Gracious, that feels…
Anger swings his pelvis, prodding more, nudging that barrier. With her scalp tingling, Merry gives a pleading whine.
Catching her eyes, he pauses. And then his hips pivot upward.
A cry skids from Merry’s throat, his length impaling her so thoroughly that her spine curls, on the verge of fracturing. If she were a human, it would have. But she’s not human, so she can take this, she can take him.
He mashes his face into her neck, listening to her whimpers. Cushioned inside her, Anger kisses her cheek, brushes her sobbing mouth with his.
He drags his lips to her ears. “Tell me,” he grates.
She cups his rear and pushes him forward. “Right there.”
Right there, Anger’s hips begin to snap. His waist revolves, his body veering into hers. Moans fall from their lips, punctuated by every lunge, every beating collision.
With each thrust, with each pass, Merry arcs in a frantic pace. His teeth graze her chin, lolling her head even farther backward. Her consciousness dissolves to one point, a bright star at the crux of her body, a succinct yet eternal sensation. Her thighs ride his waist as he stands upright, as she splays around him, as the heavens eddy above them.
He pitches inside her with long, searching strokes. It’s harsh, and it’s frenzied, and it’s right. And no matter how long it lasts, she’s not there, and he’s not there. They chase a summit that’s continuously out of reach, not there yet, not there yet, not there yet.
But rather than give up, they speed up. That’s the thing about deities. They can keep going as long as they desire.
Merry would laugh, if she weren’t bleating in pleasure. He’s making love to her so fiercely, so honestly, so good.
And now she knows what this feels like.
She contorts against Anger. Unrecognizable noises spiral out of her, his own desperate sounds chafing into her ear. Anger cinches his mouth over hers, the kiss matching their relentless movements. Her heels have been linked across his back, but now they fall apart, dangling and sprawling her even more for him.
“Do something,” she begs.
“Nearly there,” he growls in promise.
But they’re not nearly there, because it goes on and on. He takes her devotedly, endlessly. He’s inside her, and inside her, and inside her.
She can’t stand it. Yet she does stand it.
At last, yet too soon, his face lifts. As they stare at each other, Merry feels him tensing, and she feels herself clenching, both of them about to spring apart.
“Now,” he urges, his voice breaking into a groan.
“Now,” she agrees, her voice surging into a cry.
She clings to him, and he wraps himself in her, and they squeeze while he jams in. And the sky explodes, radiant light bolting through her veins, turning her into a shooting star. They seize up, then convulse, shouting into infinity.
Merry’s gaze flies to the clouds. That’s when she realizes.
The storm has ended.
24
Anger
Just like that, one moment has ended, and another begins. One feeling has passed, and another sprouts. One desire has unleashed like a riptide, and another wraps around him as beautifully as her limbs.
The clouds have calmed down. No more fractures of lightning or whisks of wind. No gush of rain.
The squall had ceased at some point, either when he’d groaned, or she’d arched, or when they’d both hollered. Fates, he hadn’t noticed, hadn’t cared.
A violence of precipitation, the sort of anger that he can’t regulate. Yet he can’t recall a second in which he’d been scared, not one fleeting second. The only thing he’d feared when arriving had been her. Her words, her expression, her judgment. The very loss of her heart, torn because of him.
The shower hadn’t even been secondary. It had been reduced to particles, vague and unimportant. He would have braved a blizzard to see her, to be near her and beg forgiveness. And when she hadn’t rejected him, the city had vanished, all except for her light.
The final droplet slides from his mouth and lands someplace he can’t see, doesn’t need to see, because all he wants to see is her face. The sparklers of her eyes and how they shine on him, illuminated by what they’ve just done.
All he wants to see is the effect it’s had on her.
He stands in between her legs, unsure how he’s managed to stay upright while inside her. They’re holding each other, arms and legs slung like ropes, boneless and trembling and dripping. In the past, in the aftermath of mating with other goddesses, he’s only ever wanted to retreat, to be alone. This is the first time when he remains exactly where he is, not wishing to leave, his body still lodged within that sweet passage.
His lungs labor, the way his pelvis had labored only minutes ago, his inhalations rushing to catch up. Pink spools of hair stick to Merry’s neck, where his lips rest against a rapid pulse point. He’s bare while her dress, which is more like an oversized T-shirt, is drenched to a film and plastered against her.
Merry’s fingers thread through his layers, massaging the roots in such an adoring way that his eyelids flutter. There are endless firsts about this wet and wonderful connection. This is the first time that it means something to him—and to his partner.
Actually, not his partner. Not a mere bed companion.
Anger raises his forehead from the brackets of her collarbones, where he’s been resting, recovering from the surge. Summoning the courage to face her, he suffers a brief splash of dread.
Does she regret it?
Or did she like it? Did he please her?
Can he please, please, please do it again?
His gaze climbs to hers. A vision of pink irises, happily worn out. Eyes that regret nothing yet worry the feeling isn’t mutual.
This is one myth he can dispel immediately. Hope glitters across her face an instant before he balances her damp cheeks in his palms. Indeed, not a partner, nor a bed companion. Not merely those things.
Soul mate?
