A miasma spews from the basin to her left, the mist crossing paths with beams of starlight. The prism arcs in front of her like a pretty blockade. Skidding to a halt, she sighs. Where the Fates is she?
Paying attention to her direction would have helped. Maybe if she waits, she’ll remember the route to the cavern. Besides, it would be a shame to let this place go to waste, to end on a sour note. Sorrow told Envy that pleasure only ends in pain, that experiences only ever go downhill. Nevertheless, leaving here with a bitter aftertaste in her mouth instead of savoring the environment bothers her. That she wouldn’t at least try to enjoy this landscape…it just bothers her.
She’s not a coward. She refuses to fear pleasure, no matter how it ends.
What she needs is an outlet to cool her heels. The basin beside her ripples, reachable by a stone trail extending from the bank. The surface reflects a netting of fern trees and magenta vines that bunch together like awnings. Bits of the sky seep through, stars poking holes through the canopy and flickering across the water.
The inviting water. Envy must bathe here whenever in residence.
Sorrow peels off the pajamas, dropping them on the ground. Hopping from one mossy stone to the next, she pauses at the pool’s edge, then dives in. The basin swallows her, the current slinking around her body and teasing her hair. Pumping her arms, she swims along the circular perimeter. She’s weightless, mindless. Lost in the deep, she lets the silence alleviate her tense muscles.
Cracking through the surface, she paddles around a pair of trees that bloom from the water. It’s a shallow area, the foundation rising so that she can sit with her back against one of the trunks. Melting into the bark, she kicks her legs in front of her, splashing, splashing.
Closing her eyes, she thinks about pleasure. How would she know the extent of her delights? By comparison, if they had broached the subject of pain, what would they have shared? What would they have kept to themselves?
Those questions linger on the fringes of her psyche.
That’s not the only thing that lingers.
Sorrow slumps, because she’s done, so very done. Too sedated to protest, she calls out, “What are you? A voyeur?”
The hedges shift, brushing like fingers. The sounds caress the air, changing the velocity of her breathing. Thankfully, the whoosh of waterfalls muffles her gulp.
Nonetheless, she keeps that swallow under wraps as he steps into view, the leaves bowing out of his way. Propping his shoulder against a banked tree, he watches her.
Nothing else. He just watches her.
He watches with a noncommittal expression. He watches as if her discarded clothing isn’t limp by his toes. He watches as if her nudity is inconsequential.
She sprawls before him, exposed from the collarbones up. Luckily, the water’s darkness conceals the crucial details that he’s seen multiple times.
Yet his presence chafes her flesh, provoking goosebumps. The falls plunge in a riot of mist from the rocky inclines. Motes glow like fireflies. One of them highlights his broad face and the black spill of his hair. She appreciates the distinction between their skin tones, his almond complexion versus her milky one, though she can’t fathom why.
It should be a serious moment, with serious ramifications, following a serious overreaction. It’s her choice whether to let it be so. It’s his choice, too, because no one else can control how they feel. Unlike humans, deities have this luxury in spades.
Sorrow would invite him to join her, since swimming will keep them busy and cement a truce. But she doesn’t have to. He’s capable of disrobing on his own.
Like he’s doing right now.
Holding her gaze, Envy unwinds the cloth protecting his wound. Dark sprigs of hair track from his navel and vanish into the low-slung pants, and as his fingers pinch the waistband, Sorrow keeps her eyes glued to his.
The pants puddle to the grass. Sinking into the depths, Envy hums as the water swabs his injury. Settling across from her, he reclines against the second fern tree like a spoiled faerie king who’s got the world at his feet.
As such, he grins that stupid Envy Grin. “Who are you calling a voyeur?”
Sorrow snorts. “What am I going to do with you?”
“I can think of a few things. But I had better be careful what I say, or you’re liable to smack me again.”
“Is that an apology?”
“No,” he intones. “This is: I’m sorry, for the second time tonight.”
“Ditto,” Sorrow confesses. “I shouldn’t have…”
“And I shouldn’t have…”
They trail off, listening to cascades flood the area. Although water separates them, the distance isn’t sufficient. They sit near enough for her toes to graze his, for their limbs to tangle, if they so wish.
Once, they’d found themselves in this predicament. Isolated in a similar environment, they’d been too riled up to ignore one another any longer. That’s how they’d gotten into a nasty, lusty mess in the first place.
It happened a couple of years ago, shocking them to the core. In the end, taking leave of their senses hadn’t panned out well, and it won’t now.
That doesn’t mean they have to remain at each other’s throats. In retrospect, what good has it done? Their cat fights have been stressful and confounding, and she doesn’t want to analyze why he’s the only one who, with a flick of his wrist, succeeds in getting under her skin.
After their mutual, half-assed apology, she doesn’t want to be the one who speaks first. She won’t be the one who speaks first.
Glancing in his direction, her gaze trips across his. Those hazel eyes blaze a path from her mouth, to her throat, to inflated tops of her breasts. Her throat goes dry, far too dry in this wet place.
“How long have you been watching me?” she demands.
Those orbs leap upward to meet hers. “I’m not sure.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, I’m not sure.”
