3
If a human unearths the true mythology of deities, they gain the ability of sight. However, this cannot occur purely through thoughts or words. According to celestial doctrine, it must happen in some tangible form, such as art or music.
And if that same human looks upon a deity, it’s a death sentence for all Dark Gods. Because invisibility is a deity’s lifeline, much like a burgeoning virus this man will weaken and kill Love, along with everyone else from her world. Such a contagion will spread from one immortal soul to the next, starting with the first deity reflected within that human’s eyes.
Love shall fade first.
The mist becomes thick enough to swallow. The trees loom overhead like sentinels. How could she have let this slip past her mind for longer than an instant? She must tell The Fate Court about this man.
If she does, they will destroy him. Annihilating the mortal will work like an antidote and fix this, yet the notion takes a bite out of her conscience. Not that she’s worried about him in particular. She’s merely in the zone of worry. Although he means nothing to Love, humans are considered sacred. As such, she must be sure about the particulars regarding this human before opening her mouth.
She contemplates the note, which must have a connection. Based on his prose, Andrew possesses the skill for writing, to an astute degree where some form of narrative —which he’d composed prior to today—perhaps embodies the truth about her kind’s existence, thus breaching the mythical barrier. She must seek out the mortal to learn more. Assuming there’s no other explanation for this phenomenon, being near him doesn’t make a difference. He has already seen her, her existence having been sealed in his memory, so the damage is done.
Love tamps down her fear. This isn’t the end. Either she or The Fate Court can eradicate Andrew and resolve this problem.
She should retire to her glass cottage, to eat and rest. Instead, she broods until the next morning, which turns into the afternoon. The time has come to manage this nuisance of a man.
Wrapped in his coat and armed with the note in her pocket, Love descends the tree with her archery, then journeys into the village. Because his residence is unknown, she must locate his scent or voice.
Her boots plow through slush. Along the way, she passes rusty mailboxes with enamel flags. Frustrated, she slaps down their metal mouths, leaving them hanging open as if frozen in shock.
Amid the charred odor of stress and the floral whiff of melancholy drifting from the homes, she catches the rugged essence of cedarwood and eucalyptus. Hunting after those notes, Love discovers a climbable gate, a winding road beyond, and a vast home at the drive’s end. The residence comprises warm-toned wood and black trim, with dormer windows jutting from the second floor, a wrap-around porch, and river rocks forming the protruding fireplace chute.
Streamlined, modern yet rustic, and not an inch of peeling paint defacing the exterior, nor any cracks in the hardscape. Andrew does well, maintaining this place.
Covert observation is best. As the pine green door wrenches open, Love dives behind a coniferous tree towering over the snow-carpeted lawn. Andrew strides outside, tying a scarf around his neck and clenching his jaw in frustration as he descends the porch steps.
Behind him, a male in his late fifties sticks his leathery face out the front door. He could be a relative, but that cannot be right, for this one doesn’t possess Andrew’s gray irises or impressive shoulders. No, this wraith has alcohol-glazed eyes and a neck as long as a fencepost.
She recognizes the sour taste of rancor. And that’s before he even opens his maw.
“When I ask a fucking question, I should get a fucking answer,” the man barks.
Pausing on the sidewalk, Andrew’s nostrils flare with forced patience as he turns toward the wraith. “Go back inside before you freeze.”
“Stop dodging the subject. I said, what happened to that fancy coat of yours?”
“Gave it away.”
“Wise ass. There’s a fine line between charity and idiocy.”
Charity? Indignant, Love grips the lapels of Andrew’s coat and surveys his replacement. It’s a leather jacket, hardly the most practical option in the tundra. He’d sacrificed his comfort for her, unaware that she doesn’t need it. Cold and heat are enigmas to deities.
“I can handle the weather,” Andrew dismisses. “Go inside.”
“Are you calling me weak?” the wraith snarls. “I’m not weak.”
Love observes the residue of bitterness on his fingers, which grasp the door handle. He could be a violent creature, but considering their differences in height and bulk—Andrew’s muscles alone vouching for this fact—it’s unlikely such a gaunt figure would succeed in an attack.
Perhaps this wraith was the source of Andrew’s vexation when she’d first seen him training in the woods, as if he’d needed to release the steam percolating inside him. Love curls her mouth as she fantasizes about ways to repay the wraith. However, abusing power is a despicable act, which The Fate Court doesn’t take lightly.