Perhaps something a little less perfect. Perhaps something a bit more real. Perhaps this.
The words flow out of him so easily, so simply. “You’re my best friend.”
She emits a sniffly chuckle as she matches his gesture, cradling his face. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss. They stay like that, above the Celestial City and beneath the stars, until the ridge gets uncomfortable, causing her to squirm.
Laughing at the mess they’ve made of each other, their hair matted, her garments in disarray, they switch locations. Anger swoops her off the ledge, linking the backs of her knees under his arms, and carries her to the room she made for him.
Sliding open the glass partitions and setting Merry on the bed, Anger climbs in behind her. They shed her dress, then their gloves. Her back folds into his chest, and he bundles her close, toying with the locks that sweep her shoulders. He wishes the layers were longer, just so he’d have more of it to touch. More of her.
He yearns to speak, to flood her with sentiment, but he restrains himself. He doesn’t have that right yet. Not until she goes first.
How he wants her to go first. How he wants to know every brutal and bright thing she feels.
Merry wiggles against him and confesses, “I never wanted to see you again.”
“I know,” he answers against her scalp. “I wanted to give you that, but I failed. I couldn’t let it end that way, with you believing it had all been a farce. Even if you rejected me, I needed you to know that you were worth fighting for. I couldn’t let go without saying that.”
“Which is why I couldn’t make my grand exit after you were finished, you sneaky god. I’ve always wanted to kiss in the rain, but I had no idea the payoff would come at such a cost. Won’t you be groveling some more?”
“As often as I’ll be making love to you.”
Goosebumps ride her flesh, but she’s serious when she says, “Don’t hurt me again. If you do, the storm can have you.”
“I�
��m sorry, Merry.”
“Me, too,” she murmurs, so low that he almost misses it.
What is she sorry for? For giving him too much credit in the beginning? For not giving herself enough?
They splay their fingers, holding them up to the overcast evening. They whisper, and admit, and share. And after they’ve done that, Merry retreats naked to her garret, then returns with music.
The world settles. For once, he’s home.
Snuggling into him, she chooses a track on her player, and they share earbuds. The instruments flutter into a bittersweet melody. He can’t keep his hands off her, even while he’s listening to the song. Merry exhibits the same impulse as she sketches him, trimming him down to sensations, hardening him.
While the track courses through their ears, she twists just as he reaches for her. She grabs his shoulders just as he grabs her hips, propping her astride his lap. They’re ready, her breasts rubbing across his pectorals, her thighs encasing his.
As he moves, she moves. Still wearing the earbuds, with the music draped around them, they kiss. His tongue fuses with hers, their open mouths hooking together and undulating. A kiss that’s malleable.
A kiss that drizzles down his throat as Merry dips and pulls his Adam’s apple between her lips. His head whips back, and his mouth falls open, a ragged sound dropping out of him.
When she uses her teeth, he’s had it.
He whips Merry onto her back. With a beat of the hips, he plows into her. And without preamble, he begins to thrust.
The mattress springs. The bed frame heaves.
Just like that, his hips lurch and cause their bodies to grind. Merry gives a yelp of pleasure, her fingers mowing through his hair, her limbs clamping around him. She revolves, catching his movements, the percussion agonizing.
But it doesn’t stop. And neither do they.
While listening to the music, they gyrate and cry out, unable to hear themselves with their ears plugged. The track has been fluid, but now it booms, shuddering in tune with their lovemaking. So loudly, as they whisk up a melodic climax of their own.
***
Now he understands why Merry believes in free will, this equilibrium between choice and fate. Now he understands the universal need. If he were mortal, he wouldn’t want to be targeted, to be matched by an invisible deity. Nor would he prefer having his passions or furies steered.
Perhaps he might prefer destiny, but not always. There must be a balance.
But how? How to acquire this? How to reinvent millennia of tradition and myth? How to disturb this lifecycle between deities and mortals without harming it?
In what universe can they hope to convince the Fates, to persuade their extended peers, much less the Court? Their leaders may be stringent and impervious, arrogant and thirsty for supremacy. True, they’re unjust when it comes to flawlessness, dismissing those who don’t meet those standards. Even truer, he hates what they did to Merry, what their lack of vision has failed to see in her.
They’ve kept their secrets, burying certain skeletons in the Hollow Chamber’s forbidden section, to prevent others from discovering them. But they’d done so with the best of intentions: to safeguard their kind. They’ve made those judgment calls out of protection, however censored.
They’re as imperfect as their so-called inferiors. They misjudge, and sometimes they don’t learn from it.
And what about Wonder? Can Anger excuse what they did to her?
He can’t. He can’t excuse it any more than he can excuse himself. The Fate Court had given the order of torture, which his class had carried out.
Who is right and wrong? Perhaps there is never a simple answer.
The singular clarity is this: No soul is perfect.
Their rulers admit to errors once they’ve recognized them. They hold themselves accountable, rather than point the finger. They believe in inspiration and guidance. They reward bravery.
They do not play mind games with their archers. They do not assume superiority merely because of age.