Why does that sound less literal than it should? Why does his reply sound over two-hundred years old?
Okay, never mind. She doesn’t want him to give a solid answer.
Her neck muscles constrict as she rifles through the potential comebacks in her arsenal. Except he doesn’t deserve that. Curse him for saving her life. Curse her for being indebted to him. If she could feel less beholden for what he did in the rapids, she could return to a level playing field.
But she’ll grant this: If they have to spend these days together, it might as well be filled with enclaves and tastings and prattle. And if they have to spend who knows how long fighting side by side, kinship will improve combat. It will strengthen them.
Growing up, respect and loyalty had been drilled into them, yet bonding hadn’t stuck for their class. Not until the last few years. Now they’re thick as thieves, with one vital exclusion. Sorrow and Envy had failed to deal with each other, and maybe that’s the weakest link.
Remorse cuts through her. If they want to live up to the elite class of archers they’d once been, they need a tighter connection.
Envy’s finger taps the side of his head. “What’s going on in there? Can I have a look?”
“It’s forbidden territory,” she says.
“My nymph, you don’t know Uncle Envy well, if you think the word forbidden will discourage him.”
“Please don’t talk about yourself in the third person. That’s setting a low bar.”
“But the first person is cliché. As to the third, I would’ve thought it’s the height of pretension. Hence, I’m a perfect candidate.”
“Have you ever been humble, a day in your life?”
“Perhaps I need someone to teach me. I’ve been trained in many things, so my portfolio speaks for itself. I’m an apt pupil. I learn fast.”
Mirth tumbles from her lips. “I hate to break this to you, but you couldn’t be humble to save your wardrobe.”
“I’m hoping you’ll be there to save me instead. Wouldn’t that be n
ice? Saving me? I could pass out in your arms like a damsel and everything.”
“I’ll rephrase. You couldn’t be humble, or platonic, to save your wardrobe.”
“And my offer still stands. You could teach me to be serious, to be the wounded, brooding hero like Anger.”
“In order for that to happen, you have to be brave enough to do battle with pain. In order to do that, you would have to endure sadness. And in order to do that, you’d have to know humility and sacrifice. You’d have to lose something precious to you.” She leans forward, getting in his face and whispering sweetly, “And baby? Your closet doesn’t count.”
Her breath skates across his mouth, which parts a fraction to expose a blushing tongue and a bottomless throat. Fireworks dance in her belly. If she scoots any closer to him, she’ll go cross-eyed.
There are certain traits that she appreciates in Envy. He’s unreserved. He’s decisive. He doesn’t allow others to use him.
When he wants something, he says so. When he wants something, he gets it.
When someone like her looks him in the eye, someone like him looks back.
Also, there’s this: He’s a good person. No matter how much he ticks her off, and no matter how much she enjoys ticking him off, he’s a good person. She’s not too hardheaded to deny that.
In the midst of an impending war, the God of Envy loves life. He lives it to its fullest capacity.
What’s that like?
“What’s what like?” Envy murmurs, his voice a syrupy slide down her ears.
Sorrow starts, droplets falling from her lashes. “Huh?” she inquires. “Wait. Did I just say that aloud?”
“I’m afraid so. Do it again. Express something without thinking.”
“I’ll only say this once: I’m not a toy.”
“No, you’re a planet. You’re uncharted territory, an unexplored land mass that would take years to reach.”
Fuck. He’d said naughty, graphic things to Sorrow while embedded inside her, but his words have never held this seductive lilt, tilting at an incline that throws her off balance.
She clears her throat. “Thank you?”
He throws his head back and laughs, that guttural timbre rumbling across the pool. “You’re welcome?”
“You know we suck at this, right? We’re awful at being friends.”
“Is that what we are?”
“That’s what we should be.”
His arm snakes around her midriff, tugs her from the water tree, and drags her against him. The position forces her thighs apart, flanking the hard planes of his waist. She drips all over him, liquid raining down his torso. Another inch, and his pelvis will skim her core.
If that happens, they’ll both fall victim to mutiny.
He winces, the press of their bodies afflicting his ribs. It’s proof that he should back off. He shouldn’t be…he really shouldn’t be…clasping her like this.
She tries to wiggle away, but he holds her fast. Yet it’s not the flat expanse of his chest against her breasts that incites another stubborn clench between her legs. It’s when his forehead lands against hers in a gesture that borders on playful.
Too late, she registers that her hands have landed on his shoulders, cinching on to the muscled ridges, as if letting go means that she’ll fall.
She doesn’t want to fall. She will never fall.
To an outsider, they must look affectionate. That outsider would be very wrong. She reduces this to a horny whim, because Envy takes joy in horny whims.
“Do you still think we should be friends?” he taunts. “Do you think that’s all we can handle?”
“I think that’s a lot to handle,” Sorrow vents. “I think handling it will keep us pretty busy, so I think we should give it a try, and I think we should start now, because I think if you don’t let me go, I think your other cheek will get smacked.”
“I think I should call your bluff. I think I should ask you again. Is friendship the most we can handle?”
“It’s the most this war can handle.”
