Prologue
Now she knows what loss feels like.
Her bare feet sink into the earth, the high grass tickles her ankles, and petals brush her calves. And when a breeze rustles her gown—dyed the green of a calla lily stem—the little pirouette of air billows the material, the hem flapping in a farewell gesture.
Something akin to Good-bye.
Of all the forbidden words that she’s ever written, she has never penned that one. She’s never had a reason to do so. Not until today.
Lupines sprout across the vista, a landscape not of her childhood, nor of adulthood. It’s a realm caught somewhere in between, a pasture of budding fruit rather than flowers, of moon beams rather than sun beams. Hence, it’s not her place.
No, this is his place. Or this used to be his place, back when she hardly knew him.
Back when she hardly knew herself.
He’d once growled an inquiry at her, demanding a truth that she hadn’t been able to grasp.
Who are you?
It has taken a long time, but she knows the answer.
Yet it’s too late. He’s too far from her, too far away.
What she wouldn’t give to have that demon back, to tell him she wants the lightness and darkness. She yearns for that angel’s face and devil’s heart. She wishes to tell him the past doesn’t matter as much as the present.
She wants to call him by his name and mean it.
But she can’t. She cannot even scribe these things on paper for him, because he’ll never read those words, never any words from her. Not ever again.
Because he’s gone.
He’s gone because of her.
And this time, he’s not coming back.
1
The demon is wailing again. The sound blazes through the library floor, reaching out to her from the underworld of his lair. It’s a brushfire raging fast across the room and has the texture of a blister, which shouldn’t be possible, heat being an intangible thing to deities.
But nothing concerning him ever makes sense.
Wonder stiffens, her finger arrested on a book title, the pad of her digit pressed hard against the embossed letters. He always manages to stir the attentive parts of her. Perhaps that’s why she cannot stay away. She shouldn’t be here at this hour, tucked between the nonfiction shelves, the repository a midnight tomb.
Starlight trickles in from the high windows, illuminating writing desks and reading chairs and strands of ivy in a metallic, secretive sheen. It gives inanimate objects a trembling quality, as if his screams torment them as well.
The cacophony builds to a guttural howl, frayed at the edges. By some force of nature, it stings the scars on her wrists.
Her hands fall to her sides. She has never lied to herself before, and she shouldn’t do so now. She knows why she’s here. Sneaking into the library at this hour has less to do with research and more to do with those shrieks and the wilted feeling in her heart.
Beneath the ferocious calls, there’s grief, and confusion, and delirium.
Beneath all of that, there’s madness.
She hates when he does this. She hates why he does this.
Wonder brushes the pulp of scars running across her skin. Then she draws in a shaky breath, inhaling the wildflower corsage cinched around her wrist—a bundle of eucalyptus, white stephanotis, and a single purple peony.
She strides from the bookshelves containing tomes about languages, the hem of her forest green gown swishing around her bare feet, a delicate sound compared to the riotous one coming from below. The longbow and quiver of quartz arrows rattle across her back as she vacates the four-hundreds section, steps through a partition at the building’s rear, and descends into a pit.
The vault is drafty, a place where rare books should be stored but aren’t, because perhaps this room lost its purpose long ago. Perhaps the mortals running this repository have found a different area in which to put them. As a result, humans rarely spend time down here.
Even if they did, they wouldn’t see what she sees, since deities and their possessions are invisible to humans. Thus, they wouldn’t have the capacity to view the fire pit that produces a curdling funnel of smoke from the fuming logs. Neither would mortals see the rustic telescope in the corner, a model from another century. Nor would they see the rocking chair with the saddlebag draped over its shoulder, nor the crate of sepia stained envelopes on the floor, beside the chair’s rockers.
This used to be his domain. Now it’s his prison.
And he’s her captive.
His howls multiply and radiate down Wonder’s spine. In the cavernous vault, she halts on the final step and gulps at the sight before her. Lunar light flashes through the window and leaks across the floor. In the murk, a nimbus of golden hair breaks through, gilded at the roots and coiled with tension at the ends.
Tucked beneath those locks is his face. His countenance of taut cheekbones and square jaw. He sits on the rocking chair, his eyes locked shut, creases burrowing into his flesh. From those twisted lips comes the proof of a nightmare: irritated roars as though he’s annoyed more than traumatized, as though he wants to figure out the nightmare, to unpuzzle its secrets rather than recover from it.
The chair’s joints creak, bearing the weight of his tirade. His fingers clench, those long fingernails resembling talons. The folds of his leather sweater shift, following his movements as he thrashes.
This often happens at midnight. He shouts through his nightmares, and she catches the sounds.
Two grilles shimmer within the room. Conjured by her classmates, who’d beseeched the stars for assistance, the grates barricade this vault from the stairs and the basement window, thus preventing escape.
Like a cage. Like a dungeon.
Like an asylum.
Wonder steels herself, evicting that cursed notion from her mind. At least the bars provide a compromise, precluding the necessity for shackles. This god may be villainous, but she and her peers refuse to treat any soul like a beast.
They’d even offered to supply a bed for their prisoner, but he’d spat at their attempt. He prefers the rocking chair, though how he stands the lack of comfort, Wonder cannot comprehend.
She swallows, lifts her chin, and hazards through the star-dusted grille. In one swift move, she kneels before him and grasps his arms, alert to the muscles flexing beneath her grip. She digs into the leather sweater and gives a shake.
“Malice,” she says, jerking back as he writhes unconsciously.
“Malice,” she tries again, fending off his claws.
“Malice!” she demands, only to receive a shove as her reward.
The force of it sends her to the ground, her backside bouncing on the floor, her weapons jostling. It’s not a surprise; where he’s lean, she’s fleshy. Yet Malice is athletic under those clothes, taller and even more robust than Wonder. Therefore, if it’s necessary for her to snap him out of it, he can take a measure of aggression.
That fact is enough to leach the guilt out of her. He’s not whom she thinks he is, whom she wants—and doesn’t want—him to be. He’s not good, nor kind.
Moreover, he’s a maniac who would kill her if given the chance. The only reason he hasn’t yet is because he’s unarmed; her classmates took his bow and arrow.
He flails as though invisible restraints strap him down. His fingernails cleave through the seat’s arm, those claws peeling a thin layer of wood from the surface. Any more of this, and he’s going to hurt himself.