Touch (Dark Gods: Selfish Myths #1)

15

Deep in the woods, a dwelling hides amid the conifers, its walls invisible to mortals. Every archer receives a new residence wherever they’re assigned, but she doesn’t spend many hours here. Although tailored to suit Love’s needs, the cottage isn’t truly hers. Everything within its translucent walls hasn’t been created by Love, whereas she favors her tree more, a place of her own choosing.

However, the evergreen isn’t safe from certain spies. Beyond the pines, her glass cottage emerges, glinting in the coppery late afternoon and nestled beside a frozen pond. If Andrew has the power to see her, he’ll perceive the cottage as well.

Vigilant, she halts a secure distance from the refuge and whips her arm out behind her, indicating for Andrew to stop. Interpreting the move as a sign of impending danger, the mortal hisses and maneuvers in front of Love, shielding her with his body.

This should not please Love. She isn’t helpless. Yet the protective gesture makes her concealed wings ripple in delight, even as she sidesteps him with a huff, aligning her stance with his.

Quickly, Love surveys the landscape for Anger’s silhouette. To her relief, the woods are vacant.

The sun descends, likely dragging the temperature down with it. Andrew is wearing a new coat that molds to his physique, with the collar turned up around his neck and the dark gray wool clinging to his broad shoulders. Inside, she lights a fire while peeking sideways as he removes the garment, his muscles inflating like an alpine range, making him resemble some manner of ice god, if such a being were to exist. Truly, humans should not be allowed to look this attractive.

He drapes the coat on a chair while browsing the round hearth standing at the heart of the cottage and the plump bed situated on a dais overlooking the flames. The Guides who trained Love have sophisticated taste. It’s tradition for mentors to outfit an archer’s dwelling, to wish the archer well in each new territory they’re sent to, the gesture akin to a blessing.

While Love appreciates their generosity, she would have liked to decorate it herself. Yet her people frown on such actions. It would appear ungrateful to furnish this outpost to her own tastes.

Andrew fills the space with a fresh breeze, a crispness in the air that makes the dwelling smaller yet bigger at the same time. Love has never hosted a guest before. She busies herself, mounting her bow on the wall and then shrugging off her coat, with his note tucked in the pocket.

He watches as she tosses the mantle on her bed. “You don’t have a problem with the cold, but I still would have given you my coat.”

“Yes, you’re reckless about such things,” she says.

Because his fingernails are tinted blue, it will take time for him to thaw. Love contemplates how it would feel to claim his hands, cradle them against her heart, and run a finger in the valleys between his knuckles.

“Tea,” she announces abruptly. “I have tea. It’s… good tea.”

Without hesitation, he closes the glass door, his lips tilting into a roguish grin. “Tea of the gods. This, I need to try.”

In The Dark Fates, meals are a blend of magic and effort. Her water pitcher replenishes itself whenever it’s empty, yet a kettle dangles from a hook over the flames, the bubbles signaling when the liquid is ready to be steeped in flower petals. The concoction is Wonder’s favorite; she adores blossoms more than any other natural element, just as she favors spring above all seasons.

Love retrieves a cup for Andrew, though she shouldn’t be taking care of him. By comparison, Holly would probably offer this man something different, one of those coffee concoctions whose names include a conga line of frothy words.

Tipping the kettle, Love fills the cup while thinking of Holly as a suitable match and muttering to herself, “What are The Stars thinking? His type cannot be—”

“Whose type?”

She jumps to find Andrew looming behind her, looking and smelling far too inebriating. She thrusts the tea at him. “I made it too strong, but it shouldn’t poison you.”

He smirks and forgets his question. They settle on a rug in front of the fire, with Love draping a blanket over her waist and legs, mindful that her dress is too short for her to be sitting without it. The blaze warms his complexion, and the sight of his nails losing that blue tint pleases her.

He studies the translucent walls. “If you can’t feel the cold, why do you need a fire?”

Because the blaze is nice to look at, its orange cast flickering against the bone-white world and casting a mellow glow through the cottage. Love is about to share this when Andrew waves off the subject. “You know what? Put me out of my misery and get to the macro stuff first, but make sure it’s the annotated version.”

A grin sneaks across Love’s face, but she smooths it over like a wrinkled blanket. “Ask me.”

“Tell me,” he counters.

She should have expected that from him. “I’m a goddess.”

“Considering how I wallpapered the village, I’m fairly certain about the answer, but just be clear: Eros or Aphrodite?”

“Neither. As I said, I’m Love.” But when he tapers his gaze, Love sighs. “Yes, those deities are the appropriate candidates. However, you haven’t seen me target couples. You’ve only witnessed what happened to Griffin and Ulrik.”

