Torn
by Natalia Jaster
Copyright 2019 Natalia Jaster
Cover design: Covers by Juan
https://coversbyjuan.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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For you lovely mortals, who’ve waited so long
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About Natalia
Books by Natalia
Prologue
Anger
Now he knows what surrender feels like.
He kneels on the roof’s edge and stares at the midnight skyline. This mortal world is a fickle combination of brilliance and obscurity. Some of the city’s edifices cower into shadows, while others bust through the clouds like fists.
From below, urban life makes an unruly racket, dishes smashing and a Ferris wheel bleating. Noise, noise, noise. He tastes the cacophony, smells the confusion, and feels the clench.
Yet it’s a vivid realm, a spectacle of glistening trees and starlight. Spastic whirligigs dash across the sky from the central park’s carnival, fluid strobes turning the whole thing into a kaleidoscope.
Such a vibrant place. Yet it’s the darkest and loneliest one he’s ever known.
Inside an observatory across the street, behind a set of translucent double doors, a solitary neon sign flickers as if it’s been drained of energy. It struggles to keep working, to stay alight.
Just like his heart.
His cursed, infernal, powerless heart.
And standing on the opposite side of that threshold is the reason why. Idling amidst that neon—like a cruel flash of inspiration, like a fully formed idea—is she.
Pausing by the entrance, she swallows, her throat bobbing. She hasn’t looked through the partition, hasn’t sought him out as she once did. But she knows he’s out here. Somehow, she knows.
Her luminous face won’t glance at him, even though he’s desperate for it, even though he misses her. He misses that outrageous personality, misses the way they used to clash, the way they used to blend.
He misses the way she tore him in half.
Dammit, he wants to drag his finger across the glass doors. He wants to fog the surface and write a message there—an apology, a plea for forgiveness.
And dammit, he wants to answer a question that has plagued him for as long as he’s known her. The question that he’s never been able to face.
Who sees you?
He would answer it now. By the Fates, he would.
But he can’t, because she won’t listen. She won’t hear him, much less believe him. So instead, he wills her to turn in his direction once. Just once more.
If only she would stay right there, right in his view. If only she would keep the neon glowing between them. If only she wouldn’t leave him alone.
Please don’t leave him alone. Not again.
But then, she should. Really, she should.
He’s dangerous to her. She’s threatening to him.
So indeed, she should turn away, save herself. She should leave him, forget about him. And actually, that’s when he realizes: She’s already done that.
In fact, she did that a long time ago.
1
Merry
Music skips through her headphones, the bass stomping from the mauve speakers and dropping into her ear canals. She bobs her head, gyrates her arms to the beat, and juts her waist. The movements steer her skateboard, making the wheels swerve over the pavement.
A puddle reflects the stars, water spritzing the night as she slices through, scattering the celestial bodies. She darts past townhouses and courtyards, past trees and plush offshoots strung with animated lights. This city is vibrant, pulsing with drama. She feels it surrounding her, from all the mortal heartbeats, all their sensational stories and bittersweet conflicts.
How perfectly romantic!
The stars favor this realm. She favors them back, even if the divinities want nothing to do with her.
The tune keeps playing while her board flies. She belts out the lyrics, her performance inaudible to the locals, which is a fair trade considering she sounds like a yodeler with a sore throat. Nonetheless, the skateboard moves with her, dances with her. It rocks to the left and right, synchronizing with her hips and shoulder-shimmies. Her tulle skirt flounces, the spring breeze plays with her NASA T-shirt, her fingerless fishnet gloves tickle her skin, and a few strands of pink have come loose from her sloppy ponytail. She feels merry, so very merry.
That’s the impression Merry gives. That’s the perception.
Hopefully it’s working, but she doesn’t check to make sure. She can’t because the figure behind her would see that. He’d know that she knows.
He’s stalking me again.
Merry wants to lament. She truly had been savoring this joyride a minute ago, a minute before realizing she’s being followed, a minute before registering she’s in his territory.
Gracious! Why hadn’t she noticed earlier?
Oh, yes. She’d been drifting aimlessly, overcome by the lurch of mood music, thus detouring into the wrong neighborhood, right into Midnight Park.
Around her, a canopy of boughs shiver above the lush enclave, a nature paseo sprouting along a ramp that’s suspended over the streets. Margined by avenues of twinkling trees, bushes have been stenciled into leafy replicas of constellations, foliage sculptures of Centaurus bucking and Virgo reclining in tufts of grass. There are also giants of Greek mythology such as Atlas, the Titan astronomer forced to balance the sky on his shoulders.
