His spine prickles, a familiar rush across his skin that he hasn’t endured since he’d cloistered himself in a snowy mountain town, a glutton for punishment.
Past torments and poignancy resurrect, drifting from a nearby arrival. The feisty perfume of mischief, mixed with melted frost. The lacerating texture of bereavement and rejection.
And other fundamentals. The sound of her voice, like snowflakes whisking against the bluff of his chest. The impulsive pace of her feet.
He knows the speed of her walk, the weight and shape of her, the sound of her. He’s been studying these things his entire life, his heart decomposing more every decade.
It cannot be. But it is.
She cannot be here. But she is.
Anger’s heart sprints. Speech dries and shrivels in his throat, because he wants to be right. And he wants so badly to be wrong.
History always catches up, doesn’t it? Isn’t this something that he’s coveted, no matter the distance that he’s wedged in between them?
He’s flanked by a pair of bookshelves, a multitude of inaccurate myths, and two choices. He can turn around and potentially self-sabotage by indulging in that old, perverse longing. Or he can stalk away without a backward glance, without subjecting himself to the abuse. Or he can—
“Hi,” that feminine, newly human voice says.
Like a switch, the word makes the decision for him. Anger reacts instantly, mechanically.
He whips around. The bow falls from his fingers, skittering to the carpet.
That petite figment, with her marble skin and restless jerk of the hips. She’s wearing a white linen dress—short, as always—a loose-fitting jacket that hangs to the hem, and a pair of cropped boots encasing her ankles. An enamel bow-and-arrow pin flashes from her lapel.
Oval face. Feline eyes. High bone structure. Stubborn chin.
Her black hair slumps within a messy bun while she glances at a book—because she hadn’t been speaking to him. Not to him, but to the male librarian assisting her. Pointing at the cover, she inquires about similar titles, and the librarian excuses himself to hunt for whatever text she has requested.
That’s whom she’d been greeting. But for a horrible moment, Anger had suffered a taste of what Malice had promised. A brief chance to feel her attention directed at him, her eyes on him.
Yet she can’t see him. Not at the moment.
She nibbles her lip, shoving the book back into its slot. It’s a shelf about the myths of Eros.
Anger would laugh, if this were funny. If the sight of her weren’t chewing on his ribcage. Of all cities, of all libraries, of all corridors.
Her name, or what used to be her name, topples off his lips.
“Love…,” he whispers.
20
Anger
But her name isn’t Love. Not anymore.
It’s Lily. That’s her infernal mortal name, a label established between her and the human she adores, the one she’s elected to spend her limited existence with.
The human who is nowhere in sight.
She’s alone. And not really alone, because Anger’s there, so close to her.
As is Malice. The insufferable, calculating cur who has shoved this moment in Anger’s face, splitting open a scab and exposing it. His weakness resurfaces, muddying the progress his heart has made with someone else.
Truthfully, has Anger been making progress? Yes, he has.
But right here, he stands on a precipice because Love…dammit, it’s Lily…is a beautiful, temporary figure. When she draws her finger across the book titles, Anger remembers how she used to hold a bow, how she used to focus on her targets and strike. He remembers how much she’d hated the drum of his fingers, how it had grated on her. They’d preferred to irk one another as much as possible.
He swallows, unable to guess what she’s thinking.
Is she still happy? Is she still in love?
Does she recall nothing of her former life? Not one image of him?
Anger hears Malice’s footsteps gaining, closing the distance until the demon god aligns with his back. Like a devil perching on Anger’s shoulder, Malice whispers in one ear, “To approach.” And then the other ear, “Or not to approach. That is the temptation.”
“How did you conjure this?” Anger utters, unable to peel his eyes from the girl a few feet away.
“I told you, there’s a way for her to see you. I wasn’t planning on throwing this bone until your deeds were accomplished, but I moved up the schedule, seeing as you’re high maintenance and require yet another nudge.”
