5
Despite all the reactions she can have, Love shouts with laughter. A derisive shriek of absurdity, which travels through the evergreens.
When she’s finished, Andrew raises his brows in amusement. “I never thought rejection could sound attractive.”
Instantly, Love sobers. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You have plans to prey on someone else?”
“Eventually, but not tonight.”
“That’s a relief. After all, you said I was special. I want this dangerous thing to be exclusive.”
Not funny. “You take this situation far too lightly, mortal.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Andrew remarks. “But calling me a mortal confirms you’re anything but.”
“You might say I’m a fantasy,” she evades. “Leave it at that.”
“A fantasy, are you? I have some experience there.” The mortal rips a dead twig from an overhead branch and traces from Love’s profile down to her shoulder, the audacious path he takes making her shiver. “Laughter that sounds like a wind chime, flawless features, apparent superpowers, etcetera, etcetera. But if you had wanted to decimate me, you would have done it by now.”
From his perspective, this is accurate. She could have impaled him when they met. And although Andrew had proven himself capable of taking on Griffin and that stooge of a sidekick, Love could have allied with those men instead of siding with this human. Andrew is perceptive enough to draw this conclusion.
Yet he’s the true enemy and must be dealt with. Sooner rather than later. If not by her, then by her people.
She snatches the twig from his fingers and retaliates by sketching his form, pushing the gesture farther and skimming his waist. “Consorting with me is perilous in other ways.”
Andrew’s visage glitters as she reaches the tight ledge of his ass. “Lack of exposition. Heightening the stakes,” he summarizes as if this is a game. “You might be worth the risk.”
“You’re careless.”
“You’re tempted.”
Damnation. This cocksure mortal is right.
Andrew has already poisoned her. According to The Stars, the effects won’t get worse by keeping the enemy close, for she cannot catch this virus twice. Moreover, she has already decided to find out more regarding this man before warning The Court about his existence. This is a vital opportunity, not to be flippantly dismissed.
The sun sets early in the winter, yet the crystalline light is mystic and soothing. Rustling from overhead causes something miniature, likely a pebble, to tumble from the boughs. The arched bridge creaks beneath their boots, and veils of shadow darken.
If the prospect of indulging with this human thrills Love, she ignores it. She flings the twig to the ground and moves to strip out of his coat. “You’ll freeze in that jacket.”
“No,” he insists. “You keep the coat.”
“I do not require warmth.”
“Humor me. I like seeing you wear my clothes.”
Treacherous pleasure flutters in her chest. “You’re a reckless creature.”
He jerks his head toward the lights of Evershire. “Then be reckless with me.”
Against Love’s better judgment, she huffs. “If this will convince you to stay away later, I suppose one evening won’t kill either of us.”
“And what exactly would kill me?”
“Coincidence. Poor timing. Irony.”
That’s what would have to occur for another deity to show up here. Love realizes how improbable that is.
“In other words, you’re operating on a hunch,” Andrew surmises.
“You will have to trust me,” she replies. “No questions asked.”
“Temporarily, I can live with that. I take it, you prefer to be called Love?”
“You sound dubious. Would you prefer Iris for my red eyes? Or Selfish Little Myth?”
He has fixated on her irises more than once, so it would be a fitting moniker. Yet at the mention of what he’d written in his note, humor tugs up one corner of his lips. “It’s just that Love sounds like a private name.”
“Ha. It’s the least private name in history. Though, it still belongs to me.”
The humor turns into a fully-fledged smirk. “I changed my mind. Selfish Little Myth suits you better.”
Insubordinate. Audacious. Fearless.
Patient but not meek. Naughty yet prudent. Solitary but adventurous.
And gorgeous for a human. Normally, this man would be her type.
Love finds herself staring at the mortal’s features for too long. By the same token, Andrew studies her in kind. His expression is gratified, evidently aware of what she’s thinking.
With a scowl, Love adjusts her archery. She flounces off ahead of him, unaware if she’s going the right way. With a masculine chuckle, he catches up.
