Touch (Dark Gods: Selfish Myths #1)

32

“Holly’s the one you’re supposed to match with me,” Andrew murmurs, drawing out this realization in a low tone.

The blanket tents over their heads, the fabric illuminated by the flames’ orange cast. Love reels back from him, too startled to work up a good innocent act. Resting on her side, she watches his profile glowering up at the sheet, the line of his jaw clenching.

A harsh sound ejects from his chest. “I can’t believe it took me this fucking long to figure it out. Everything you’ve done. Every moment I’ve interacted with her. That was by your design.”

Love’s shock wears off. She waits until he faces her, then she nods. “Not every moment. Some happened by accident.”

“Meaning, yes.” On a grunt, Andrew sits up. The motion destroys the tent as he hunches forward and scrubs his face in vexation. “You weren’t going to tell me.”

“I had no choice.” Love rises and whispers against his shoulder blade. “I did not expect to grow fond of you, much less to care. It’s not in a deity’s nature.”

“I would say that’s the most ironic thing I’ve ever heard coming from the Goddess of Love. But then, life is twisted that way. Enough important shit rarely makes sense. Otherwise, gods and humans alike would have figured out by now why the fuck we all keep making the same mistakes.”

“Andrew, please understand. I was protecting you.”

“Jesus,” Andrew curses. “You need to stop doing that.”

“There are consequences if I fail to match my targets,” Love pleads. “For myself as well as my targets—”

Turning in the sheets, he clasps her face. “What consequences? What will happen if you don’t match me?”

“You’ll die.”

“I mean, to you . What will happen to you?” Andrew bares his teeth. “If they touch a single inch—”

“It won’t be so bad,” she hopes, telling him how she’s the first of her kind, too valuable to execute, but not too valuable to torture. “I’ll be punished. I’m not certain how, but The Fate Court is inventive.”

“Technically, so am I. And I’ll destroy them if they come near you.”

Love nuzzles into his grip. “That is not the merciful human I know.”

“This human doesn’t give a fuck who he was before meeting you. I only care about one thing now. I’d sacrifice my soul, freeze this world solid, and commit about six dozen acts of carnage to keep you safe. So apparently, you’ve made me selfish.”

He hisses against her mouth, “I’d rather exist in the darkness with you, than live in the light without you.”

Not a shred of hesitation. Love’s had a bad influence on him. Prior to this mortal, no being has ever devoted themself openly to Love, nor inspired her to do the same for them.

But if Love knows one thing for certain, it is a pure and simple truth. She does not deserve him.

Holly does. The woman would have charmed Andrew, if she hadn’t already bonded with another man. Despite the brute’s faults and vulnerabilities, Griffin has managed to claim her heart. Love has never comprehended this tendency in mortals. Until now, she has never thought to try.

From The Dark Fates to this realm, no soul is perfect. Least of all, Love. After all she has done to manipulate this world, to weave an unnatural tapestry, the guilt is stifling, years of deception suffocating her. For her crimes against humanity, she should be buried alive under this weight.

As if aware of these thoughts, Andrew grips her face harder. “What you’ve done doesn’t make you evil. And your remorse doesn’t make you weak. It only means you have a conscience—a tender heart hidden inside a fierce soul. If no one has ever told you this, then allow me: You are a good person.”

A dry sob squeezes between her lips. “When you say such things, I cannot think how to respond.”

“Listen to me. If you promise that every second we’ve spent together wasn’t bullshit, that you weren’t playing me, and this wasn’t some cheap immortal farewell fuck, I’ll believe it.”

“That’s not how it was. You make pretending impossible.”

Andrew drops his forehead against hers. “There has to be a way out of this.”

Love seals her eyes shut. “There is not.”

She breaks down and wades through the tale, omitting her time limit and Wonder’s claim about how deities become mortals. Yet another lie, which tastes bitter on her tongue. Still, what good would it do to entertain the impossible? Andrew cares for Love, but not to the degree he believes. He’s infatuated, swept away by passion, and cannot possibly love her after all she’s done.

Not authentically. Not enough to reorder fate itself.

In any case, Love is incapable of that same emotion. It is reserved for humans, not immortals. No matter how she longs for this man, her essence as a deity prevents her.

