She would muse, but she doesn’t have time to muse. Because this is another stupid moment, and she’s really getting tired of those. Her fingers choke the bow, her quartz arrow aimed and tracking his breath, while his gaze tracks the pulsating button at her throat.
He feasts on her expression, on whatever it reveals. It’s a window of opportunity that Wonder hustles to close as she hardens her features into stone.
She’d heard him right, about them abducting each other. Though she wouldn’t have used such hyperbole. “You’ve been reading too many Greek myths,” she says.
“I’ve been engrossed,” he acknowledges. “I’m a sucker for a page turner, especially if there’s a sex scene. Christ, lower your weapon. It’s blocking my view of your mouth.”
“I should use this arrow to cut out your tongue.”
“You’d miss my tongue. You’d miss it so much.” Malice erects his pinky, propping it against his lips. “As to my hiding places, shh. It’s a surprise.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere with you.”
But she has to. She must.
Apparently, Malice must go with Wonder as well. Whatever his ultimate goal, he requires her company, however much he loathes her. Against their wills, they’ll have to do this as a unit, or they’ll be at an impasse.
A vision of home swells in her mind. She pictures the Peaks, with its blooming crags, hills of celestial hyacinths beneath a sky buzzing with silver dragonflies. Nestled within the sylvan valley of those bluffs is a repository.
The Archives. The great library of the Fates.
Deep within that immortal repository is a forbidden cellar, a channel of ethereal secrets. That’s their destination.
One, trespassing is unlawful. Two, it’s dangerous.
Three, this should be a moot subject. As exiles, they’ve lost the ability to transport themselves there.
But there are two exceptions.
The first is when an exile has immunity. Anger and Love are examples of that. They’d sacrificed certain magical privileges when breaking away from their people, but they’ve since regained those powers. As a research diva of the Archives, Wonder had uncovered two legends, star-granted loopholes that ended up benefitting her friends in that regard—among other regards having to do with romance.
But thus far, Anger and Love haven’t infiltrated hostile terrain because revolution requires foresight and a cool head. Neither can brag about their knack for moderation, and until they learn to curtail their hotheaded impulses, Anger and Love aren’t ready to take that gamble. Certainly not without a plan or a solid foundation—advantages crucial to winning this battle.
As Wonder has feared, gaining the upper hand relies on more than just allies. It relies on additional research, the sort limited to the Archives. If they want to win this fight, the key lies within the repository.
This brings her to the second exception, the other way to breach the Peaks as an outcast. It requires a concoction that opens barriers: Asterra Flora.
Trespassing into enemy lands means certain doom. They’ll be recognized within an instant of planting their feet on the soil. Without a contingent behind them, it’s suicide.
Not that Wonder can bring her friends into this. Again, they don’t have an immediate plan for such a quest, and two infiltrators are quieter than a handful.
Least of all, they don’t know the Archives as Wonder does. She’s the only one with experience in that place.
She and Malice.
He used to be a frequenter of the Archives, a masterful patron. She has also learned from past events that Malice has been desperate to return to the Peaks since his expulsion, pent up enough to manipulate and endanger anyone in order to succeed.
To what end?
And what precisely is she thinking? In the Peaks, they’ll be outnumbered and outarmed. They cannot, simply cannot…can they?
A grin worms across Malice’s face. He reclines in the rocking chair, his leather sweater fitted to whipcord muscles and split open at the throat, bearing ivory skin and the shadows of his collarbones.
“No,” Wonder forces out.
“Yesssss,” Malice coos, reading her mind. “Aren’t you the least bit homesick?”
“We won’t last three seconds.”
“Come, now. At least, five. Long enough for me to spit on the ground.”
“We’ll be surrounded before I can punch you.”
“It’s Stellar Worship,” he points out.
Wonder goes silent. How has she forgotten?
Every ten years, deities in the Peaks retire for a month of tranquil worship, paying introspective homage to the stars. This cessation includes keepers, librarians, and scribes guarding the Archives, who bar the structure and retreat to their homes by the sea.
Malice’s blond locks spill across his forehead. He digs his nails into the chair arm, as he’d done while entombed in nightmares. “You haven’t asked me about the pomegranate.”
“And spoil your fun?” she retorts. “I wouldn’t dare.”
“I would. Dares are so daring. I’ll give you the abridged version. Even before I was banished, I had a palate for pomegranate seeds.” His eyes drift toward the fire pit, an accordion of confusion surfacing between his brows. “For some reason, they tasted nostalgic.”
Wonder struggles against the comment, which reminds her of that prairie boy. Is this detail a confirmation or coincidence?
Malice shakes off the recollection. “Let’s just say exiles burn a lot of calories. Pre-banishment, I was famished, so I plucked a token of my heydays and brought it with me. Isn’t it lovely how long it takes immortal fruit to decay? Mine has an impressive expiration date. To this day, it’s only slightly overripe, with plenty of kernels to spare. If you’re nice to me, I’ll let you try some.” His voice darkens. “Won’t that be pleasant, tasting my seed?”
If she doesn’t step back, she’s going to smack that filthy mouth so hard that she’ll tear a new hole in his face. She deliberates whether to voice this threat, but juggling the word hole—or any such adaptation—for Malice to catch is a terrible idea. He’ll chew it up and regurgitate something obscene.
But the worst part is that she’d known all along something like this would happen. She’d known from the beginning that they would need Malice. He has the means to get her to the Peaks, the means to access the Archives. And a book diva she might be, but this demon knows as much as she does, his skill in curating knowledge on par with hers.
She’d get far without him. But with him, she’d get even farther.
Whatever his intention, whatever he’s searching for in the Archives, he needs her, too. And oh, she cannot deny it. To smell all those pages again, to walk those endless, magical halls, hunting for a way to empower her class…
Wonder rounds her shoulders. “When do we—”
“Now works for me,” he says. “My schedule is wide open. How’s yours, Wildflower?”
“Let’s get one thing straight.”
“Only one? Boo.”
“My name is Wonder, not Wildflower.”
“Are we finished being tedious? Call me crazy, but your warrior mates are going to arrive any second, high on an adrenaline kick and spoiling for an intervention. Either way, it’s this or nothing; we go together, or we don’t go at all. See how quickly your lot flounders in their campaign for free will, humanity, etcetera.” The veneer of amusement drops. “Now hurry the fuck up.”