Page 97 of Touch

Then she sees it. One of her arrows lies on the ground.

She places her shaky digits on the shaft, touching it to confirm what she already suspects. The arrow’s tip is red from where it has sliced her. Since she hadn’t willed her powers into the weapon, there’s no telling what sort of magic it wields— a simple piercing strike or something dire. And that’s when a new sound saws through her lungs, the cacophony tearing through the woods.

Love screams.

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Defenseless, Love scrambles backward, snow pelting her face while she gapes in terror at her bloody hand. Being matchless—and cut without knowing which sort of magic the arrow has delivered—is a plague. Likely, she’s about to go mad with unrequited love. It must be happening now because she’s wheezing and crawling across the woods in haste, as if to escape the wound.

The snow hurts, producing the bumps in Love’s skin, her body trembling like a leaf. These are human responses to temperature. She’s… cold.

Her mouth opens, but she cannot make another sound. This time, someone else bellows. It’s a voice she cherishes, the octave howling through the trees, roaring her name. It gets louder, wrestling its way through the storm. Not only is she on the verge of losing her faculties, but Andrew’s searching for her, though he’s supposed to be ardently consumed by his intended.

Fuck. Must he insist on being unpredictable?

Love retreats from the voice. He cannot catch her, cannot see her like this. She attempts to climb a tree, but she loses her grip, her knees scraping against the bark. Torn skin. Beads of crimson. Nature and the elements should not assault her this easily.

The cold bares its teeth and sinks into Love’s flesh. She tucks herself behind the tree and presses a fist to her mouthbecause she’s frozen. Everywhere is frozen. How do mortals endure this?

“Love!”

Andrew shouldn’t be out here. He knows she can take care of herself.

“Love!”

The human should be lovestruck. His memory of her should be gone.

“Love…”

Her name thins and gets swallowed by the landscape. He could be hurt. He could be freezing to death. Condemnation, the man is an idiot!

She imagines a place where the sun shines down on them, where they’re nothing more than lovers in a safe haven, clasping and fucking the hours away. Then she moves, scurrying on all fours, hunting, shivering.

Andrew’s form materializes through sheets of frost. His body is sprawled on the ground, devoid of his coat as though he’d bolted from the store, having given no thought to the climate. However, he’d brought his archery, the longbow and arrows scattered around him like detritus.

Most distressing of all, his face has lost all trace of color—of life.

“No!” she yells, scrambling to him, shaking his arms, and smearing her blood on his neck. “Andrew!”

No response. Sense is abandoning her, and she’s quivering and bleeding, and she wants to bury her face in the crook of his neck and stay there, waiting for the answering touch that won’t come.

Love grunts with effort, straining to loop his arm over her shoulder and carry him. His muscled form is an anvil tugging her down each time, and there’s the icy wind, and her wound is leaking, and madness is looming.

They collapse. Dazed, she slumps atop his chest. The snow begins to feel good, blunting Love of sensation, alleviating the gash in her hand. The trees spin overhead, and the needle branches scratch against the wind like gnarled fingers.

The world is so white. Meanwhile, there’s blue in the distance, but not a shape or object. It’s just the shade itself, akin to the sky. Love perceives a blot of gold too, like the sun. She’s missed them both, but now they’re here with her. If she can reach them, she’ll be fine. Perhaps she can drag Andrew to the sun, and then they can slumber peacefully or fuck languidly without a care in the world.

Movement in the distance. A filmy silhouette approaches, kneels, and sharpens into focus.

Love raises her head. It cannot be. The comfortable snow is pushing her to the brink, compromising her vision. That must be the case, because Anger wouldn’t dare be here right now. He’s afraid of snowstorms.

The god cocks his head, despair cutting into his chiseled face and his earring hoops flashing like scythes. He thrusts out the words with a shudder. “Do not hate me for this.”

Hate him for what? He’s here now. He will drag Andrew and Love to safety, and her mortal will live, and everyone will live, because she has completed her task.

Anger tilts his gaze toward the sky. Above, a dot of light pierces through the storm. It’s a star, and the sight leaches the exhaustion from Love. He’s sent a message.

To whom?

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