That becomes clear when a pink azalea hue rushes up the young man’s neck. “Ah, goddammit. He punked me.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“The douchebag punked me. I swear, his noggin needs its own distorted Dewey Decimal system. Talking with him is like dropping peyote with Satan; it screws with your mind until it’s tangled up like a pretzel.”
“Oh, your time was coming,” she jokes. “You were the only one left.”
It’s true. Andrew had been the only one whom Malice hadn’t yet manipulated in some way, shape, or form. Up until this point, perhaps Andrew had been immune because he used to be mortal, which somehow empowers him, rendering him a tad resistant to the demon’s tongue.
From one former human to another?
It’s best not to go there. Besides, Andrew deserves more credit. He’s snarky and inquisitive enough to have detracted Malice all this time. Indeed, Andrew had won the heart of Love, which alone proves his abilities to take on a deity.
Also, he’s adapting to immortality. Despite the inexplicable retention of his limp, and the fact that he’s not actually a god, he has been endowed with tenacious reflexes. He moves as swiftly as any of their rebellious class, able to predict an arrow’s direction and evade its strike. Though unfamiliar with weaponry, it’s essential for him to prepare himself for a prospective battle. To that end, he has opted for a crossbow granted by the stars and forged of frost because it reminds him of home. With time, he’ll prove himself formidable, especially with Love as his instructor.
Back to the subject of Malice. Luckily, Wonder had the presence of mind to confiscate the Greek title before departing his lair.
Andrew is about to swap books with her, but he pauses. “If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, you might want to give this a peek. Just in case.”
He’s right. Wonder should pour through the pages before shelving the title, so she piles it atop the meditation book.
Sunlight seeps into the lane, trickling across green book spines like a path leading someplace pertinent. It’s nothing unusual, a mere stream of illumination. Yet the visual is familiar, steering her into the past, to a bygone era when she’d witnessed a similar effect in another repository.
In fact, the illusion is identical.
When Wonder blinks, the trail of light vanishes. How queer.
Anyway, is the book she’d collected from Malice the only mythically themed manuscript worth checking? Or must she be thorough and expand her reading?
What had Malice said about the romance section? About retellings?
Had that been a random inquiry or a duplicitous one?
She would do best not to underestimate the demon god. Whatever he’s hunting for within these chapters—some sort of bribe or manipulation—it would behoove Wonder to stay on top of it. Matter of fact, to stay a thousand leagues ahead of him.
The last thing they need is for Malice to play another mind game. Or Fates forbid, plan an escape they never saw coming. They all have more important things to contend with.
Things like plotting a revolution.
***
The glass arrow spears past her face. It lances the air, flitting by her navel and stabbing the gullet of an oak tree trimmed in fairy lights.
She swivels while nocking her bow. But it’s too late. Wonder’s reflexes lag, and the glass projectile rams into her sternum, shoving her into the earth, archery scattering across the hill.
The landing tears her blouse, causing a rift in the material, a slit like an open mouth that’s screaming. Her belly pumps with air, her skin inflating from the textile’s gash while the glass arrow vanishes and reappears in her opponent’s quiver.
A male specimen slides toward Wonder, his knees mowing seamlessly through the grass. He halts beside her, slanting his head in scrutiny. Unlike his usual smarmy features, the god’s expression warps with cynicism, the pleats of his almond skin hardly the sum of amusement. At least not today.
It’s rare to exhaust Envy’s sense of humor. Rarer still for him not to gloat.
Instead of congratulating himself on winning this bout, he flattens his palms on his thighs and regards Wonder. Her consciousness is prone to drift, which is nothing new. But this is a whole different type of meandering, because she’s never been this out of sorts during training.
A deity’s arrow doesn’t have the magic to be fatal, since it’s crafted for a different purpose. Its job is to infuse emotions into humans—love, anger, sorrow, envy, and wonder, for instance—thus controlling mortal destiny.
It’s a benevolent undertaking, not a violent one. However, that doesn’t mean a strike won’t hurt, or that given the right velocity, the impact alone can’t shatter a bone or two. If a deity gets inventive, he or she can manipulate an arrow’s effect, forcing the weapon to be harmful.
Even deadly.
Envy’s hit is a reminder of that. He doesn’t point out the obvious, but he does reserve the right to judge. He extends his hand to help her rise, a gesture that Wonder claps away before tramping to her feet. In case of a battle, no one will be a gentleman, and no one will be a lady.
It’s been hours since her chat with Malice. Evening has descended, the firmament glittering beyond thin sheets of clouds.
From behind Envy, a groan rumbles out of Sorrow, who palms her face in abject misery, aware of what’s about to happen.
Once Wonder’s upright, Envy swaggers to his own booted feet. As soon as his towering frame straightens, clad in houndstooth trousers and a swanky button-down shirt, he chucks his weaponry to the ground. “Are you kidding me? Or just distracted by my face? Choose your excuse wisely.”
Wonder flaps a hand at him. “Don’t start. I’m allowed to have a poor day.”
“What about yesterday? And the day before?” he jeers. “Far be it from my hunky self not to thrive on keeping score and stealing another archer’s thunder, but these easy pickings are getting obscene.”
“Would you stop carping,” Sorrow says, striding up to him in her vest and shredded skirt. “Easy pickings are exactly your thing.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he blares.
While the pair clucks at one another, Wonder checks the rip in her off-the-shoulder blouse, the garment burdened with dirt and grass streaks. Her harem pants have suffered the same fate, and bits of debris cling to the long blonde—her compatriots call it “marigold”—curls sticking from her ponytail.
What has become of her corsage? Did the wristlet come loose during the fight?
Wonder twists in a full circle, but the blooms are nowhere in sight.
And Envy has a right to be furious. Wonder’s precarious ability to focus is compromising his time. Though it’s not wholly unusual from her, she always pulls herself together when it counts—when others are relying on her.
“Just let her be,” Sorrow lectures Envy. “Since when are you as militant as Anger?”
“Anger’s not here,” Envy snaps, adjusting his ensemble. “He’s either busy yelling at the sky, prowling the city for recruits, or spooning Merry.”
The purple-haired goddess snorts and pats his backside. “Is that why you have an attitude? You’re spoiling for the same romantic sustenance?”
Envy tosses her a handsome scowl. He jerks away from the intimate touch as if finding her attempt to mollify him repugnant. Surprise clutters Sorrow’s face, and the bandage plastered across the bridge of her nose crinkles—purely decorative, she’s been wearing that accessory for over a year—as she watches him hunker to collect his bow.