The wraith slinks back indoors, the front door slamming behind him. Andrew tilts his head toward the sky, clenches his eyes shut for a moment, then twists and stalks away.
Love follows as he strides down an adjoining walkway leading west. Disregarding the speed and warmth of a car, he travels on foot, slipping through a smaller gate that deposits him onto a public trail bordered in evergreens. From there, the mortal heads into the village.
After a while, Andrew stops. The movement is attentive, as if struck by something.
Love takes cover in the arms of a bush. Instead of turning to see if he’s being pursued, he cocks his head toward the woods, where trees spear the sky.
Could he be thinking of her? Love cannot guess, for there’s a sudden, inexplicable fogginess to his emotions. She’s unable to grasp what he’s feeling, his senses flickering on and off.
An unusual barrier. Or perhaps not.
Andrew keeps going, crossing into the square where people glance his way with varying degrees of intrigue, admiration, and attraction. In some fashion, he’s made a name for himself. Love frowns at the mortals’ reactions, but continues trailing Andrew as he navigates down the walkway of a bookstore located off the main thoroughfare.
The swinging sign by the entrance reads, Ever Stories, Rare and Used .
Love considers flipping the Open sign to Closed for amusement purposes. In her last domain, she had entertained herself by removing parking tickets from automobile windshields. In another region, she’d pranced after her targets, monitoring their courtship in a grocery store while placing random items into people’s shopping carts. Humans are theatrical creatures when they’re inconvenienced.
At the front door, Andrew kicks snow off his boots. Beneath a wall sconce brimming with gas flames, he straightens the knocker, which has gone crooked.
He’s invested in this place. Therefore, Love leaves the sign alone.
After the human disappears into a yoke of light oozing from the entrance, Love waits a beat, then slips past the threshold. She’s never set foot in here. The establishment is compact, with wood paneling and decorative props including an old typewriter and a table displaying antique poetry collections. An iron stove heats the foyer, which connects to other rooms shelved with books.
To the right, a woman sits at a counter, poised like a matriarch in her palace. She looks to be in her mid-sixties, with a pencil balanced behind her ear and a turtleneck dress complimenting her figure.
Perched on a barstool, the matriarch scans the pages of a novel. Love sneaks behind her, about to read along, but without warning the lady stiffens and spins in her chair. Her eyes probe the space between them, bemused and searching. Love inhales sharply. The incident lasts a mere second, but it’s enough to leave her shaken after the female glides back around, rubbing the back of her neck.
Certain humans display a sixth sense about deities, especially when Love struts through their bodies or hovers nearby. This usually diverts her. However today, it’s unfortunate timing, for Love is too guarded to enjoy it.
An adjacent door swings open. At the flash of white hair, Love retreats and makes an elegant—she flatters herself—flying leap around the corner. Landing on the other side, she spies. Stripped of his jacket, Andrew emerges from what appears to be a stock closet, his muscles bulging through a fitted shirt and a toolbox hanging from his grip.
“Morning, Your Highness,” he teases.
“Morning, bullshitter,” the matriarch remarks without looking up from the volume. “You keeping out of trouble?”
“I’m a grown man, which helps.”
“I beg to differ. Grown men are the most notorious of all beings. And it’s the reclusive ones who end up being dangerous. Isolation gives ’em plenty of time to plot mayhem.”
“You’ve been reading too much romantasy.”
“That’s your fault.” With a flourish, the matriarch drops the novel atop the counter and stabs the foiled cover. “ This is why you either intimidate or seduce everyone in this village.”
Andrew glances from the toolbox to the book, his eyes glinting as he raises an eyebrow. “If you’re expecting me to apologize for chapter fifteen, I’d suggest changing your life goals.”
“The betrayal trope! And then this repugnant-but-hot titan tortures his protege! You’ve become a walking trigger warning.”
Although their exchange sounds serious, Love detects the underlying banter. Andrew confirms as much when he replies, “So you like it.”
The lady’s glower melts into a grin. “Eating it up with a spoon. Especially the smut.”
Love blinks. He’s an author. This explains the note he’d written about Love. More importantly, it confirms why he can see her. At some point in his writings, he’d inadvertently unmasked some fact about Dark Gods and broken through the immortal veil, earning himself the power of sight.