She must have skated up an incline, into the elevated park without realizing it, so lost in the music bopping from the speakers. A new track plays, a euphoric indie mix. Outside of the playlist, her ears pick up what a normal resident wouldn’t be able to, what shouldn’t be audible, especially at this amplified scale. Footfalls speed toward her, too swift for anyone of the real world.
That means he’s close, twenty feet behind. A wicked prickle scurries up her arms, a preview of things to come.
How perilous! How exquisitely dangerous!
It’s a bustling evening, filled with bustling people. She swerves around the corner, her board zinging across the pavement, sweeping around random bodies and faces. Her elbow bleeds through an elder male as she passes him, the mortal clueless to the invisible bl
uster. Out of habit, she usually avoids surfing right through humans. It’s bad manners.
But there’s no time for etiquette. Not when a villain is on her tail, the only one in this immediate area who can see her, and vice versa.
Up ahead is the Fountain of Aquarius, illuminated in a gradient of purple and rising three levels to where a tide of water spills from a jug. Focusing on the landmark, she thinks exhilarating thoughts because it’s better than being scared.
She locates the perfect soundtrack to this moment and turns up the volume, the lyrics and inflections shifting from dulcet to astringent. Then she takes off, her sneakers kicking against the cement and spurring the board, the wheels licking concrete. Beyond the headphones, the pounding of boots behind her confirms everything, as does the twang of a bowstring.
Alas, fear wins out. Merry zooms around bystanders and uses the momentum to vault, the skateboard spiraling to avoid a flying arrow. The universe whirls, the planets churning in her vision. The wheels smack the fountain’s first level just as her head cranes sideways, and she spots him.
An archer barrels her way, nocking more arrows to his longbow. It takes only a blink to identify the corona of blond waves packed around his face and the sharp nails extending from his fingertips like blades.
Malice.
In that leather sweater, he can pass for a rockstar, despite having the moral compass of a nocturnal serial killer. The nemesis raises his weapon and croons like a high-voltage hornet, “Bye-bye, Merry.”
There’s a release, a whiz from which she skids around the fountain and catapults sideways. Angling her body, she inverts the board, flipping upside down to dodge the shot.
Merry slams onto the next level. Her ponytail whips around, the pastel rainbow of her skirt making her a delicate target in the dark.
His arrows are incapable of delivering death blows—only archery wielded by members of the Fate Court have that power—but the impact will knock her off the skateboard. It’ll strike hard, which will have a painful effect and punt her to the ground, crippling her long enough for him to catch up and do permanent, hands-on damage.
Malice’s arrow misses by a fraction, impaling the Aphrodite hedge, piercing the goddess’s heart. He releases more projectiles, this time targeting the board’s hardware in the hopes of derailing Merry. She whips the skateboard aslant of the park wall, zipping horizontally along the slab, as if anyone can execute this trick for such an extended length of time.
Well, a person can—so long as that person’s inhuman.
Merry lifts off the wall and strikes the fountain’s third level. From here, she locates the city’s center several blocks away. It’s a towering, twinkling arena of trees that surrounds an extravaganza, a place that tosses lights everywhere like a meteor shower.
It’s the Carnival of Stars. And it’s neutral territory.
Merry assesses the drop from Midnight Park to the street level. From behind, Malice grouses her name while bolting in her direction, getting closer. Smoothing over her skirt and upping the bass on her headphones, she reels back and soars.
She rockets into nothingness, gravity sucking her down, down into a funnel.
The star-blessed vehicle crashes in one piece. The landing rattles her teeth as she skitters across a pothole covered in a filigree of overgrown moss. She pivots and halts, the wheels grating against cement, the board slanting and the tail hitting a sidewalk.
Merry plants the flat of her sneaker against the board’s upturned nose. Drums whack through the speakers as her gaze deviates toward another building—toward a silhouette standing vigil from a roof backdropped by the sky. From what she can tell, it’s a masculine physique, as immobile as a star.
Whoever that person is, he’s watching the pursuit. Maybe he’s been watching it for a while now.
And what’s that shape attached to his looming form? Is it a…a bow?
He could be with Malice, yet his body language doesn’t imply malevolence or vitriol, at least from this distance. Rather, he has the posture of a mere observer, perhaps a skeptical one.
His eyes fixate on her. It’s a fact, even if she can’t make out his face.
Merry’s about to venture toward the building, but that’s when Malice leaps off the park’s edge. She yips and keeps going. Firing toward the carnival, she heads for neutral ground on a mode of transport that would leave its mortal counterparts—including the electric-powered ones—in the dust.
Within the tree arena, rides corkscrew and spin like asteroids, their nodules flaring. Merry jets past the entrance of arched branches dripping with heliotrope purple bulbs, the spastic sounds of the Ethereal Arcade competing with track ten on her playlist. To the thrum of keyboards, she careens through the spectral carnival, inhaling mysticism and hairspray.
