Merry’s navel tightens, then she hops in place when the carnival blasts a song that reminds her of fireworks. She’s atop the counter in seconds, gyrating and lip-synching, tapping her heels and pumping her hips to the beat. She trills the words, sounding like a rabid crow.
Who cares? No one’s staring at her, because no one sees her.
Merry squawks the lyrics—and then screams. She really, thoroughly screams, because she’s no longer alone.
From across the avenue, a pair of intense eyes watch her. The irises are not wholly iron black, not quite steel. They’re graphite and fixed on Merry, catching her by the throat mid-chorus.
It’s the second time he’s done this to her. By the way, she hasn’t stopped shrieking. It’s not a startled response, nor an attractive one. No, it’s a disastrous screech of mortification, of yet another missed opportunity to impress him.
That’s not all that happens. She slips sideways and hits the counter, her fanny sliding across the brim before she topples off the edge, the velocity sending her wheeling across the platform like a renegade waffle cone. She bursts into a cyber landscape, destroying virtual planets and uncharted civilizations along the way before coming to a stop.
Rocketing upright, Merry swats at her hair, hunting the carnival for him. She’s disgraced and hallucinating. The spot where the God of Anger had been witnessing her tonsil-deep performance and inevitable wipeout, is vacant.
Is she so forlorn that she’s having visions? She draws the line at illusions meant to torment her. She’s better than this.
Honestly, if Anger were her true love, he would have gotten a similar spark and remained in the observatory, hell bent on ravishing her. Since he hadn’t, she must have been wrong.
This verifies that she’s a failed star. That intrinsic, misguided and undesirable part of Merry has led her down this false path.
Very well. She dusts herself off and watches a few more gaming rounds. It’s therapeutic, and by the end of the night, she feels better.
Based on her latest experience, even neutral ground can be a threat. She’s never had a bow, definitely wasn’t in the Peaks long enough to forge one, but she’s brought her skateboard, which is optimal for a quick getaway.
The carnival lights blink out, the rides lock into place, and the patrons leave. The gates have closed, but that’s not a problem, and she likes being in the amusement park when it’s quiet, when it’s dark, when it’s all hers. It’s an homage to magic and mystery. It’s a galaxy of rides without a pinch of rust, no chipped paint on the edifices, not a speck of deterioration.
There are lawns and trees. There are lampposts and trails lined with sparklers. There are lavender drinking fountains beneath awnings and star-patterned signs pointing toward each venue.
The stars come out, brighter than when the carnival had been alive, white specks dotting a cobalt umbrella of sky. The wheels of Merry’s skateboard spin down the vacant path. As the breeze toys with her hair, she makes a choice and lets her wireless headphones hang around her neck, the better to detect the person behind her, the one who’s been following her for the last five minutes.
Even with music blaring, Merry would have heard him coming, but she’d rather be fully present in this moment, the sound of his approach consuming her whole. It’s déjà vu, the sensation of an otherworldly being on her tail. She can’t help milking the anticipation for all it’s worth, because the pursuer isn’t an enemy this time.
Maybe she hadn’t been seeing things, after all. Maybe the curse of banishment can indeed be broken.
Headiness eclipses the embarrassment that she’d suffered earlier. Her mouth wreathes. She has a strange feeling that his own lips are doing the same thing.
He’s close.
She speeds up, not nearly as fast as she can skate, nor as fast as he can move. But it’s enough to incite a small chase.
Track sparklers buzz on either side of the lane. At a fork, Merry curves right—and she brakes. The board kicks upward, skidding across the planks as she halts in place, her heart launching into her throat.
Anger stands in front of the carousel as if he’d guessed her destination. He’s changed his wardrobe, opting for jeans and a sinful Henley that outlines the muscles of his chest. The sleeves ride up his olive forearms, creating a traffic jam of bunched material and exposing those fingerless leather gloves. His quiver is hooked across his back while he aims the longbow at her, the weapon nocked with an iron arrow.