“I warned you not to spy on us.”
“I’m not above surveillance while you’re gallivanting in the city. Dare I say, the authenticity of your affections for Merry are slipping toward the genuine. Must be those eyes of hers; they’ve been igniting your cock like a set of jumper cables. I decided this would remind you of what you’ll be losing as a result, among many things.”
With no shortage of elegant boasting, Malice explains. This metropolis is half a day’s drive from Ever, the mountain hamlet where Love lives with her beau. It had been a matter of luring her to the city.
Mortality aside, she will always carry a residue of her mythical self, even if she doesn’t remember that time. She will always feel a confounding pull toward the stars, an interest in archery and matchmaking and mythology, an inexplicable need to climb trees like she used to. She will always feel deprived of something that she cannot name, a power that she’s lost.
And she will have rare but potent flashes of recollection.
Wonder had once said as much. And Anger had witnessed as much, while watching over Love those first years. The way she’d gazed at the stars and scanned the woods, as if she could see Anger standing there, missing her.
She’d channeled those odd occurrences and become an online sensation, her posts and videos on relationships and intimacy attracting the human population. In her own way, she’s still affects the destinies of others, offering insight while leaving the choices up to her audience.
A balance of fate and free will.
Anyway, Malice—fuck him—had manipulated that unfathomable connection Love feels toward her old self. A few days ago, he’d sent her blog a message from one of the library computers. Pretending to be a fan, he’d planted notions in her mind about the Celestial City, where the stars shine brightest, where destiny is most contemplated.
This is the prime season for stargazing, what with a meteor shower anticipated this weekend. Wouldn’t that make a great series of social media posts? Wouldn’t that be intriguing to see? Hmm?
Malice had mentioned this grand library, its infinite collection a “must-see” for visitors. He knows she has a bookworm for a beau, and if the mortal wanted to travel with her, it would be an incentive for serious consideration.
Love had lapped up the hints while he’d played to lingering threads of intuition. Trained in the art of steering humans, Malice’s charade had worked.
So here she is.
Here they both are. Love and Anger, a story that never got to happen.
He thinks not only of Love’s history, but of Wonder’s history. “To contact a mortal in any manner is a violation.”
“And what is the Court going to do? Banish me?” Malice mocks. “Let me remind you that you were charting the same course, making a deal that would briefly enable Love to see you. Here’s what I’ve read: Talk to her, tell her snippets, enough to remove the blinders. If you purr the right tidbits that once mattered to her, it’ll lift the fog. Not so lucid that she’ll see you in detail, but you’ll feel her eyes on you for a few minutes. As a god with power—power you’d be hard-pressed to lose—you can achieve this periodically, in snippets.” His tone lowers to a grinding murmur. “You still want that, don’t you?”
Anger won’t deny it. The pull of her is extravagant and devastating.
This moment has renewed the temptation. Hasn’t it?
The benefit of sight without the drawback o
f endangering the Fates. She’ll see him in wisps, not in particulars. It will satiate him yet protect his kind.
Garlands of ivy stir from the rafters, books crack open, and patrons mumble. The librarian will return soon, and she’s right here, right here for the taking. There’s a way for her to register Anger, if he has the desire. If he has the selfishness.
He takes a step.
“Don’t,” a feminine voice commands, the air oscillating with her appearance.
Speaking of Wonder, she materializes on Anger’s other side. Like an angel to Malice’s devil, she’s the voice of Anger’s conscience, sitting on the opposite mantel of his shoulder.
On the way here, he must have inadvertently called out to his old classmate, and she must have perceived his thoughts. Trussed up in a floor-length, forest green dress that swabs her bare feet—she’s foregone her harem pants and boots today—this female is a mythology nymph with a bountiful body. That band across her forehead still bears a posy of blooms against her temple, her mane spilling into a mussed braid, strands sticking from the weave.
