Sorrow grabs one of the stilts and crooks her head to listen, but she loses wind of the answer. However, one thing’s for certain: None of their band have been captured. Otherwise, the tally would have been different.
Releasing Envy, she glides to the walkway’s rim, ignoring his mute protests for her to Get back here and Sorrow, so help me!
To that, she merely raises her hand in a stopping motion. His black brows catapult into his hairline. His thought-bubble can’t be clearer: Did she actually give him an order?
Sorrow curls her fingers over the ledge and hauls herself upward, until she’s halfway out of the depths. She peeks over the side, glimpsing two figures huddled together, their arms linked.
A mantel cascades from the male, billowing like smoke beneath archery forged of seashell.
Rhodolite arrows fill the female’s quiver, her body trussed up in a jumpsuit.
Based on their attire and weaponry, they’re members of the pack that attacked Sorrow’s peers. She tilts her chin, but the archers are too remote to hear more. Still, this is good news. The couple had been whispering, so Andrew had been right. The ambushers are keeping reports of the trespass to themselves. Maybe they’re set on being the capturers, hoping to impress the Fate Court.
So maybe the monarchs don’t know Sorrow and her friends are here.
A tug on her skirt dunks her back into the murk. To Envy, she jabs her index finger overhead. It’s them, she mouths.
Envy grasps her meaning, then sizes up the distance from here to safety. His irises cut through the area and then land on her. West pier, he utters.
She nods. They paddle at a snail’s pace, navigating under the crisscross of boardwalks. Lanterns skate around them, making the water appear deeper, darker.
They bypass musical voices, and robust voices, and embittered voices.
Envy stops. Splashing behind a stilt, he waits until Sorrow joins him.
“Pit stop,” he says.
“What? Why?” she demands.
Trailing his gaze toward a familiar dwelling, she recognizes the edifice, at least from the outside. On the pier to their right stands a house. A round, ostentatious, three-story structure with a front door of inky stone.
In over two centuries, he never once welcomed her here, just like she never asked to be invited. Nevertheless, she knows this place: Envy’s home.
To which he’s got a visitor. A hooded figure slips from the front door while checking the perimeter. From this vantage point, ebony hands wield a crossbow nocked with sapphire arrows.
Envy dissolves the mystery. “Nostalgia.”
He pronounces the name between his teeth, the enunciation sharp and stinging. Unfortunately, Sorrow has become accustomed to Envy’s various tones of voice. The familiarity of this one isn’t platonic.
Sorrow jibes, “Do all your ex-lovers squat here when you’re not around?”
“Be reasonable,” Envy says. “He’s snooping, which means he must have been with the pack that chased us, and I hadn’t realized it.”
“There was a lot going on,” she justifies.
What she can’t justify is why her nails are presently digging into the stilt. What’s her deal now? It can’t be from learning that Envy and this archer bumped hips in the past. Putting it mildly, Envy mounts anything on two legs.
Not important.
Months ago, when Wonder and Malice quested to the Peaks, in order to breach the Archives and research a means to win this battle, they’d gone at an opportune time. Back then, it had been Stellar Worship in these lands—a month that occurs every ten years, when deities remain home to honor the stars with a period of solitary reflection.
It’s not Stellar Worship anymore. Otherwise, none of this would have happened. They wouldn’t have been attacked in the valley forest or pursued into the river.
Anyway, what was Nostalgia doing skulking through Envy’s house? Ransacking for clues about the rebel band’s whereabouts? If so, has that archer or his accomplices also checked Sorrow’s house? Or Love’s, or Anger’s, or Wonder’s?
Likely, but they won’t find anything. However, if they miraculously happen to locate Sorrow’s missing ice arrow, she’d be much obliged.
“Just how crucial is this pit stop?” Sorrow asks.
“Relax,” Envy says. “Have you seen Nostalgia fight?”
“No matter what, he’s an obstacle. We can’t get past—Envy?”
She whips left and right, but he’s gone. Peering at the depths, she spots a rift in the surface, a vibration that indicates his body breast stroking underwater. It heads toward his home, shooting toward the rocks where the archer stands.