“I win,” he says.
“I object,” she blurts.
There it is: His lips betray the faintest of quirks.
Gracious, he’s lethally stunning. Though he seems mystified by the humor in his voice and the course of his actions—even annoyed by them, flexing his jaw to curb further impulses. She can’t decide if she wants to see him smile or see him deadbolt those chiseled features.
Ultimately, she yearns to lick the rim of his mandible. In fact, she might make that her life’s work.
She’d just made a promise to herself. But now, teetering atop the dimple in his cheek, she tumbles once more.
She falls in love all over again.
He lowers the bow and inspects her. What does he see?
Merry becomes acutely aware of the high-tops tickling her ankles, the corset dress flaring beneath her black denim vest, and the frock’s skirt revealing her upper thighs.
Her hair flows freely tonight, puddling to the collarbones. Of all nights, she’s decided to wear more eyeshadow than Cleopatra.
But what snares his attention are her fingerless gloves, the fishnet straining across her knuckles. He stares at them in puzzlement, disturbed by the sight.
“You can’t have them,” she says. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”
He glances at her with another involuntarily twitch of the lips. “I have my own pair, thank you.”
“Why did you come back?”
She wants a romantic answer, but she’s hardly a fool, no matter how besotted.
Anger stalks up to her, the rustle of his clothing louder than it should be. Once he’s in caressing distance, he wavers. “Why is your name Merry?”
She releases the skateboard, its wheels slapping on the path. She blinks, at a loss for how to reply.
“When we met, you referred to Malice by his proper name,” Anger continues.
“You know, we never did address the chase,” she replies. “I saw you on the rooftop. You were watching us.”
“I was watching you. I haven’t stopped since.”
“So earlier, in the arcade…you, um, you saw the…”
A chord of amusement strums through his answer. “It was a graceful landing.”
On a groan, Merry dumps her face into her palms and mumbles, “I hate my life.”
Something akin to a chuckle escapes him, but then he coughs. “That demon archer hasn’t changed his moniker just because he’s exiled. But you have, as if you’re concealing who you used to be.”
She realizes where this is coming from, where he’s been since he left, and why he’s asking. Merry lifts her head. “What else did Malice tell you?”
Chagrined, it’s Anger’s turn to blink. “More than I wanted to know. Yet not enough.”
“You’ve been with him since leaving me, which makes sense. You’re of parallel emotions, so it’s no wonder he sniffed you out. I gather you’ve found a new friend, then.”
“I’m not certain friendship exists anymore.”
“You’re wrong.”
He shoots her an offended look. “You don’t know me.”
“That’s because you don’t want anyone to know you.”
One would think that nobody has ever told him so before. He’s flabbergasted, the slot in his mouth parting, his brows punching together.
Merry hops onto the skateboard and circles him, entertained when he follows the movements, eyeing her cautiously. “You don’t want anyone to know you, but you still want to belong,” she summarizes, blithely circuiting his be
autiful pout. “Sorry to break this to you, but you can’t have it both ways.”
“A deity can always have it both ways.”
“Only the saddest ones can.”
The current billows her skirt, and she notices that his footfalls have stopped. She pauses as well, because he’s staring with a vulnerable slant to his expression, a candid one that he’s unaware of. And there’s something else about his reflexes.
Merry gestures to his hands. “You drum your fingers on your belt buckle whenever you’re flummoxed.”
His digits seize. “Let me guess. It’s annoying?”
“No, it’s honest. It’s you.”
Anger swerves his head, hiding his reaction. He thrusts his profile at her while focusing on the track lighting, the swaying grass, and the carousel. Is that why he came back? Because he’s not sure where he belongs but wants to find out?
If her true love chooses to stick around, they might have a greater future than he knows.
“I have an idea.” She pitches the board forward, wheeling around him again. “We have the carnival to ourselves, so join me for an escapade tonight. By dawn, I’ll bet that I know more about you than you’ve ever told anyone. And if I’m right, I’ll tell you my secrets.”