Andrew blanches to learn he’s responsible for the lives of an entire domain of gods and goddesses. Yet he is relentless as ever. “We can research—investigate celestial history and hunt for loopholes. Do your people have records? What have you tried?”

“The Stars are almighty,” Love asserts. “They are never wrong about what is or what shall be.”

He shakes his head. “I only want you to survive, but if it happens this way, if we let this go without a fight, we’ll never know what could have been possible. And you’ll never find peace. The guilt you feel about your powers will slowly eat you alive. You’ll suffer.”

The words hurt so much, her tongue feels as if it’s bleeding. “I’ll suffer more if you die. Even if I don’t live for long afterward, the agony will be worse.”

Andrew digs his fingers into her hair. “Promise me this is the only way for you to come out unscathed, and I’ll fling myself in your arrow’s path. Match me or kill me. You decide, but it won’t have anything to do with saving either realm. Everything I do will only ever be about you.”

Love’s breastbone cracks. Curse him for making this harder. No matter that he has always been difficult, the temptation to yield is palpable.

Her mortal, who feels guilty he didn’t accompany his mother to the grave so she wouldn’t be alone in the afterlife, and who spends his free time helping an older woman maintain her bookshop. Her target, who lets his stepfather rage and use him as an emotional dartboard so the man can expel his grief. Her enemy, who had offered his coat to a deity who hadn’t needed it, who had aimed a deadly weapon at his chest.

Her Andrew, who worries more about Love’s fate than his own.

Her Andrew, who shall voluntarily forsake his free will, his being, and his authentic future for the sake of an immortal race that would sooner massacre him.

What her kind do isn’t malevolent, but it isn’t noble either. Humans are sacred to them only as so-called inferiors, as people to govern instead of to serve.

Nevertheless, this is the only way everyone will survive.

It takes every ounce of willpower not to look away. “I vow this is the path we’re meant to choose.”

“Then know this. No amount of magic can erase what you mean to me.” Andrew’s bloodshot eyes fasten to hers. “I’ll never want Holly the way I want you.”

Seething, he grabs her mouth with his own. Love cries into his kiss, their tongues clinging while a forsaken reply cuts through her mind.

Yes. You will.

***

It’s the twelfth day. The Court is expecting a resolution by tomorrow.

The wind builds in momentum, picking up speed in prelude to the impending blizzard Love had predicted yesterday. Meanwhile, Andrew receives a text from Georgie. His stepfather has contacted the matriarch; he’s panicking about Andrew’s whereabouts and is headed to the bookshop.

Andrew takes care to pack the winter posy of needle branches and coiling twigs into his quiver, and Love accompanies him out of the forest. Her archery is shockingly heavy on her shoulder, forcing her to hunch forward, the aches revealing bones and joints she hadn’t known she possessed. Moreover, the air is making her skin feel strange, uncomfortable, fatigued.

She sinks further into her coat. So this is what it’s like to wither.

“You’re trembling,” Andrew frets.

No. I’m dying. For a few more minutes.

“I’m tired. For a human, your body has impressive stamina. You wore me out after the sixth climax,” she pretends to flirt.

This is not a lie. Yet he doesn’t grin. “Give me your stuff.”

“I’m fine. I can manage.”

With an indignant grunt, Andrew grabs her weapons, intending to add them to the brunt of his own archery. But then he frowns, unprepared for the weight of iron. Adjusting himself to bear both sets, Andrew glimpses her quiver. “Why did you bring your bow?”

“I’m linked to my archery,” she maintains, feigning nonchalance. “I always carry it with me.” Then she quirks a brow. “Why did you bring yours? You could have left it with me in the cottage. With the tempest coming, it’s an extra burden.”

Andrew tightens one hand around the weapons and seizes her fingers with the other. “You’re being threatened.”

Nothing more. Love had told him The Fate Court will punish her if she defies celestial orders. While she isn’t planning to disregard her mission, Andrew has taken the warning to heart, having concluded she’s being monitored. The slightest degree of hostility is enough for him to guard her.

The notion grabs her heart and twists it in a vise grip.

As for the presence of her weapons, this shouldn’t strike him when it never has before. Yet considering what she has recently admitted, his suspicion makes sense. In that vein, it’s a miracle Andrew doesn’t press Love further.