Quickly, he releases her. Sorrow drifts backward, plagued by the aching throb at her entrance, whereas he appears less than affected. Then again, gods as promiscuous as Envy usually do.
Again, they don’t really want each other. They’ve made that abundantly plain. This is merely them, stressed out and hankering for a convenient method of relief. This is them, dealing with an itch, when there’s no one else around to scratch it.
Still, what she’d said about this war? It doesn’t feel true. If they really wanted the upper hand in this conflict, they would take the legend seriously. They shouldn’t let Malice and Wonder’s struggle to find it be in vain.
There’s no technical reason they can’t be together. No laws or customs prevent them. That isn’t the stickler.
The stickler is they’re not like Love and Andrew, or Anger and Merry, or Wonder and Malice. And they never will be.
Her declaration sobers Envy, his features folding like a deck of cards. He nods, thinks about it, and fixes her with a sidelong, scandalous grin. “Friends show each other their playgrounds. Do you want to see the rest of mine?”
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no—
“Yes,” she says.
Because that’s what a friend would say.
So this crazy, peaceful, tense, wayward night continues. Sorrow averts her gaze while Envy splashes out of the pool and steps into his pants. Once dressed, he extends his hand to her. It’s a gentlemanly thing to do, because Envy prides himself on impeccability. He will sneer, and coo, and purr. He’ll waggle his eyebrows and flick his fingers. And he’ll offer his arm, and open the door, and pull out the chair.
Be that as it may, Sorrow wavers. Frowning, she examines his hand like it’s fake, like the offering is a prank.
Entertained, he crooks his finger, beckoning her. “One, sheepishness doesn’t become you. Two, I don’t have eternity.”
She snorts in spite of herself. “Three, are you sure about that? Because you sound like you’re full of shit.”
“And it sounds like you’re stalling. Has no one ever spoiled you like a goddess? Played the gallant suitor?”
She winces. He notices, his eyes narrowing perceptively.
She wasn’t a virgin before him, but wooing is for “he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not” juveniles with big dreams and even bigger, starrier eyes. So what if she doesn’t have experience being catered to or adored by her lovers? Who needs that? It’s clingy.
“Actually, I’m waiting for you to turn around,” she says. “I appreciate the hand, but I’m not about to give you a show.”
Mercifully, Envy doesn’t comment. But he does sigh—a prolonged, theatrical drawn-out expulsion of air that he inherited from his ego. Dropping his hand, he winds around, easing his hands into his pockets.
She slogs out of the water and hustles into her clothes. While she’s at it, Sorrow adds another thing to her list of pleasures: the visual of Envy’s round, hard ass in loose pants. He may as well be hiding a pair of plums under there. She wants to name a holiday after that ass.
A smug chuckle reverberates from his chest. Sorrow pauses to glower at him. How does he do that? How did he know?
When she announces that she’s ready, he rounds on her once more, glimpsing the Merry-inspired pajamas hanging off Sorrow like an oversized blanket, the hems puddling to the grass and concealing her toes. Combined with her drenched and stringy hair, she really could have conjured something better than this snafu. In short, she has never looked less attractive in her life.
Yet this happens: “I stand corrected,” Envy says with relish. “By some force of magic, you look all sorts of cute in that outfit.”
“If you tell anyone about this,” she warns. “If you tell anyone about this night, or these clothes, or anything else, I will drive a fucking arrow through your skull.”
“Tsk, tsk. That’s a violent threat for someone who wants to be friends and who doesn’t care what others think
of her. Just enchant your standard, ghastly attire, if you’re squeamish about pink. There’s no need to torture yourself on no one’s account.”
So true. “Where are we going?”
For the second time, he takes her hand.
For the second time, she lets him.
Because that’s what a friend would do.
11
Sorrow
Friends talk. In this world, as well as the mortal world, friends bicker and reflect. They laugh and cry. They get mad and apologize. They agree and disagree. They ramble and trickle off into comfortable silence.
And that’s okay. Because friends can be quiet around each other, as quiet as they can be loud.
When authentic, friends expose themselves with explicit details and unraveled secrets. They share things, and show each other their lives, and reveal their hopes, and confide their fears. They take care of each other.
Or that’s what she has gleaned from Love, and Merry, and Wonder. But her kinship with that trio came simply, a little magical clique in which their differences balance them out.
The same can’t be said for a kinship with Envy. In spite of that, there are loopholes in their relationship, staggering interludes like this one, which take her by surprise. All they need is to put one foot in front of the other, as he guides her through the enclave.
Secluded within this haven, paths multiply and branch out, curving around corners or hovering above the baths, and basins, and pools. A few of them pour into tunnels that lead to places unknown, while the rest swarm the water trees, feeding the roots.
Envy imparts how this area isn’t one whole playground so much as a series of them, with endless grooves and chutes, alcoves and chambers. One might discover treasures under the surface, among the floating vines or behind a cascade.
He mentions a handful of memories, like the bath where he taught himself to swim. Or the basin where his Guide, Siren, first explained to him the discrepancies between egotism, and conceit, and vanity. Or the pool where Envy discovered he could shoot an arrow underwater; that day, he’d almost speared a fish, who then took a chunk out of his backside.
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