The matriarch continues, “No wonder people come in here, asking if you’re anything like your characters. You’ve gotten darker and spicier over your career, making us work like hell to reach those happy endings.” She lifts a finger. “But no spoilers about what happens next. Besides, with these morally grey characters, can you blame me for questioning what you do in your spare time?”
“You don’t have to worry.” Andrew’s attention clicks toward the window. “Unless trouble finds me .”
The lady sits back and peers at him. “You’ve met someone.”
Love balks at her observation, then fears Andrew shall tell the woman about their encounter yesterday, then reminds herself that he must have opportunities to meet plenty of potential mates. This might not be about Love at all.
Andrew rolls his eyes. “Where the hell is that coming from?”
“I’ve seen how innocent bystanders look at you, not to mention how many customers show up here, hoping to accidentally run into the village’s acclaimed author. Besides, you’re distracted. Seems to me like trouble is a woman.” The lady fans herself with pride. “I’ve been waiting for this day.”
“You need to cut back on the books in my genre.”
“Then stop recommending them to me.” Yet her mirth cuts off as she scans the atmosphere. “Is there a window open? I feel a draft.”
Love braces herself, gripping the corner of the wall. A frown shadows Andrew’s face, but he shrugs. “Ghosts happen. I hear people become sensitive to paranormal stuff as they age. As the people age, not the ghosts.”
The woman chuckles. “Oh, go be a handyman if you’re not going to humor me.”
“I haven’t met someone.”
“Liar.”
As the hour passes, the woman rings up customers—balding men and mothers with wind-up toys for children who sprint around the place saying, “No no no no no no”—Andrew installs new bookshelves in one of the rooms, his biceps flexing as he drills into the wall. He doesn’t seem to be working here, and as a novelist—of something called “romantasy”—he must be successful, based on the state of his house and quality stitching of his leather jacket. Hence, Andrew is accomplishing tasks for the woman out of generosity, from building this bookcase, to adjusting old brass hinges on a door, to anchoring that slanted knocker outside.
Love moves soundlessly on her feet, springing out of the way whenever he approaches. At one point, a packed bookcase catches his attention. His eyes narrow as he scans the titles, then he makes a selection and flips through the pages as he saunters away. She cannot get close enough to view the text, so Love inspects the shelf.
A Guide to Ghosts and Spirits of the Real World, Volume III.
When the Sun Goes Down: Neighborhood Faeries, or Tricksters with Teeth.
Beyond the Mythology: An Annotated Journey.
Coincidence after meeting her? Doubtful.
Andrew studies a particular passage while rounding a corner and collides with a female, knocking her armful of purchases to the floor. From a clandestine spot behind him, Love watches the pair. The creased paperbacks, as well as the phone the woman had been whispering into, litter the ground by their feet.
“Oh!” the female gasps.
“Shit,” Andrew mutters, squatting to retrieve the items.
The shopper is attractive, with a waterfall of honey blonde hair cascading down the back of her fur-lined jacket. A male voice bleats through her phone, which she swipes off the floor while saying, “I have to go,” and then, “No one” before hanging up.
Andrew kneels to help her collect the books. “I wasn’t looking—”
“No, it’s fine,” she insists, batting him from the novels, pink racing across her cheeks. The paperback covers display half-naked bodies in exaggerated sexual embraces under a full moon, with the men bare-chested and tattooed.
“Seriously, it’s fine,” the woman protests again, swinging her arm out and gathering the novels in one industrious move. She stands, clutching the books to her chest, and takes inventory of Andrew’s features as he gains his feet. “Oh, Andrew. Hey.” Her confidence grows back like a plant. “Wow. This is déjà vu. Are we destined to do this a lot?” she asks in amusement, her berry scent hinting at a friendly demeanor.
She’s easy to read. Yet for the second time, Love fails to comprehend Andrew’s emotions.
From what the woman has said, these two share a memory. But despite the recognition crossing his features, Andrew regards her with equal parts apprehension and politeness. “Right. Holly.” His attention dips to her ankle, his brows furrowing with concern. “You okay? How’s your—”
“My ankle’s fine,” she assures him. “It was an accident.”
“Still. I’m sorry about that.”
“No big deal. Seriously.” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, a gesture routinely associated with attraction, except it’s one-sided and tinged with guilt.