“True,” Andrew acknowledges. “But maybe you were giving them a shot of compassion. Eros might do that if in a generous mood.”

“Author or not, let’s review. As you eloquently pointed out, Eros isn’t traditionally depicted as a woman. And Aphrodite doesn’t carry arrows or work as a matchmaker. Besides, according to the slut-shaming tales in this world, she’s too busy being a so-called vain whore.”

“And you’re not?”

“A whore?”

“Vain. Jesus fuck. You think I’m that much of an asshole?”

“Of course I’m vain. I’m Love. But if you insist on a parallel comparison, then my equal is Eros.”

“In which case, it doesn’t matter if you’re a frisky goddess. Isn’t that part of your job?”

Grrrrr.

Andrew holds up his hands. “My mistake.”

“For the celestial record, promiscuity is a habit among our kind.” She compresses her lips. “Regardless, the mythologies in your world are wrong.”

“We got the arrows right. How about the missing wings?”

Love gives him a flinty stare. “I do not wish to talk about them.”

“So they exist.” Andrew skims her form. “I can’t wait to hear where they’re hiding.”

If he insists on continuing down this road, she’ll have to request that he politely fuck off. “Some of your beliefs are correct, but not all. For instance, I’m not the only deity who carries a bow. My ‘friskiness’ really does not matter to you?”

His pupils glitter with an unspoken response. “What’s the true mythology?”

“We’re the Dark Gods of our realm.”

“Be more specific.”

Love’s brows punch together. What else does he want to hear?

He waits, his mouth crooking. “I take it you’re not used to conversation.”

“Says the local recluse,” she volleys.

“That makes us equal, but I’m still better at conversing than you.”

“No one is better than a deity at anything.”

“Then get over yourself.”

She slaps the rug. “This is why I said for you to ask me questions. Explicit ones, if you please. I cannot read your mind.”

“We’ll pace ourselves.” Andrew leans forward, draping his wrists over his knees. “Where do you come from?”

“Our world is called The Dark Fates.” She describes the landscape of their realm, with its amethyst cliffs, starlit waterfalls, and mineral caves. “And yes, there are more like me. As such, there’s a hierarchy.”

Deities are the rulers of emotions—a pantheon called Dark Gods, who prevail over humans. When they’re young, they’re split into crews and trained to be archers governing whichever emotion they’ve been created for.

“Emotions,” Andrew echoes. “Not gods of oceans and goddesses of mountains.”

Love gives a noncommittal shrug. “Do you know why your people are meant to exist?”

“Give me your theory.”

“I suppose because emotions dominate people in heart, body, and soul. They’re the roots of all actions and reactions. That shapes their fate.”

Andrew scrubs his jaw in thought. “If a typhoon comes along, your emotions don’t have much of a say in whether or not you die. That’s also destiny at play.”

“You’re overthinking this.”

“I’m a fantasy author. Comes with the job. Just ask the people who leave me one-star reviews.”

Love cocks her head. “Humans use celestial symbols to rate artistic expression?” Then she disregards that tangent. “Forget nature. It belongs to itself. Aside from The Stars, we have no connection to the elements. That’s why we cannot burn or freeze to death, but that’s also why we can’t tell nature what to do.”

“To make it a crucial job, countless emotions would need to exist.”

“Surprise, disgust, sympathy, gratitude, shame, hate, joy, bitterness, hope—”

“Okay,” he chuckles, the masculine noise rumbling from his chest. “I believe you.”

Satisfied, Love nods. “I was taught from childhood. How to control my strength and speed. How to interpret emotions, human motivations, the flaws and intricacies of mortality, the science of relationships, the weight and precision of an arrow, how to avoid catastrophe—”

“I’m picturing a bunch of militant cherubs. Make it stop.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort. It’s your vision.”

“For fuck’s sake. When I was a kid, all my teachers warned me about was not to eat the glue.”

Tamping down the impulse to smile, Love explains how there are many crews, all representing different emotions. Wonder, Sorrow, Envy, and Anger are in Love’s circle. During their upbringing in The Dark Fates, they were taught how to master their powers. Then after two-hundred years of instruction, the archers were assigned to different territories of the human realm. Love’s existence is mobile. She travels to new landscapes—the terms can last for days, years, or decades—only pausing when her crew returns to The Dark Fates for an intermission of rest once every hundred years.

Each crew learns from instructors called Guides. The latter are deities who were once archers like her, but they have advanced in life. Once Love is their age, she shall become a Guide as well. She’ll give herself a new name, then create and teach the next Goddess of Love. And so forth.