Twilight puts Evershire to rest quickly. Doors have closed. People have disappeared from the sidewalks. As they cross through the main square, Andrew endeavors and fails to get information out of her. How long has she been dwelling here? Where does she sleep? Why is she alone? What’s the longbow for? Each question, she evades with finesse or outright refusal, then urges him to point out landmarks and supply Love with local trivia, if only to divert him.
That such a recluse speaks openly strikes Love. She’s never thought of this hamlet, or any place she’s been stationed in, as having its own soul. Yet Andrew knows how to tell a story and makes this village feel like a character in its own right.
They pass the gazebo; a man had constructed it for his beloved, then died of a broken heart after the woman rejected his grand gesture. There’s the teahouse, run by a pair of witchy sisters for the last forty years. And on another street is an old jailhouse that now functions as a museum.
Further up a hill, a bell tower tapers into the darkness. The instrument has the nerve to ring every evening at midnight. Routinely, Love hears the sound from her perch in the forest.
With the snow piled on the rooftops, the bell tower, and the gleaming street lamps, she’s aware of how mortals would view this ambience as romantic. Andrew’s words eventually peter out, leaving a comfortable silence in their wake. How unexpected to be walking beside a mortal, and to behave herself while doing so.
At the edge of the village, Andrew stops before a brick building and scratches his jaw. “So what can I ask about you?”
Love merely says, “I’ll let you know.”
“At least tell me where you live.”
“It varies. As we speak, I reside nearby.”
“That’s all I get after the riveting tour I gave you for free?”
Fuck this man and his alluring sense of humor. She twists and struts backward a few steps. “I take up residence in the forest.”
He exhales, his breath a tendril of frost. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Don’t get any ideas about hunting for me.”
“Don’t give me ideas at all.”
“And do not tell me what to do.”
Andrew throws back his head, guffaws booming from his lungs, the noise blasting through her like a rocket. Swift. Fast. Sizzling. Unfortunately, this amounts to the sexiest laugh she’s ever heard, the noise accelerating her bloodstream.
Despite herself, Love jabs her tongue into her cheek to keep from grinning. When that proves difficult, she narrows her features into a glare.
Andrew’s reaction finally takes its toll. His humor ebbs to a mirthful hiss as he massages his injured jaw. Until now, he’s exhibited few signs of pain from the battle with Griffin, other than gripping his side a few times.
Love halts and swipes a ball of snow off the sidewalk. “Here. Let me.”
Her fingers sail through his mandible as she presses the snow to his wound. They pause, Andrew’s pulse visibly quickening in the crook of his neck.
Yet again, she hadn’t been thinking and should pull away. But more than that, Love wants to trace that injury. If she could explore and heal him with her fingers, it would be another type of magic, her skin making contact with his. She imagines the texture of his body, the ridges pliant but solid like silk over bone. The broad shoulders. The slab of his torso. The tapered waist and sloping hips. The surface of his mouth. The muscles of his throat as he swallows.
Andrew’s pupils fire like sticks of dynamite. Her knees tremble, the crease in her thighs tightening, a tiny jolt passing through her core.
Restless, Love eases back her hand. “And how are your ribs?”
“Stop looking at me that way.”
“What way?”
He doesn’t answer. Nor does he need to, his voice hitting a low, gritty register. The air thickens, atmospheric pressure building in a strange way, begging for quick relief. Perhaps a chilled gust of wind.
Is this what heat feels like?
As if to prove her right, a breeze rustles their clothes, breaking the spell. Taking the snow pack from her and tossing it aside, Andrew gives Love a nod of gratitude. “This way.”
As he swerves toward the brick structure, Love follows. The facade is industrial and weathered, with muttons in the windows and a metal door. It doesn’t fit the village, which explains its location on the outskirts.
Andrew twists the handle lever in one direction, exerts pressure, then turns it in the opposite direction. Rather than a key, his motions cause the lever’s inner bolt to unlatch. When the lock clicks, he tosses her a sidelong grin. “You’ll like this.”