Unlike her, Andrew exhibits no signals that the feeling is reciprocated. If anything, his interest appears rooted in whatever transpired with her ankle. Although Love cannot sense any of this for certain, she’s adept at reading physical gestures and expressions. Unaccountable relief eases the grip on her archery harness. Meanwhile, Andrew grabs the book on mythical phenomena off the floor and dusts off the cover.
“Okay,” Holly draws out. “See you around.”
“Yeah. See you.” While she flocks toward the register, Andrew fixates on the book.
When the exit bell chimes a minute later, the matriarch pokes her head into the room and gives him a quizzical look. “Soooo, was that the woman?”
He glances her way and flattens his mouth. “Cut the shit.”
“Oh, fine. But she was looking at you like a tenderloin. One of these days, you’ll have to put someone in your fan club out of their misery. Either that, or people in this village will eventually resent you for ignoring them. The allure of mystery men and their secluded ways only lasts so long until others start interpreting it as superiority.”
“Keep threatening me, and these shelves will have to build themselves,” Andrew warns, tapping a neighboring bookcase.
“Misanthropic smart ass,” the lady calls out while returning to her post.
Replaying the scene bothers Love. Despite Andrew’s less than amorous response, she feels a renewed and unfathomable spark of rivalry toward that woman named Holly.
She investigates the fantasy romance section where Holly had come from. According to what the matriarch is reading, Andrew does not use a pseudonym, so it’s effortless to locate his books. Somewhere in these pages might reside the key to why he can see deities, a crucial aspect that has brought him close to the truth about her kind.
Plucking the first novel off the display, Love admires the cover of a blood-tipped arrow entwined with rust-colored roses and thorn vines, then flips to the back description, which piques her interest. The story is about outcast gods and forbidden attraction. Best to start here.
She grabs the book and shoves it into her coat pocket. By then, the sun has set, and Andrew is finished with the last shelf. As he shrugs into his jacket, the matriarch watches him out of the corner of her eye. “It’s dark. Slippery streets. You should have taken your truck, for once.”
“I’m fine,” he replies, tossing her a smirk. “Last time I checked, I didn’t live far away.”
“In this village, who the hell does?”
Love bites her lip, stifling a grin. She likes this woman, regardless of her disquieting reaction to Love’s proximity and the way she’d teased Andrew about Holly.
The woman points a finger at him. “Breezes, ghosts, and amorous fans. They could be out there. I’m a believer of the former and vigilant of the latter. I can’t help worrying about who or what’s following you, and apparently your coat has gone missing.”
“Someone else wears it better,” Andrew murmurs under his breath, the rasp in his voice tingling Love’s vertebrae, the wool of his coat brushing her skin.
“Then I presume your muscles outgrew the coat, which is probably on some donation rack as we speak.” The matriarch sighs. “At least tell me that temporary replacement is keeping you toasty.”
“No,” Andrew antagonizes with fondness.
“Well, instruct your bank account to do something about that.” She picks up his novel, featuring artwork of a bloody longbow. “Expect my critical thoughts when we next meet.”
Andrew bows his head. “Looking forward to it.”
“Thank you for the shelves.”
“Hey. Never thank me.”
The lady’s cheeky veneer fades. She smiles with affection and says in a low tone, “Your father doesn’t deserve you.”
Andrew pauses. “Stepfather,” he corrects over his shoulder, then leaves.
Ah. So that odious elder at the house is a relative by law. Though, from the looks of it, the wraith is in Andrew’s care for additional reasons.
Love trails him home while summarizing the information she has amassed. Andrew is possibly researching her, which will get him nowhere since he’s limited to mortal texts. The ones not written by him at least, which make too many false conclusions about deities.
Beyond that, Love’s sensory connection to Andrew has waned. Not to anyone else. Just him.
A half mile into the walk, the essence of combativeness and spite clash like acid and vinegar. Andrew has taken a different route, perhaps a scenic detour, through a park. He passes two men reeking of whiskey, both of whom halt in the midst of tipping back a bottle of amber liquid when they see him. The larger of the pair possesses beefy arms that shift beneath his jacket, and the trenches in his face make him look brutish. His eyes prowl Andrew, the second figure sneers, and Andrew pins his gaze ahead as if he doesn’t see them.
But he knows. Love knows that he knows.
The landscape is fraught with cold. There’s no one around except her human. And these drunkards, who peel themselves from the shadows and proceed to follow him.