An intervention proceeds. She squats, fishes his bow off the floor, and extends it to him like a life preserver. “Don’t do it, Anger,” she repeats, cautions, insists.
Because she cares about him, because she cares about Love, because they’re both her friends. From the past, present, future. Because she knows this will do no good.
And because of Merry, who’s also her friend.
“Christ. It takes a meddler to know a meddler.” Malice cranes his head and tut-tuts. “Wildflower, what gives you the right to be a killjoy?”
Wonder glances past Anger. “Be quiet, you—”
She chokes on whatever she’d been about to say. Moreover, she releases a bedraggled and terrified sound.
It’s so uncommon from Wonder that Anger rips his gaze from Love, in order to inspect his peer. She’s gaping at Malice with a haunted expression, her features slack, her mouth hanging ajar.
“You,” she quavers.
To his credit, Malice’s brows furrow. He recognizes her, but apparently not in the way she does him. “Goddess of Wonder. I’ve seen you around in my heydays, in the Archives. Buuuut…,” he draws out, bemused, “I doubt you’ve ever noticed me. Or am I misdirected? Have we met before?”
That last question causes her to buckle. She blanches, peering at him as if she’s seen a ghost, as if she’s about to faint.
Anger is dubious whether she’s even aware of Love anymore.
And Malice is so perplexed—by the way Wonder traces the scars on her hands, by the wildflowers in her hair—that he regards her fright with hostility. The moment he narrows those ashen eyes at her, Anger’s bow plummets from her limp fingers.
The pair doesn’t look away from each other.
Anger should intervene, but the greedy side of him decides against it. There’s a gap in time. An interlude when there’s nobody left but him and Love.
It’s an opportunity. So he takes it, grabs it in his fists, and heads toward her.
With each step, a place in the world storms, whipping through woodlands and carnivals, scattering snow and twinkle lights, knocking townsfolk and urbanites out of the way. With each distance bridged, a monsoon wakes from sleep.
He’s inches from her, staring down at her bent head as she reads the introduction to an anthology of Greek myths. Her finger, which used to crook around her bowstring, glides down the table of contents. She’s searching for the chapter on Eros. Another compulsion of hers when she became mortal, researching that fictional divinity.
Once Anger does this, he cannot undo it. But the urge keeps tugging on him, keeps tugging. It climbs up his throat, slides across his tongue, and wobbles on the rims of his lips.
He leans over, because she’s diminutive, has always been diminutive. Even if she has a blemish on her chin, an uneven skin tone, and prickles of hair from an un-tweezed brow line—human flaws, human reality—her height in comparison to his hasn’t changed. Not everything has changed.
As she scans the chapter about Eros, with all its pomp and inaccuracy, he blows into her ear. “It’s a lie.”
The effect is immediate. She stiffens, an intake of air streaking into the space between them. Although she may not hear him, her psyche feels his words, senses them like a distant and disorientating hunch. Even mortals express these sorts of perceptions, dubbing them such variations as a sixth sense, clairvoyance, deja vu.
Love’s head volleys left, then right, checking the library. Shaking herself, she returns to the page, only half-concentrating.
“The myth of Eros isn’t the truth,” Anger whispers. “Your story is the truth.”
She grasps the book, squeezes the rims. But she isn’t afraid, because she has never scared easily before. It’s ingrained in her, not to fear him or dispute what’s happening, because a dollop of goddess prevails in her mind, in her heart.
Hopefully, that essence will last forever.
Not to mention, she’s always been a daring, feisty female. That’s why she cocks her head, trepidation leaking from her, confidence restored.
She’s intrigued. Or perhaps fascinated is the right description. Either way, she wants to know more, whatever this is.
Anger continues to penetrate her like a muse. “You were a star that refused to shine.”
At this, her lips twist in amusement, wry and wily. She likes the notion of being defiant. No surprise there.
She speaks, mumbling so that her kind won’t overhear. “What else?”