Confident to an immortal degree. Presumptuous to boot.
As they step inside, Andrew lingers behind Love and flips a wall switch. Strands of little bulbs ignite from the ceiling rafters, the glass nodules sprinkling ambient light into the space, much like holiday illuminations. Meanwhile, dust and moon rays coat the floor, spilling in from a pair of skylights.
Love’s reluctance washes away. Beneath the spectacle, the vast building houses a row of tracks, each with upright target markers suspended from the ceiling and hooked to conveyor belts.
An archery range.
An abandoned one, based on the cobwebs lacing the corners and the unfinished surroundings. But how has Love never known about this?
While propping his shoulder against a column, Andrew spreads out his arms. “Have at it.”
It’s all Love can do not to rub her palms together with anticipation. Oh, the effervescent zeal of exploring a mortal’s domain without their knowledge or consent. It rarely gets old.
Andrew is right. She does like it here.
If there’s one thing she is not, it’s shy. With gusto, Love accepts his invitation to snoop, inspecting the target markers—renderings of human silhouettes—and sliding them into different positions, then pausing beneath the skylights and viewing an ocean of stars.
Hello, there.
Behind her, she listens to Andrew shuffle about, opening and closing a locker. She peeks over her shoulder and catches him bracing a longbow and pointing an arrow her way. It must be a spare that he stores here, since it doesn’t resemble the one he used against her in the woods.
He turns her way, a devilish grin stretching across his mouth. “Care to redeem your aim?”
Ah. The comment he’d made in the note about Love’s bow skills. Her conceit is not the least immune.
Love slides an arrow from her quiver and cartwheels the shaft across her fingers. “You will regret this.”
“I’ll see that bet,” he replies as she waltzes his way. “I might enjoy losing to you. It only means you get to take something from me as a winner’s prize.”
“My price is high.”
“My worth is higher.”
Cheeky man. He will pay dearly for that. When it comes to competition, she goes for blood.
Love sashays toward him while unhitching her bow. The bond between her and the weapon is intrinsic, so she dilutes her archery’s magic. It wouldn’t be a fair match otherwise, nor does she wish for him to see how the bow functions.
They don’t bother starting off easily. Aligning themselves side by side, positioned across from the farthest targets, she and Andrew loose their arrows. The projectiles spear across the distance and stab the targets’ hearts in unison, making it impossible to tell who has struck first.
This happens numerous times. They up the ante, veering in a full circle to compromise their focus and then releasing. Usually, her arrows evanesce on impact and manifest back into her quiver. But with a little willpower, Love adjusts this, forcing her to collect the weapons manually with Andrew.
In the end, heads, throats, eyes, and more hearts get pierced. The initial round finishes with a tie.
Love leans back, glaring at the severed targets. “Beginner’s luck.”
“Wounded pride.” Andrew surveys the damage. “And I’m not a beginner.”
“Then shoot me.”
He whirls on her, appalled. Before the mortal can protest, Love speeds away, halting at the opposite end of the range. She nocks her weapon, wheels, and points it at him. “Try it.”
“Like fuck am I going to try it,” he grits out. “I won’t hurt—”
“No. You won’t,” Love replies down the length of her arrow. “Because you’ll miss and prove me right. Now shoot or I shall.”
When Andrew refuses, she grins and releases the projectile. On instinct, he dodges, twisting out of the way. As the arrow impales a wall, another one cuts across the distance in his direction. This time, Andrew drops to one knee and ejects an arrow to block it, the weapons crashing together.
His splinters apart. Hers does not.
The mortal registers Love’s smirk. He slits his eyes, one edge of his lips sloping upward, and rolls his fabulous shoulders.
They charge into it. Arrows fly, cleaving through the air. Love flips and twirls at an inhuman pace, her maneuvers beyond mortal agility. Andrew manages to evade Love by leaping out of scope and blocking her weapons with his own, shattering several of his cache in the process. She nicks the mortal’s jacket and nearly glazes his angular jaw, but that is the extent.
