Page 5 of Touch

Minutes later, he rips the leaflet from the notebook. Folding the missive, he places it inside his coat pocket and sets the garment on the stump. “Freeze or don’t freeze. It’s all the same to me,” he lies, because Love knows when mortals are lying.

In her early years, before she’d first set foot in this realm, Love had overheard Pride and Guilt venting about human liars. The quick rise of one’s voice. The defensive posture and flitting gaze. Over the centuries, Love has observed and sensed these inclinations among mortals who conceal the truth. She’s also grown familiar with the tangy taste and uneven texture of emotions that correspond with lying.

There’s a slightly brazen tone in his voice. Verbal bait, as if he knows what she’s going to do.

The man collects his writing instruments and archery, then strides away. As his form vanishes into the woods, headingback toward the village, Love waits. He might backtrack, intent on tricking her.

After a sufficient amount of time has passed, she descends to the coat. Digging through the pocket, Love fishes out the paper and unfolds the contents.

The shadow of a body. The ghost of a touch. The mouth of a troublemaker.

It’s some sort of list about her. She peers around to make sure he hasn’t returned, then continues reading.

Who is this Selfish Little Myth?

P.S. Your aim was off.

Andrew

Her aim waswhat? How dare he.

Offended, Love crawls back up the tree with his coat. Ensconced on the branch, she examines the garment, then slips her arms through the oversized sleeves. Just one moment. She’ll remove it in just one more moment.

Love holds up the note with one hand and twirls one of her arrows like a baton with the other. Selfish Little Myth. Off all the impertinence.

Nonetheless, he’s made her sound wild, graceful, and sly. In which case, she’ll forgive his insolent and wholly inaccurate assessment of her archery skills.

“Andrew,” she whispers.

It’s a name that opens the mouth wide and then puckers the lips.

She presses the paper to her nostrils and inhales a mixture of tartness and crispness, the emotions of a tormented life, yet void of self-pity. The handwriting is confident, practiced, and somehow perceptive.

Condemnation. With a gasp, Love jolts up.

Fates be damned.That’swhy he can see her.

3

If a human unearths the true mythology of deities, they gain the ability of sight. However, this cannot occur purely through thoughts or words. According to celestial doctrine, it must happen in some tangible form, such as art or music.

And if that same human looks upon a deity, it’s a death sentence for all Dark Gods. Because invisibility is a deity’s lifeline, much like a burgeoning virus this man will weaken and kill Love, along with everyone else from her world. Such a contagion will spread from one immortal soul to the next, starting with the first deity reflected within that human’s eyes.

Love shall fade first.

The mist becomes thick enough to swallow. The trees loom overhead like sentinels. How could she have let this slip past her mind for longer than an instant? She must tell The Fate Court about this man.

If she does, they will destroy him. Annihilating the mortal will work like an antidote and fix this, yet the notion takes a bite out of her conscience. Not that she’s worried about him in particular. She’s merelyin the zoneof worry. Although he means nothing to Love, humans are considered sacred. As such, she must be sure about the particulars regarding this human before opening her mouth.

She contemplates the note, which must have a connection. Based on his prose, Andrew possesses the skill for writing, to an astute degree where some form of narrative—which he’d composed prior to today—perhaps embodies the truth about her kind’s existence, thus breaching the mythical barrier. She must seek out the mortal to learn more. Assuming there’s no other explanation for this phenomenon, being near him doesn’t make a difference. He has already seen her, her existence having been sealed in his memory, so the damage is done.

Love tamps down her fear. This isn’t the end. Either she or The Fate Court can eradicate Andrew and resolve this problem.

She should retire to her glass cottage, to eat and rest. Instead, she broods until the next morning, which turns into the afternoon. The time has come to manage this nuisance of a man.

Wrapped in his coat and armed with the note in her pocket, Love descends the tree with her archery, then journeys into the village. Because his residence is unknown, she must locate his scent or voice.

Her boots plow through slush. Along the way, she passes rusty mailboxes with enamel flags. Frustrated, she slaps down their metal mouths, leaving them hanging open as if frozen in shock.

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