Sorrow watches, her jaw hanging loose as Envy slinks out of the sea like a mercenary merman. Dripping and dazzling to behold, he gains his feet and then cavalierly taps Nostalgia on the shoulder.
When the male turns, Envy plants a monstrous kiss on his lips. Yet another strange event occurs as Sorrow’s retinas electrify, as if someone’s hot-wired her vision. Disgust curdles in her stomach, and she experiences the severest urge to sink her teeth into someone’s jugular.
Envy’s tactic works. The archer’s crossbow falls, and skids across the rocks, and plummets into the depths. Shocked, Nostalgia freezes long enough for Envy to pull back, then wink, then punch the god in the face.
The archer’s stunned mien whips sideways as he goes down for the count. Sorrow gawks as Envy shakes the droplets from his hair, then adjusts his drenched button-down shirt and trousers.
Son of a bitch! The crossbow!
Sorrow dives. Submerged, she pumps toward the spot where the weapon had sunk. Prying her eyes open, she whirls and fishes around for a spark of sapphire. If they weren’t in this predicament, she wouldn’t dare seek out another archer’s bow. But being hunted and weaponless puts a different spin on the rules.
The water level is shallow in this area, so the archery must have landed within reach. Sadly at this hour, visibility proves difficult. It would be less taxing to find the weapon at midday, and the clock is ticking.
She bats at a net of sea plants, in case the archery got tangled there. Instead, a scaly tail sprouts from the mesh and weaves across her hip.
Growling so that bubbles burst from her lips, Sorrow plops through the surface and crawls onto the pier like a crab. Wobbling upright behind the dwelling, her skirt and vest cling to her body in a manner that draws Envy’s leer. She’d discourage that if he weren’t balancing a comatose god in his arms.
“We lost his bow,” Sorrow mutters. “And he’s going to awaken.”
“If he rouses before we’re done, we’ll tie him up. I have experience with that.”
“Or someone will see him.”
“Ah. True.” Envy hustles the archer down the planks while keeping to the shadows, then deposits him on a neighboring pier, propping him upright on the ground and slumping him against a torchlit pole.
To passersby, it will appear as if Nostalgia passed out from an alcohol binge. He’ll know differently, but he won’t go public about it, except to his comrades who are hunting for Sorrow’s band.
Oh, well. Something’s gotta give.
By the time Envy hastens back, he’s clutching his side. Sorrow extends her arm. “Envy, what—”
“Just keep watch,” he growls, then shuffles into the house.
Sorrow paces. She’s never set foot inside, though she had peeked once.
She had peeked and regretted what she’d seen.
But that was ages ago, and he’s taking too long, and they shouldn’t linger. Anxiety wins out as she glowers through the window. The one and only time Sorrow had gotten a swift glimpse indoors, she hadn’t paid attention to the decor. Presently, she anticipates the makings of a brothel.
A bathing chamber large enough to fit a harem. A dressing closet crammed with enough clothes to intimidate an emperor.
Beaded draperies. Tiger print. Lots of red.
To the contrary, she spots neutral hues, and plump sofas, and bar
rels that hold bolts of fancy cloth, and sewing materials, and a drafting table, and weathered renderings of clothing.
Okay. Not what she expected.
She watches Envy rifle through the spacious interior, then backs up as he returns empty-handed. “He ransacked my boudoir. I swear, if Nostalgia took my favorite cashmere robe, there will be infinity to pay.”
Whatever. The house had looked pristine to her. When she says so, he wags his finger to a hyperbolic degree. With a jab of that digit, he points through the window at a rug that’s been partially flipped over, in addition to a slanted mirror.
“Did he find anything?” she asks.
“Would you classify extra weapons as anything?” he replies.
Motherfucker! Evidently, Envy had kept a surplus of arms here. Bows are sacred, but they aren’t the only means of combat. Deprived of their archery, Sorrow and Envy could have used alternatives. Maybe that’s another reason he’d wanted to come here.
But like the arrow she’d lost in her youth, his extra weapons are exceptions to the conjuring rules. They can’t be replaced through magic.