Andrew taps the rim of his cup. “So it’s generational. How does that work? If there’s only one deity for every emotion, that doesn’t cover a lot of ground. Almighty or not, you can’t be everywhere in the world at once.”

“Apart from The Stars, nothing is almighty’” Love asserts. “Nature and the celestials are the only forces without superiors. Immortals have their limitations. Some are explicable, others are enigmas. My people do what they can, deciding which places most need their help at any given time. On that score, we must choose with wisdom. We’re quite good at it.”

“I have a hard time believing this isolated village needs more love than a developing country.”

“I’ve served those countries, and I will again, but even the unlikeliest of places are filled with heartbreak. Pick your battles, you exhausting creature. Not everything can be rationalized away—not us, nor you, and certainly not your many religions.”

Andrew fastens his gaze to hers. “I’m not asking because I want to know the reasons for everything. I’m asking because I want to know about you.”

Love stalls, unnerved by how much this admission gratifies her. “It would be helpful, but I don’t have to exist everywhere at once to make a difference. You would be surprised how one spark of perfect love has a ripple effect on other pairings.” But when Andrew appears conflicted by her declaration, she asks, “Do you remember what we said in the archery range about celestials?”

“I remember every word we said that night.”

“There’s grandness in mystery.”

“There is,” he agrees, yet his eyebrows crimp from some unspoken thought.

Love tells him that when it’s an archer’s turn to become a Guide, the previous instructor retires. They pursue interests like art and music. And every deity is ruled by The Fate Court, five monarchs who reign for a term of five millennia.

“It sounds like our system here. To be honest, I was expecting something more elaborate,” Andrew admits.

“Feel free to keep writing your own version of magic,” Love invites. “Except another difference is that deities cannot conceive children. So neither am I the offspring of an Aphrodite equivalent.”

“So you have no family.”

She flinches. “No. Procreation is impossible. Our relationships aren’t what your people assume them to be.”

“Shit,” Andrew hisses. “I didn’t—that was thoughtless, I’m sorry.”

Love waves him off, making a show of indifference. “We’re born from The Stars. Your people were partly correct in associating us with them.”

“Wait. How old are you?”

“Two thousand eight hundred.”

“Holy fuck!” At her laugh, Andrew confesses, “No, it’s just… I’ve written about extreme age gaps, but writing about it and experiencing the reality are two different things. I’m twenty-eight.”

“There’s no need to dwell. I’m the embodiment of your age in this world. Physically, we mature until the equivalent of a human in their thirties.”

“So you’ll always look ageless. That’s convenient.”

“Of course,” she says airily.

“Nonetheless,” he muses. “Compared to a ten-thousand year-old deity, you’re young to score this kind of work.”

“Yet you have no trouble believing Eros is a strapping lad or that Cupid is an infant. If I’m not mistaken, your people make soldiers out of those much younger than yourself.”

“Fair point.” Andrew takes her measure. “You breathe. So I’m guessing you have lungs.”

“I do,” she mocks. “And I have ears that listen, eyes that see, and a mouth that tastes.”

His attention slides to her lips, the impact tingling Love’s flesh until those pewter irises level once more on hers. “By the way, don’t get sassy with me. Your sense of touch is limited outside of writing instruments—” he gives her a naughty, smoldering look, “—and you move as fast as a bullet. It’s not a ridiculous inquiry coming from someone who’s paid to make this shit up.”

Her mouth is still recovering from the penetration of his stare. “My sense of touch is fine. It’s simply nonexistent with humans on a skin-to-skin level.”

“And you say I’ve tapped into some truth about your kind, which enables me to see you.”

“Yes, but I cannot say which passage in your books has unlocked this ability. I assure you, I’ve checked. However, I shall need to revisit the titles once more.”

“I won’t waste time questioning when you broke into my house and ransacked my shelves.” Although Love grimaces with repentance, Andrew dismisses her reaction. “I’ve also been trying to figure this out. No matter how many times I reread my backlist, it’s impossible to draw a conclusion since I know nothing about your kind. Do you eat?”

She points to a bowl filled with apples and persimmons on a table. There’s also a plate with bread and cheese. She doesn’t require much nourishment, and despite human assumptions, he’ll find no ambrosia at her table.

After another round of questions, in which he picks her brain regarding “the magic system” in her world, Andrew lifts the tea mug to his mouth. “What’s in this?”

The way his forehead crinkles brings out the mischievousness in her. “Spring,” she says, keeping a straight face.

“Spring,” he repeats, dubious as he takes a sip.

“Yes. Dewdrops, a dash of the sunlight, the afterglow of sex—”

He lurches forward in shock and spits out the tea.

