Wonder lurches upright. Grappling his elbows, she hoists him from the rocking chair and slaps him across the face. The crack of her palm splinters through the vault. His head whips sideways, the contact immobilizing him, so that she dumps his weight back into the seat.
Malice slumps. There, he’s all right now, spared the rest of the nightmare. She should leave him like this, let him segue into an easier dream, whatever that dream may be.
Yes, she should leave. She should leave now.
She waits until his features relax. Lost in slumber, he resembles…he looks like…looks just like…
Wonder’s throat clogs. Squatting to the ground, she plucks an envelope from the crate, the paper yellowed with age—one of many artifacts that remind her of someone else.
Someone who isn’t him.
Any resemblance is merely a coincidence. This prisoner is no one to her, nothing but a stranger.
The envelope crinkles in Wonder’s grasp. Smoothing out the creases, she tucks the item into his hand. Dormant, he clings to the paper, his claws curling around it and his breaths evening out.
If her peers knew about these escapades and how she dares to step through the veil of bars, they would try to stop her. They would try because they care, and because they’re careful.
Malice is not her friend.
At the onset of his captivity, she and her classmates had checked this vault for perilous or devious devices. Confiscating his archery had been indisputable. But they’d shown mercy and permitted him to keep items that posed no threat, including the crate of envelopes that contain letters.
To be on the safe side, her friends had needed reassurance of the content’s harmlessness. Wonder had checked the missives, only to discover blank pages, Malice having managed to conceal them from view. Only a particular ink can achieve this, granting the paper illegibility unless read exclusively in the Peaks.
She shakes her head. In any case, in the human realm, the envelopes’ contents have been rendered inaccessible. Malice cherishes them for reasons her classmates don’t know about, for reasons that invade her consciousness on a regular basis.
Do the missives contain mortal words? Or immortal ones? Do they provide enlightenment? Hidden knowledge that her class would benefit from? Or knowledge about Malice, himself?
Why do the envelopes matter so much to him? What else matters so much to him?
She watches her demon prisoner cradle the envelope like a stuffed animal, and she watches him sleep, and she stays like this until the stars slant. Unbidden, her treacherous hand reaches out, yielding to temptation. One gilded curl links around her finger, softer than she had imagined, so soft for such a harsh being.
Malice would despise Wonder if he caught her doing this. He would mock and spew elegant yet mind-bending insults. He would indulge in his favorite pastime, pushing her buttons, testing how many he can locate.
Looping that curl behind his ear, she lets go, because she has to let go. Resigned, resolved, repentant, she stands. Padding across the vault, she resists the urge to glance over her shoulder. He’s the enemy, a diabolical deity. Being weaponless hasn’t made him an obedient captive—being clever has.
Malice doesn’t need a bow to free himself. It’s his crafty brain, and his serpentine tongue, that she should be wary of.
And it’s only a matter of time before he tries something mutinous.
***
The next morning, Wonder descends into the vault to find the demon swaying back and forth, the joints of his rocking chair creaking in tandem.
Actually, it sounds more like a cackle.
He’s lucid and reading a book. One of his legs balances atop the opposite knee, the tome propped on his lap, the text spread wide open and offering itself to his voracious eyes.
Cinders fill the fire pit, the smoke of yesterday extinguished. Dawn slithers through the basement window, exposing dust motes while the fragrance of pomegranates clings to the walls.
Wonder takes a moment to reflect. So much has happened, in so brief a period.
This mortal world has been ruled for eons by the Fates. Blessed and empowered by the stars, selfish gods and goddesses like Wonder have steered mortal destinies since the beginning—unbeknownst to humanity.
When they’re of age, deities become archers that wield human emotions through the strikes of arrows.
Those archers are mentored by Guides.
And the Fate Court reigns over everyone.
Back in the Peaks, the realm of her people, Wonder grew up in an elite class of archers. She and her peers—Love, Anger, Envy, and Sorrow—had been the most promising group in history until they’d grown too close to humanity, developing a forbidden fondness for its inhabitants. Through a chain of unforeseen conflicts, each of them began to question a deity’s right to control anyone other than themselves. And through a chain of rebellious acts, they’ve since become the Fate Court’s enemy.
So here they are, in the Celestial City. It’s a mortal landscape but also a haven for immortal exiles. Ostracized from the Peaks, Wonder and her peers teeter on the brink of a war with their own people, all on behalf of humanity and in the name of equality.
A battle of fate versus free will has begun to simmer.
In the midst of that, Wonder and her renegade companions must contend with a second nemesis: the lone god in this very room where she stands.
Their prisoner had been expelled from the Peaks long before Wonder or her friends. Having settled in this metropolis, he’d elected to haunt this library. And since then, he’s spent his existence wreaking havoc on fellow outcasts.
So he deserves this confinement. That isn’t the quandary.
The quandary is that he reminds Wonder of her past. He reminds her of someone she once knew and has never forgotten. Someone she had cared for.
Someone kind, unlike him.
This conundrum has disrupted her ever since she first beheld the god one year ago, just after she had arrived in this place.
Thinking better of it, Wonder breaks away from these thoughts and returns to the present.
At the slide of her foot across the floor, the rocking chair pauses, and the creaking-cackling stops. A gilded head rises from the page. Ashen eyes prowl toward her, gray scythes that flash with recognition, then gleam with mockery.
The impact ignites across her skin. But how can he achieve this? Is it her imagination? Or is this truly what heat feels like?
Malice’s voice slinks into the space between them. “Well, well, well. It’s my lucky day. Not only is the sun busy outside—you know, busy being the sun, doing sunny things—but I’ve got company. Pleasant morning to you, Wildflower.”
He’s taken to calling her that, lauding the flowers that she dons as accessories. She likes to wear natural symbols of her celestial homeland, even if she isn’t welcome in the Peaks anymore. Plus, she loves the perfume and pliability of petals, bred from earth and soil. They’re products of aboveground and underground.
Huff. What she doesn’t appreciate is the nickname.
Giving him a “nice try” look, she approaches with industry. Her dress swats her legs and snags his attention. To her annoyance, the fact that he’s eyeing the lower half of Wonder’s body sends blackened fissures up her tailbone.
How deplorable that he provokes such a reaction. She’d been prepared to wear her detachment like armor, when really she should have simply worn pants. They’re convenient for discouraging—and for kicking.