Fates, help him. They’re talking, her voice reacting to his. Him, the mesmerizing center of her attention at last.
Anger’s heart bleeds from his mouth. “You wore a white dress, like you do now. You climbed evergreens and stole winter ornaments.” His eyes cling to the rapid pulse in her wrist. “You were evasive and disobedient.” His fingers sail across her jaw, passing through like mist. “And you were everything.”
Her face slants. “Is that true?”
Yes, it is. Yes, it was.
But is it still true? Is she still everything?
Something in him resists that notion. Something about it feels inaccurate.
She angles toward his hand as if consenting for more, acknowledging the possession and loss of him.
Or she’s merely investigating. Or he’s projecting.
Compassion creases her forehead, like she’s guilty and sorry. Like she wants to explore him, to know what she did to him, and then to apologize. To oblige him, make amends, make him feel better.
It’s the most offensive and bittersweet moment he’s ever known with her.
An inquiry stutters from her mouth. “Who are you?”
If Anger answers, it might cause a domino effect, a shift in events. It’s a chance to tell her, to have faith that she might believe it.
To the contrary, it’s a chance to disturb her life and ruin the Fates, which is exactly what Wonder was trying to warn him about. He runs the risk of forgetting himself and going too far. Replying might soothe Anger, but it might break Love. She might question her sanity, become obsessed with knowing more. She might feel the deprivation of her past acutely.
And he just might rob her of peace. And his people of their existence.
It’s not worth it. It’s not what he wants.
This small exchange, this tiny intermission, is enough. It has to be.
And he’s…he’s fine with that.
Realizing this, a painful pressure lifts. It sighs from his chest, akin to relief.
Anger’s mouth brushes her cheek, as she once did to him. Except, his touch swims through her skin. She gasps, a tendril of sound like she can see him, see the blur of him. His skin becomes effervescent as her gaze trails the outline of his arm, his chin.
She’s almost there, almost to his eyes, almost level with him.
Yes, she had been everything. For a little while.
And for that little while, she could have been his, if he’d been courageous enoug
h. If he hadn’t toggled between his beliefs and hers, between his duty and hers, between everything that had made them different and similar. If he’d been able to reconcile that.
If she hadn’t fallen for someone else.
Someone who makes her happy. Someone who gives her what she needs. Someone who truly sees her.
Someone who’s heading this way.
The mortal rounds the corner. He’s a young man with a lopsided gait, his limp causing a delay between footsteps. Despite the handicap, he’s hale, with shaggy white hair that brightens the corridor and broad shoulders encased in a black, high-collared jacket.
His name is Andrew. And when he sees Love, the rings of his gray eyes shimmer with a thousand moments, a million heartbeats.
With selfless, unconditional love.
Anger understands now. What this human feels for her is eternal, pure yet imperfect. Therefore, it’s real.
The minty scent of sincerity, coexisting with the buzz of impishness and the fluff of affection, radiates from Andrew. Like a sprite—actually, very much like Love herself—he rests his palms over her eyes.
“Guess who,” he teases. “And you’d better be right.”
Just like that, his presence yanks the ground from beneath Anger, stealing her away. The connection snaps like a cord. The jolt makes Anger stumble—one step, two steps, three steps.
Love’s interest in him dissolves, the veil falling into place. Her attention transfers to her beau, an ardent smile splitting her face. “Hmm,” she plays along, a little winded from the aftermath of her trance. “It’s a book worm.”
“Who’s caught a feline,” he adds.
“Not yet,” she quips, pushing the anthology into the shelf and whirling toward him, her arms twining around his neck. “I caught you first.”
Their foreheads press. Their mouths fold into a gentle kiss.
Andrew’s arms encircle the crescent of her waist as he whispers something against her mouth, something that makes her chuckle.
Anger’s breath stalls. An overhead light spills onto him, rinsing him of this daze.
What has he done? Why has he done this?
Love. No, Lily. Her name is Lily now.
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