What they did to Love when she fell for Andrew, was what they’d had to do. They’d believed the Peaks in danger, their existence threatened. By extension, the euthanasia of fate would have meant the demise of humanity. They’d sought to preserve that, to shield destiny, to protect all.
He remembers the smaller things, like the Court members’ own stories. One ruler habitually offers random acts of kindness to their people. Another makes the rounds, singing lullabies to children who have trouble sleeping. And another ruler pens verse. And another paints canvases to combat depression. And another is a self-proclaimed guardian of animals.
Anger knows this, because they don’t hide it. They’ve not hidden themselves from him, once their most loyal archer.
They’re more approximate to mortals than they realize, in spite of their restraint. Their denial of sentiment. Their misunderstanding of love.
What they’ve never comprehended is that love isn’t a drawback. With its complexities and unpredictability, its controversies and intricacies, its flaws and enigmas, it’s the ultimate empowerment. It’s a chief distinction between immortals and mortals. Rather than reduce humans, it gives them a resilience the Fates can’t comprehend or empathize with.
Not until something changes.
Love isn’t the only goddess capable of that emotion. Neither are Anger’s classmates. Perhaps only when deities accept this, only when they understand it, only when they relate to it, will this balance of fate and free will be struck.
So again, how can anyone get the Fates to listen?
What do the stars think? Are they on both sides, looking out for deities and mortals? Do they play a part in this? Or will they leave it up to the Fates and humanity?
Long into the night, Anger and Merry embrace and exchange concerns, possibilities. Everything he knows about immortals, everything she knows about mortals, everything they know about the stars and their mysteries.
How can they approach the Court? How can they spark this change?
What if it doesn’t cement peacefully? What if this makes an enemy of the Fates?
They can’t do this alone. Not without Wonder, Envy, and Sorrow, which is still a paltry number of archers against a mighty number of disbelievers. The Fates will win this battle unless Anger and Merry amass supporters.
He shakes his head. There must be a way beyond war, perhaps an outlet or a bargaining chip, but that might take eons to figure out.
Merry sidles on top of Anger, her nudity splayed around him. “We’ll get creative,” she says, her breath misting across his throat.
He winds his arms around her, pressing her close. “You make it sound easy.”
“I’m making it sound possible. That’s how everything starts.”
She’s right. That’s how it started for Love and Andrew. That’s how it started for him and Merry. One small shift, one unexpected meeting at a time.
Her sparkler eyes cast down, her hair sloping like a curtain. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
His muscles tense, because it’s a statement that he should be making. A confession that he has every responsibility to voice. The legend, his attempt to win back his place. He no longer intends to break her heart and abhors that he ever did.
Setting a finger against her lips, he says, “Then we share a similar burden, because there’s something I need to confess, too.” Before she can reply, he sweeps his lips across hers. “Later.”
They can reveal themselves later, after they’ve expended themselves. He will tell her once the sun rises. Once they’ve slept.
He hopes that she’ll forgive him. But if she doesn’t, that will be her choice. No one else’s.
Unfortunately before dawn, restlessness claims him. Beyond the glass sliding doors, there’s a menacing tilt to the breeze, rustling the alcove ferns. The stars blaze, adding candidness to the horizon. In an hour, they’ll recede into slashes of muted blue.
The sight unsettles him. Many sensation
s unsettle him, with their barbed edges and noxious odors.
He recalls Malice’s refined confidence by the fountain in Midnight Park. Anger had told Malice that he was giving up, done with the legend, done with this charade. To which the demon god had yielded much too readily.
Days have since passed, granting that sinister misfit plenty of time to switch gears.
Fury assaults Anger. The impulses click his knuckles into place and stiffen his shoulder blades. He’s a numskull for not having acted earlier, because that diabolical exile would never cooperate so blithely.
Merry snores through her dreams. It takes a multitude of glances at her sleeping face for him to calm down. The old Anger would do this without her, while the new Anger wants to protect her.
Both are wrong. Taking her with him might blow his secret to smithereens before he’s had the chance to tell her. But stealing away to solve this conflict would require additional deception. It would mean he still doesn’t give her the credit she deserves.
She’s stouter than she appears. That’s why he looks up to her.
Anger nudges Merry. Her pink irises flutter open, and her groggy slur fills the alcove. “Whaaa…?”
“Merry,” he whispers. “We need to move quickly.”
He tells her what he feels, what he senses, what he suspects. That Malice has something rancid in mind. That Anger doesn’t know what it is.
They pour out of the bed and tear into fresh clothing. Anger grabs his weapons, while Merry retrieves her skateboard. Taking one more look at her, softness loosens the kinks and sets his feet into motion.
They sprint from the rooftop, from the observatory. The premonition escalates, foreboding provoking them to travel fast, racing across the city. On the way, Anger issues a call through the stars, unwilling to take chances.
By the time they reach the library, Anger knows. Malice is expecting them.
Jogging into the vault, they find the space unmanned. At first glance, there’s merely the rocking chair. The saddlebag. The crate of sepia envelopes. That scent of pomegranates mixed with the fire pit’s burning logs.
That’s all. No other exiles or outcasts to back up Malice. None from his turf to join against Anger and Merry.
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