He trusts me.

As they walk through the woods, the mortal keeps a tight grip on her hand. Halting at the fringes, they stare at the village, where lights glow from within the bookstore. A truck loaded with firewood rattles by, and the scent of chimney smoke permeates the air.

This world. His world.

Andrew’s wish to be desired for who he is crushes Love’s soul. More than anything, she longs to give him a choice about his fate, her own future be damned. Yet Holly’s an honorable person and will make him happy. This gives Love comfort.

When this is over, she will find a new way to match people. A fair way, if possible. If Love relearns her power, perhaps her kind will learn as well. Somehow, she’ll establish a balance with mortals.

Love’s hands tremble for Andrew. She longs to soothe him with her touch, but she’s afraid of doing it wrong. The most she dares is tucking a lock of hair behind his ear, which seems to work.

While facing ahead, Andrew clenches his eyes shut. “When will it happen?”

This, she must also lie about. “Not for a while.”

His eyes open, those irises sharpening as they swing toward her. “You’re about to tell me not to come back. That I can’t see you anymore.”

“Andrew—”

“If I’m right, don’t fucking say it.”

“May I say something else?”

“Anything you want.”

“Be a tad greedy sometimes. It’s good for the complexion,” she chokes out.

“You’re good for my complexion,” he hisses before dropping the weapons, yanking her to him, and seizing her mouth.

The force of Andrew’s kiss pries her open, the husk of his breath liquifying her knees. Her lips yield under the grip of his own. Their tongues pitch deeply, rocking together in desperation, the tempo hectic. Groaning, he laps into her as though determined to brand himself on Love. To claim her and leave part of himself behind. A taste to remember him by, to soothe her each night, to remind her that once upon a time, a mortal had worshipped her.

Andrew seals her mouth with his, lips grasping, tongue thrusting against hers. And somehow, the ferocity kindles another feeling, so bittersweet it’s almost transcendent. Fates, she moans and rams her mouth into him, her fingernails scratching through his hair, yearning to keep that sublime feeling close until her dying breath.

Tears sneak out, but Love sucks them up. If she lets them escape, they will turn her into water. She’ll freeze like snow, then melt and disappear.

Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.

Bereft, she rips her mouth away. “Go.”

Andrew growls and snatches her lips once again, quick and harsh. Then he tears himself from Love, grabs his archery off the ground, and stalks from the woods without looking back.

That’s when Love cries. Covering her face, she permits herself a minute of it, sobs uprooting from her womb and falling into her palms. How do humans endure this? For they are much stronger than she’s given them credit for.

At last, Love snarls. She wipes her cheeks and collects her archery. For a handful of minutes, she waits like a hunter as snow begins to fall. On time, Holly drives down the main road and parks in front of the bookstore.

In the glass cottage, Andrew had temporarily stepped away from his phone, moving to get dressed shortly after texting with Georgie. In the brief seconds when his naked back had been turned, Love had taken advantage before the apparatus could lock her out. After struggling to figure out how to work the infernal thing, she had located Holly’s number—as Love hoped, they must have swapped digits at some point—and sent her a message. Pretending to be Andrew, she’d typed a request to meet at the bookstore, indicating that Andrew and Holly needed to talk.

Presently, the woman exits the car and glances wearily at the shop. Love senses the female’s conflicted emotions. Fear clashes with repentance.

She likes Andrew. But she loves Griffin.

Following Holly inside the store yet keeping a safe distance, Love feels better. Oddly, the air’s indoor texture counteracts how her skin had felt in the woods, somehow calming her flesh. She moves deftly, peeking around the corner to find Georgie recommending a book to a customer.

Andrew has stripped out of his coat and stored his archery. He’s switching out a wall sconce when Holly approaches, surprise etching across his face. The pair speaks in hushed tones, Holly’s features growing confused, whereas skepticism clouds Andrew’s voice.

The point of his tongue digs into his canines. “I never sent you a text,” he draws out, knowing Love too well.

Just then, Ulrik barges into the shop. He strides past Love like a bulldozer, takes one look at Andrew, and sags with relief. The man’s face isn’t as creased as it used to be, and he’s more perplexed than irate as he interrupts the lovers’ conversation.

Love strains to listen. It’s difficult over the shop music and the whoosh in her ears.