Rules, rules, rules. So many rules.
The fundamentals of wielding arrows are severely complex. The end result depends on a combination of factors, including whether a striker brandishes an arrow by hand or with a bow, the striker’s intention, the type of arrow used, the intensity of its power, the duration of its magical effects, and of course, the root emotion it serves.
But one thing is clear: When a deity is banished, they lose the ability to wield their root emotion. Their arrows no longer radiate that power. That applies to their band, most of whom have been exiled for their defiance.
On the other hand, Anger and Love are exempt. Due to all the shit that’s happened in recent years, their weapons are now immune to losing their power. Which means that in a war zone, they’ll have to render the arrows infirm, as will the remaining loyals in these lands. Otherwise, they’ll be shooting emotions into their targets, rendering the fight nonexistent and downright absurd.
Sorrow would snigger at the notion, if she thought it were funny.
They slip back into the water. An eternity goes by, in which she’s never moved slower, dreading every splash of liquid, every sweep of her limbs.
At last, they emerge from under the walkway and let the cliffside shadows grab them. Rounding the bend, the lanterns fade, as does society. A slender conduit flows ahead. Out of earshot and well-tucked into the crevice, they swim freely without speaking.
After an hour, Envy’s movements grow increasingly desperate. He’s a ship, a wide berth of muscles and flesh. Sorrow’s more like a pale skiff, but she’s faster at present.
They’ll have to devise a new plan for traveling to Fortune’s Crest. In the meantime, another hour passes. At which point, they reach a series of inlets.
Where the hell is he taking her?
She paddles after him and bumps into his rigid back. She’s about to snarl, but his paralysis stifles the impulse, as does the view.
One particular inlet pours into a lagoon. A natural footpath shrouded in frond bushes and fern trees surround the water. A tethered boat bobs above the surface, slender and long enough for one or two people.
A single cliff resides here, humble in height. The lagoon laps against a gap in the edifice—the entrance to a cavern, where vines lace the threshold.
Hidden. Dreamlike. Surreal.
The place robs Sorrow of breath. “What is this?”
Envy grins. “It’s my secret.”
7
Sorrow
During the first fifty years of their lives, bonding hadn’t been a priority. They’d been busy training, being bred for their respective purposes. Apart, they’d learned from their Guides the intricacies of the emotions they represented. Together, they’d had archery practice, plus lessons held within the misty coves to keep them occupied.
Outside of those obligations, Sorrow hadn’t been interested in where Envy went, or what he did, or who with. Though word of his popular antics circulated. He’d always been surrounded by admirers, both male and female, and he’d been a regular fixture at kinky picnics and oral soirees.
Yep, not Sorrow’s thing. Aside from training, she had preferred to be a young hermit while occasionally having some laughs with Love and Wonder.
Even after they came of age and left to serve the human world, shared secrets had been infrequent amongst their class, and virtually nonexistent between Sorrow and Envy.
Really, their band had only begun to connect after Love and Andrew’s story.
As such, Sorrow has no clue what to make of Envy’s statement. His secret? What does that mean? Since when?
Envy’s expression is one of pure and utter joy. A lumpy sensation gathers in Sorrow’s womb. It’s a queer feeling that she hasn’t been privy to before, unlike the familiar salt of tears, and the cello strum of loneliness, and the coarseness of grief. But this foreign reaction, she hasn’t been educated to identify. It’s a wad in her belly, and she doesn’t how to get rid of it.
Somehow, the unknown clump has to do with his countenance, his features reminiscent of a giddy child. A happy soul.
She shouldn’t like the visual of him joyous, the sentimentality of it. Besides, what did he call her on the boat? A black cloud? A killjoy?
At least she’s authentic. At least reality doesn’t skew her judgement, or ruin her foresight, or sugarcoat her hopes.
Anyhow. According to Envy, another name for secret is refuge.
“A secret refuge?” she criticizes. “As if you couldn’t get any more stuck-up.”
A grin coils through Envy’s voice as he knocks his shoulder against hers. “Do I detect the tang of jealousy?”