This competition thrills Love. Though yes, she might be using it as an excuse to show off.
Disturbed by the notion, she pauses. “Impressive.”
Andrew stalls for breath. His chest rises and falls like a pump, and sweat laminates his throat. “I missed on purpose.”
“And I did not.”
“I know.”
Her mouth slants with mischief. Andrew mirrors her expression. Presumably, he’s the type of man who rises to a challenge. Sportive, playful.
Love isn’t lying about not missing on purpose. However, she has willed her arrows to imbue him with a minor and brief dose of infatuation, lest she should break skin. It’s the safest option. Considering how often his face distracts her aim, the probability is high.
They call a draw and resume targeting the markers. During the round, Andrew remarks while taking a shot beside her, “Do you have a thing for the stars?”
It’s not an unusual question. He’d seen her admiring the firmament beyond the skylights.
Love pulls back on her bowstring, uncertain how to express what The Stars mean to her kind without betraying too much. “No matter how much you make sense of the great celestials, they stay transcendent. We should be used to them because they’re eternal, like the sea and soil. However…” She aims and treads carefully. “They continually astound me, although they’ve been assigned all the rational, technical explanations.”
“I get that.” Andrew takes his turn and shoots. “They’re scientific and mysterious at the same time. That’s nature in general, especially space—solar systems, planets, constellations—since we can’t see all of it. It’s the unknown.”
“Yes, but I loathe comets. Either they go in useless circles for eternity, or they get knocked out of their orbits and destroy things. There’s no magic in that.”
“Who has time to dislike a comet? Who has room in their head for that?”
Love does. She has plenty of time to collect likes and dislikes. For example, she very much enjoys the twitch of his mouth and the muscled flex of his arms when he braces the longbow. She also abhors this treasonous fact.
“In my defense,” she argues, “disliking comets is more prudent than wasting time disliking someone for voicing their opinion. From what I’ve seen in your world, people engage in the latter far too often. And too eagerly. And prematurely. And theatrically.”
“That’s a leap, jumping from comets to social melodrama,” Andrew contests, drawing another arrow from a container on the ground. “But I see your point.”
“I gather this archery range is a retreat of yours.”
“Since I was a runt. It’s been neglected for just as long.”
“That explains why you know how to manipulate the door handle and gain entry.”
“I haven’t been here in a while, though. Practicing out in nature offers more options, despite the weather.” He tosses her a sidelong glance. “That’s why you caught me in the first place.”
Love aims. “What led you to archery? It’s an uncommon sport in this village.”
“I’d rather talk about you. Whatever you’re willing to tell.”
She levels her chin, refusing to acknowledge the pleasure that oozes through her limbs. “I might oblige if you go first.”
Andrew indulges her, confiding about being a youth and working at the matriarch’s bookshop. A passion for reading had evolved into a passion for fantasy, which had led to other desires, not only to write stories but wield a weapon like the characters who inspire him.
Archery had made sense once Andrew located the deserted range. Like a stroke of fate, it had suited his ambition. Bows and arrows fit the real world, as well as the fantastical ones.
When it’s Love’s turn to speak, she omits the part about being a goddess and the magic of her realm. She cherry picks safer memories from her mind and confides about growing up in nature—navigating caves and bonding with constellations.
Based on the subtle motions of his mouth, Andrew’s restraining himself from asking for more, the onslaught of questions crowding his tongue. It’s magnificent and terrible to behold.
Love doesn’t realize how much time has passed until a metallic noise rings out, tolling through the streets and into the building. The church bell. It’s nearly midnight. Although they’re only halfway through a fifth round, Love lowers her bow, bereft of cutting this night short.
“We must go,” she murmurs.
Andrew stalls, then rounds on her, the arrowhead tipping toward her chest. “I could take you prisoner, make you stay until I’m done with you. Or better yet, until we’re done with each other.”