With the blanket still covering her, Love keels over laughing. “Peonies,” she cackles. “Only peonies.”

His eyes widen. After a moment, her mortal guest breaks down and joins in her laughter, his smile cutting Love into a million pieces. Their limbs almost touch—yet they shall never touch.

Defiantly, she scoots closer. Her tongue darts out between the slit of her mouth and runs across her bottom lip. Again, Andrew’s grin fades. His fervent gaze stimulates the cleft of her thighs, and Love wishes she could reciprocate, yet the only part of her that reaches Andrew is her voice and breath. She wants both to slide across his flesh, slip down the arch of his tongue, and make him swallow thickly.

Suddenly, his features twist, and his attention shifts to her bed. “Do you sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Do you get sick?”

“No.”

“Can you get wounded?”

“Yes.”

“Fatally wounded?”

“Only in battle or from torture.”

“But you don’t die of old age.”

“Never.”

“Do you have tear ducts?”

“What?”

“Do you cry?”

“I don’t—”

“Why are you leaning forward?”

“Because—”

“You’d like to strangle me.”

“I want—”

“And you’re clenching your teeth.”

“Because—”

“You need me to stop?”

“No—”

“This is called an interrogation.”

“I’m aware—”

“Do you have a lover?”

This last question wipes every possible reply from her mouth. Worse, Andrew’s staring with a disturbing expression—hooded eyelids, darkening pupils flashing as if they possess a high voltage. From merely that, she knows to whom he’s referring.

“He’s not my mate,” Love says. “He’s Anger.”

The orange glint from the flames whips across Andrew’s face. “You lied.”

“I did.”

“You’re not alone in this forest.”

“I didn’t lie about that. I lied about there not being others like me. He was passing through, but he resides in another part of the world. I am alone here.”

“He’s hot.”

Love stalls. Whether or not “hot” has something to do with temperature, mortals use this word to fetishize each other. But whereas distinct sexual orientations are nonexistent among deities—be they male, female, or neither—each human differs in their tastes, some limited and others not. Therefore, the makings of envy crackle through her like static. “So you—”

“I don’t prefer men,” Andrew states. “I just know what hot looks like.”

“Fine. He’s handsome if you favor the grumpy, temperamental type. Is there anything else you wish for me to say?”

From the looks of it, hurricanes and acts of war are cluttering Andrew’s mind. He’s jealous, the realization threatening to intoxicate her.

Fates, Love wants to punch him. She longs to cover that existing bruise with one of her own. Then she wants to kiss it better.

“Anger and I are not lovers,” she declares. “There wouldn’t be a great deal of time for it anyway. Intermissions in The Dark Fates are short.”

Andrew fixates on her. “From where I come, it doesn’t take long to fuck.”

Visions of Love fucking someone other than Anger, someone hard and fast—someone in this room—run rampant through her mind. Her throat feels parched, the muscles working as she swallows. Never mind what the comment does to her anarchistic cunt, a throb surfacing along the tight pleat.

If Andrew senses the mayhem occurring between her thighs, he doesn’t show it. Rather, he cuts through the tension with another sharp set of words.

“Your existence sounds lonely,” he remarks.

She thrusts a lock of hair over her shoulder and notices his eyes following the movement. “Loneliness is a romantic notion conceived by humans. Dark Gods don’t get lonely.”

“Who takes care of you?”

She blinks. “I don’t understand.”

Even when he repeats himself, she’s puzzled. “I’m a goddess,” she replies simply.

Andrew frowns. After a moment’s thought, he asks, “And what do you like to do in your spare time? Besides climbing trees and flashing people.”

“This is a forest in winter. Options are limited.”

He motions at the glass wall overlooking the frozen pond. “Get some ice skates.”

Love contemplates the landscape, unexpected yearning clenching her chest. She has observed humans engaging in such revelry before, and the idea does sound inviting. But then she catches Andrew studying her, smothers whatever maudlin expression is pulling across her face, and curls her nose. “That’s a paltry human pastime.”

“Meaning you don’t know how.”

Her eyebrows snap together. “I’m hardly incompetent.”

“Oh, you’ll never be that,” he intones. “But I could teach you.”

His countenance dares her to respond in a certain way. Naturally, Andrew would never imply she’s incapable of learning something new. He argues and interrogates, but he does not belittle. However, this mortal is also correct about Love’s inexperience with such activities, and the notion of falling on her ass like a marionette severed of its strings is unappealing.

With regret, she runs her hand through his thigh, reminding them of their limits with each other. “It wouldn’t work.”

The mortal sucks in a breath, gazing at his leg for so long she wonders if he’d heard her. But then he rasps into the silence, “I want to touch you.”