His gaze meets hers. “Any secret?”
“Cross my helpless heart. I’ll even tell you why I named myself Merry. Come on, God of Anger, it’ll be exhilarating. Just imagine: two strangers exploring a theme park under the cloak of night. At the end of it, we’ll be soul mates.”
“It’s that easy, is it?” He sounds dubious. “Are you incapable of simply walking?”
“I always ride a skateboard when I’m about to spend an evening with a tall, dark, and handsome outcast. It helps to psych myself up. You see? You already know one of my secrets.” Merry surges ahead of him. “Are you coming or not?”
She hears him speak under his breath. “Yes.”
Is it her imagination, or does his timbre deepen? He sounds motivated—furious and voracious, like he wants to take something from her and snap it in half.
That can’t be. True love isn’t greedy, nor deceitful. Even if it were, she has nothing breakable but her skateboard.
What else could he possibly take from her?
7
Merry
Merry doesn’t look back. It’s more exciting that way, the sensation of him watching her float on the skateboard, the hem of her dress flouncing with each stroke of her limb. Her ears detect his boots hitting the tiles, swift but keeping a prudent distance, moving in her wake amidst the twinkle trees.
“Just in case it skipped your mind,” she calls out behind her, “I know what a home means to someone who’s lost it. Points for me, I’m already relating to you on an intimate basis. Doesn’t that sound marvelous?” She speeds up, launches into the air, sails across an illuminated model of Neptune, and lands on the path. “You think a home can’t be replicated, and you’re right, since no landscape is the same. But people get so used to that, they don’t see what exists elsewhere, the other places they can call home. You’re unwilling to give yourself that chance. Is that a coping mechanism?”
He catches up to her, his quiver and arrows clacking. “Your spirit rivals Wonder herself.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Let’s quiz each other. How old are you?”
“Two-hundred and five. And you?”
“Two-hundred and fifty-five. Alas, we just missed each other.”
“Real name?”
“Merry.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, miffed.
“But it’s what you should have meant,” she chastises.
His hand makes contact with her elbow, halting her. The moment it does, he jerks his fingers away, but it’s too late. Kilowatts radiate up Merry’s arm.
Anger flexes his palm and then makes a fist. He’d been about to ask another question, but he just shakes his head, more to himself than her.
Is that good or bad? The only thing Merry can tell is that Anger’s tongue-tied, and that she’d like to help him untangle that tongue with her own.
“I don’t want to carry my failure on my shoulders,” she argues. “Keeping my original name, an emotion that I didn’t get to wield, would be like wearing a stamp that says Damaged Goods. I don’t want to be reminded of that.”
“Neither can you deny where you came from.”
“I’m not denying anything. They denied me.”
A thought unspools across Anger’s face. “In which case, perhaps it wasn’t your deficiency. Perhaps it was theirs.”
Merry feels a prideful crimson rush up her cheeks. “If you want to know the name that I hatched with, fine. But you have to know me beyond that, as I want to know you.”
“There’s very little to learn about me.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t be tucking so much away.”
“I’m just Anger,” he bites out.
“Of course you are. And I’m just Merry.” She swivels around him while assessing their surroundings. “We need ambience.” She curbs the board, glances at the stars, and communicates her wish for a charitable sprinkle of magic.
In response, the Carnival of Stars wakes up. Not the whole amusement park, but select areas flare with lollipop shades of ultramarine and magenta, and puckering heliotrope bulbs that outline pentagram-shaped attractions. Even better, the speakers synchronize with her player, throwing the tinkle of a keyboard, the pluck of a guitar, and the ping of a xylophone into the air.
To humans, the setting appears dormant. To archers, the place is alive.
Only the two of them can see and hear the change. Silently, Merry thanks the stars. Her mission to woo and win a deity’s heart sets into motion.
Satisfied with the effect, she orders, “Now, get rid of the weapons.”
