtless, I’m sorry.”

Love waves him off, making a show of indifference. “We’re born from The Stars. Your people were partly correct in associating us with them.”

“Wait. How old are you?”

“Two thousand eight hundred.”

“Holy fuck!” At her laugh, Andrew confesses, “No, it’s just… I’ve written about extreme age gaps, but writing about it and experiencing the reality are two different things. I’m twenty-eight.”

“There’s no need to dwell. I’m the embodiment of your age in this world. Physically, we mature until the equivalent of a human in their thirties.”

“So you’ll always look ageless. That’s convenient.”

“Of course,” she says airily.

“Nonetheless,” he muses. “Compared to a ten-thousand year-old deity, you’re young to score this kind of work.”

“Yet you have no trouble believing Eros is a strapping lad or that Cupid is an infant. If I’m not mistaken, your people make soldiers out of those much younger than yourself.”

“Fair point.” Andrew takes her measure. “You breathe. So I’m guessing you have lungs.”

“I do,” she mocks. “And I have ears that listen, eyes that see, and a mouth that tastes.”

His attention slides to her lips, the impact tingling Love’s flesh until those pewter irises level once more on hers. “By the way, don’t get sassy with me. Your sense of touch is limited outside of writing instruments—” he gives her a naughty, smoldering look, “—and you move as fast as a bullet. It’s not a ridiculous inquiry coming from someone who’s paid to make this shit up.”

Her mouth is still recovering from the penetration of his stare. “My sense of touch is fine. It’s simply nonexistent with humans on a skin-to-skin level.”

“And you say I’ve tapped into some truth about your kind, which enables me to see you.”

“Yes, but I cannot say which passage in your books has unlocked this ability. I assure you, I’ve checked. However, I shall need to revisit the titles once more.”

“I won’t waste time questioning when you broke into my house and ransacked my shelves.” Although Love grimaces with repentance, Andrew dismisses her reaction. “I’ve also been trying to figure this out. No matter how many times I reread my backlist, it’s impossible to draw a conclusion since I know nothing about your kind. Do you eat?”

She points to a bowl filled with apples and persimmons on a table. There’s also a plate with bread and cheese. She doesn’t require much nourishment, and despite human assumptions, he’ll find no ambrosia at her table.

After another round of questions, in which he picks her brain regarding “the magic system” in her world, Andrew lifts the tea mug to his mouth. “What’s in this?”

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