“Like hell would I do you that favor. What have you done out here? Hosted exclusive orgies? As if I’d have bent over backward for an invite to one of those.”
“I didn’t host such common affairs here,” Envy says while scanning the vicinity. “I was a guest at everyone else’s.” Ignoring Sorrow’s snort of derision, he adds absently, “And I’ve never brought any lovers here.”
The words trickle up her spine, but she dismisses the reaction before it reaches her brain. No sense in letting that go to her head. There’s hardly a reason for him to lie, but that doesn’t mean anything. She may be the exception, the rare ex-lover whom he’s brought to a secret refuge, but that’s because they’re on the run, and they need a place to rest.
Which is impossible considering the vessel near the entrance.
“We can’t stay here,” Sorrow cautions.
“Nonsense,” Envy pouts. “Of course, we can.”
“The boat—”
“Is mine.”
That’s all he says before paddling across the lagoon and hoisting himself onto the footpath encircling the water.
Sorrow hesitates, then swims after him and climbs on to the soil, where she drips all over the fronds. “Care to fill me in?”
“Let’s just call this my happy place,” he tells her.
“We don’t need to rest that long.”
“I was thinking a few days.”
“Are you kidding me? No way. That’s the dumbest—”
A pained noise skitters out of Envy like a stone, a replica of the ones that have lurched out of him since she recovered from her near-drowning. He twists from Sorrow as she leans over to see what’s wrong.
“Envy?” she asks. “You’re shaking.”
“Rubbish. I’m flexing my muscles to their best advantage.”
“And you’re as pale as an onion.”
“That’s offensive! My complexion rivals every indigenous model in the mortal world, in addition to most deities. Hey!”
Envy tries to shoo Sorrow away as she wrestles his hand from his abdomen. Lifting his shirt, she gasps at the welts on his torso, and the contusions puddling across his ribcage, and the disjointed grid of bones beneath.
Three fractured ribs. So that’s why he’d been
laboring through the swim, and while dealing with Nostalgia, and while swimming some more. Why didn’t he say something and let her help him? Is he stupid or just plain unreasonable?
Envy yanks the shirt down. “Do you mind? I’d rather not showcase my ugly to the universe.”
“All this time? All this way?” Sorrow trills.
“The rapids were a tad aggressive when I dove after you, and a boulder might have gotten in the way.”
“You moron! You shouldn’t have carried Nostalgia. Lifting is the worst thing you can do in this condition. And how the fuck did you swim like that?”
Sorrow reaches out to assist him, but he smacks her wrist away rather prissily. “Did I have a choice?” Now that they’re on solid ground, he’s shutting down fast. “Last but never least, I’m the God of Envy.”
For crying out loud. Yes, smashing into a rock will pulverize a human but only dent a deity. And sure, immortal wounds heal faster.
But not in a few hours. Inferior anatomies need about six weeks to mend. For a god, it’ll take three days. He’s useless until then.
“You’re in no state to trot around like a peacock,” she insists.
“Stars almighty,” he grunts, spasming again. “I lugged you through rapids and our old stomping grounds. I transferred Nostalgia from one pier to another. I swam all the way here. I think I can make it the last five feet into the cavern.”
His large body teeters, forcing her to catch him. Looping her arm around his waist, they teeter inside. “I’m fine, dammit,” he mumbles, his mane spilling over his chest. “All I need…is a change…of fashion.”
“Get your hand off my ass,” Sorrow grouses as they lumber across the threshold. Honestly, it’s not his fault. He’s already checked out, his reserves officially drained. Thus, he can’t control where his arm or fingers land.
Lacy vines tremble out of their way. Upon entering the cavern, Sorrow curses every romance novel in existence. Gorgeous doesn’t being to describe the cave. Her feet sink into a soft carpet of moss that sprouts from the ground, around which a lustrous stream carves through. Instead of uneven, the smooth walls arch overhead, with swatches of fine cloth dyed in gem colors looping from the concave ceiling. A set of upholstered chairs, plus an array pillows and cushions, front a wooden hearth embedded into the nearest wall, while other hollows lead to adjacent alcoves.
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