Anger stiffens, speaks between clenched teeth. “Are you mad?”
“You have me confused with Malice. I’m not indignant yet, but I will be if you don’t disarm yourself this instant.”
“Like hell, I will—”
“How short is that fuse? Are you about to throw a tantrum?”
“No, but—”
“Outstanding.” Merry steals his weapons, ignores his protests, and sets the burdens on a bench, then pushes her skateboard onto the lawn as well. “Which thrill shall we explore first?”
“Merry—”
“Oh, look!” she announces in feigned surprise. “The Constellation Carousel! What a coincidence, for we’ve meandered right back to it, or we merely haven’t gone that far. I’ve been too distracted by your magnanimous glower to notice. I get Sagittarius!” She races toward the whirligig, leaps onto the platform, and climbs above her ride. The archer figurine has a seat across the arrow shaft, which is nocked to a drawn bow, a clever arrangement and creatively designed for patrons.
It takes a few seconds for Anger to get moving. After checking the vicinity, he steps onto the dais, twisting sideways to pass between patient Capricorn and sensitive Pisces, the Henley shifting over his photogenic torso. In spite of himself, he inspects the options, outwardly sulking that she’s called shotgun on the most appropriate option.
He’d likely prefer bull-headed Taurus as an alternative. But that creature is located elsewhere on the carousel, away from her, which won’t do.
Merry settles onto Sagittarius’s violet arrow. “Need help?”
“Thank you, but I can choose my own mount.” But he doesn’t. He stands there, appraising the painted figures, the overhead bulbs accentuating his features.
Merry bites back laughter at the sight of this deity overwhelmed by the selection. Anger’s taking the task seriously for somebody who hadn’t wanted to join her. It’s a scrapbook moment, meant for commemoration and keepsakes.
She wishes that she had a camera.
She wishes that cameras could capture deities in the first place.
Merry points to the Capricorn goat, which earns her a nose crinkle. “What’s the matter
?” she teases. “Afraid you’ll fall off?”
“I’ll have you know that humor is overrated,” Anger says.
“Haven’t you ever played before? Purely for fun?”
“No.”
“Not even in the Peaks?”
“No.”
“Ever wanted to?”
“No.”
“Rookie.” As an invitation, she slaps the goat’s rump. “Come on, this zodiac sign is all about learning tough lessons.”
“And treading carefully.”
“If you lose your balance, I’ll catch you. Don’t you want to sit next to me? Don’t you covet this seat even a teeny bit?”
“Is there a single question or thought that you’d actually keep to yourself?”
“I’d rather we tell each other everything.” She leans over and whispers conspiratorially, “What happens in the carnival, stays in the carnival.”
Anger stares at her, then a laugh rips out of him. The noise is as aggressive as it is destructive, to the point where the ground quakes. It’s a timeworn, vigorous racket, unpracticed as if he’s never been mirthful a day in his life.
Yet it’s natural, made of thunder and hail. It’s what a zephyr would sound like if it heard a joke.
The intense sound of him cuts off her air supply. She feels like she’s just won a medal for instigating this blizzard of chuckles, which rinses away Anger’s reservations. With humor still tweaking his face, his shoulders lose the stiffness as he swings a leg over the goat.
Once they’re seated, the carousel does the work on its own, responding to the divine stars’ command and beginning to twirl. The handles crank, lobbing them up and down while fairy colors strobe around them.
The breeze flaps Merry’s skirt, pushing it up her thighs. Anger notices, his eyes straying to her skin and then clicking away. He straightens on the seat, one hand clutching the bar, the other flattening across his hip, the pose reminiscent of an emperor.
Merry giggles. “You look awfully regal.”
Anger doesn’t glance at her, but his mouth quirks. “Too much?”
“That’s for you to decide.”
Then, with a not-so-tough, not-so-real sigh, he does glance at her. “So what happened to your silly quiz? Isn’t that the basis for this magical night?”
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