“… been worried about you,” Ulrik exhales.

“… call next time.”

“… gotta get to work.”

Andrew still has difficulty accepting the man’s affection. Ulrik pats Andrew’s back, which makes Andrew stiffen. Through the window, he watches as Ulrik drives off to the auto shop.

Holly waits to finish their discussion. It’s a clear shot.

Love swipes an arrow from her pack. The iron is dense and heavy, dragging her arm down twice before she nocks it to the longbow. Her breathing uneven, she steps into the open doorway. No one can see her except for the person who matters most, the human who will forget she exists, who’s about to fall in love.

It will happen quickly. He won’t know any different.

Georgie guides the customer into the hallway, heading toward another room where the person’s recommended book can be found. On her way out, the matriarch plays detective, frowning briefly at Andrew and Holly before disappearing around the corner. Outwardly to her, it appears Andrew has made his choice, and the “Iris” specter is gone.

Very well. It’s going to be true, for Holly will soon become the highlight of Andrew’s days. She’ll be the center of his universe, the bright light in his existence, and the antidote to the darkness Love has brought him.

Holly will get to know Georgie when Andrew introduces them. And one day in the future, the matriarch might dare to ask about Iris.

To which, Andrew will ask, “Who?”

Love fails to quell her whimper, the noise slipping through the bookshop. Andrew’s shoulder blades tense. The instant he pivots and his eyes lock with hers, there’s a charged, static moment of confusion. Then realization. Then betrayal. She had never said it would be today.

Yet no one is around. Andrew and Holly are alone for this precious moment. It’s the perfect opportunity.

His features contort with anguish. He opens his mouth to say…

Something passionate. Something eternal.

Something that will break Love.

On a pained cry, she looses the arrow. It tears across the shop like a missile. The weapon disappears into her target’s chest, the impact blasting Andrew backward and ramming him into the bookshelves.

In her mind’s eye, Love sees the protective outer layer of his heart shatter like a thousand other beating organs she has penetrated in her lifetime. Only this one causes a rupture in her own chest as well.

The furnishing quakes, volumes toppling from the ledges. Holly yelps—“Andrew!”—and seizes his arm, attempting to steady him while shouts erupt from the other room. Heels clack against the floor, making haste toward the commotion.

Before Georgie and her customer materialize, Love growls and fires once more. Holly buckles, releasing Andrew and catapulting into a neighboring shelf, the shop convulsing from the blow as snowfall whips into a blizzard outside.

Andrew and Holly stumble to their feet. They glance at each other. And they don’t look away.

That’s all Love can bear. She flees, barreling through the door seconds prior to Georgie and the customer’s return, the partition whipping open and slamming shut behind her. As if she was never there, Love vanishes into the tempest.

She sprints across the street, obstinate tears stinging her eyes and forming icicles on her lashes. The blizzard is a thick curtain, its density obscuring her vision. Her arrows have morphed into heavy iron monsters, gravity fighting to pull her down.

Through the forest, Love propels herself past one landmark at a time. That tree. Now the trail up ahead. Now a little farther to that bend. A little farther still.

The gale whisks pinecones and branches off the ground. Her boots sink into the snow. That discomforting outdoor sensation returns to attack her. The closer she gets to the glass cottage, the harsher it becomes, stinging her skin and making her teeth clatter. She feels the peculiar need to pull her coat closed and block out the storm.

She glances down and gasps. Her fingers are shaking. The nails have turned blue.

This, although she shot her targets. This, when she should be healing instead.

What is happening to me?

An evil wall of wind shoves Love sideways. She stumbles to the ground, her weapons scattering. Reaching out for them in a daze, she grabs hold of a slim, pointed object that bites her, the pang intensifying because the snow is wet and something else.

A sharpness rips into her blue-fingernailed hand. A thin line of blood carves through her palm.

Then she sees it. One of her arrows lies on the ground.

She places her shaky digits on the shaft, touching it to confirm what she already suspects. The arrow’s tip is red from where it has sliced her. Since she hadn’t willed her powers into the weapon, there’s no telling what sort of magic it wields— a simple piercing strike or something dire. And that’s when a new sound saws through her lungs, the cacophony tearing through the woods.

Love screams.