Circuiting the Constellation Carousel, she stops and wrenches off the mauve headphones, letting them cinch around her throat. She chances another glimpse of her stalker prowling only a few feet away. Immortal blood has that effect, granting deities the luxury of expediting their travels.
In other words, her people move stupid fast. Like, speedily enough to give cheetahs a workout, matching the velocity of a deity’s skateboard.
Scratch that: A would-be deity.
Scratch that again: A never-has-been deity.
Malice’s head slithers, searching for her. His glare is about to collide with Merry’s gape when a hand covers her mouth. She shrieks into the palm just as it yanks her into the shadows, her spine hitting some captor’s chest.
A chest as solid as a machine. A male, muscled chest.
A fellow immortal: able to touch her, to make physical contact. So he must be a rancorous ally, which means that she’s been caught. He and Malice will take her prisoner, haul her to Malice’s burrow and torture her like a true heroine, until she meets her untimely but fateful end. It’s a cataclysmic vision, albeit one for the history books. Maybe the Fates will share tales about her lost potential and grievous end.
Finally, her kind will actually know and care that she exists.
Then she remembers the part about being tortured. Such a penalty merely for crossing into Malice’s territory, because he’s just that homicidal, because sometimes his theatrics exceed even hers.
I’m a leading lady in this death-defying scene. If I escape their clutches, I’ll be…still an outcast.
But alive. Alive is a pleasant thought.
She can finish the narration later, envision a thrilling outcome when she’s safe. Her teeth retaliate, chomping on the offensive hand. Whomever has captured Merry disengages from her mouth with a grunt. She’s about to turn and knee his groin, but that same hand gets a second wind and smothers her anew.
She thrashes, but he’s strong, so very strong. And he’s tall, his height surpassing the other repugnant beast who’s hunting her.
“Shh,” his voice gripes, revving like a motorcycle.
Merry freezes. His timbre is intense, like it comes with a speedometer and a loaded tank of fuel, like it might accelerate at any moment. The sound of him knocks the wind out of her, makes her feel a little wild, a lot amorous.
Her grand imagination runs rampant. She pictures herself taming that alpha voice, slowing it down like only a soul mate can. Sighhh.
With his free hand, the stranger points ahead, his digit extending past her nose. She snaps out of it. The fingerless gloves set this newcomer apart, since no other immortal in the city touts that accessory—except for Merry.
Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe they’re kindreds.
Maybe the stars haven’t forsaken her.
The mysterious index finger aims toward the glowering figure of Malice, who’s scanning the carnival. When Merry doesn’t fight back, the stranger releases her. She hopes this means he’ll put a pedal to that voice again, gun that engine right into her ears.
But he’s too focused on her pursuer. He must know that Malice is after her, though he can’t know why, right? Can she trust this person? Does she have a choice?<
br />
She lacks a pointy weapon. But from the sound of it, he’s packing arrows and a longbow.
A longbow! She remembers the silhouette, the spying figment who’d witnessed the action from a rooftop. In addition to visible perception, he’d caught up to her as rapidly as Malice had, so there’s no question he’s one of them.
Malice must sense her, because he nocks an arrow. Merry hears a quiver jangle, the stranger’s own weapon materializing in her periphery, penetrating the space beside her cheek. He nudges her out of the way with his foot.
On her majestic board, Merry had evaded Malice. But in general…
“He doesn’t miss,” she warns.
“Neither do I,” the voice says.
“Who are you, rebel?”
The moniker surprises him, stunting his grip on the bow. “I’m no rebel.”
“A savior, then,” she improvises. “A gallant hero.”
“I’m none of those things.”
“But whyever not? That’s such a pity. It would render this scene much more enticing. I’ve always thought—”
“Do you ever shut up?”
She’s hardly said anything, yet his question crackles like dynamite.
“Well, I never,” she humphs. “I have a mind to—”
“Duck,” the stranger says.
His arrow launches, intercepting Malice’s shot, both shafts colliding and vanishing. One of them reappears in Malice’s quiver. Merry concludes the other has returned to the stranger’s cache.
A flurry of bladed tips surge. She and her companion dodge, flinging themselves out of the way, onto the grass. The stranger tears to his feet and storms into the clearing amidst the ignorant crowd.
Malice falters, confusion warping his face. Apparently, he doesn’t recognize this newcomer, either.
The trance breaks. The stranger takes another shot, missing by a hair’s breadth as Malice twists. Another aim, and Malice’s bow skids over the ground, so he charges with his fists. His opponent averts the punch, crouching and then whipping upward with his own blow.
Such vigor! That slug could have uprooted a lamppost.
Malice simply staggers and pummels the stranger’s stomach, the attack mighty enough to crack marble.
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