Touch (Dark Gods: Selfish Myths #1)

37

Andrew mumbles incoherently throughout the day. He teeters on a dangerous precipice, every cough tipping him closer to the edge and terrorizing Love.

She has witnessed countless mortals fall sick, yet she’s an unskilled amateur, reduced to bathing his skin with wet cloths. If this cottage exists, magic exists inside it. The water pitcher refills on its own. Soup bowls and bread baskets replenish themselves, but she has no medicine, for human illness is beyond The Stars’ powers to conjure.

Evershire is barricaded by a wall of snow. Andrew’s cursed phone is in his coat, which is at the bookstore.

Love doesn’t know what a fever feels like, but she extends her hands to the flames in the hearth, getting as near as possible until it hurts, and she yanks back her hands. How to describe it? As if the air is screaming.

She rests her palm against Andrew’s soaked forehead, the way she has seen humans do to ailing relatives, and compares his skin to the fire. They’re similar, which isn’t reassuring.

She has no idea how to do this—how to be mortal, much less a healer. If there are clues hidden beyond this cottage, in the woods or at the bottom of the pond, Love is not out there to find them.

***

One moment, he sinks into the mattress with a noise of contentment. The next, he’s shivering and thrashing in the sheets.

It’s hard to get him to drink water. Burning up and delirious, he slaps her. Her tears leak into his mouth, and his lips part to swallow them, the taste calming him. As time passes, she watches the shadows move across his face like a sundial.

The hours drag their feet. Precious recollections send her into a tailspin.

Andrew’s hands on her naked body. His mouth seizing her own. His pounding hips spreading her wide.

Books and longbows. If he lives, Love will spoil him. She shall treat him the way he’s treated her, even when she gave little in return. She will sacrifice every truth, fear, and desire. She’ll forsake the ability to kiss him, fuck him, touch him. She will do anything, if only he’ll wake up.

***

The farthest Love ventures is the porch at nightfall, needing a moment to compose herself. She cannot reconcile the differences between indoors and outdoors. Hot and cold. How quickly these senses range from soothing to intolerable. Such treacherous elements.

Her teeth make tedious clapping noises. Andrew’s coat helps, though it would have been a good idea to wear her silk shorts and camisole underneath. Better yet, his arms would warm her if they could.

Love grabs a handful of snow and mashes it into a ball. She wishes she could throw it at his face and laugh, then let him chase and capture her. She flings the snowball to the ground and watches it burst into particles.

For the hundredth time, Love prays to The Stars. But they do not respond.

***

When he dies, she will hold him. She’ll weep until her throat is fire and her heart is ice. She’ll wither by his side and won’t move until Anger returns, fights with Love, and convinces her to let Andrew go.

When the snow melts, she’ll allow the god to carry her mate back through the woods into the village. Anger will lay her mortal on the front porch of his house, and that’s where Ulrik will find him, and the man will fall to his knees, blaming himself for taking the remnants of his family for granted.

That’s the last time Love will ever see Andrew. Anger will drag her away, and she’ll spend her days hunting for shelter, mourning and mortal. She will lose her memory of being a goddess, but she will remember loving a human.

One day, Love will dust herself off. She’ll step into the bookstore, where Georgie will be sitting, still expecting her favorite author to walk through the door. The woman shall notice Love standing there. “Can I help you, honey?”

And Love shall reply, “I’m Iris.”

Georgie will cry and give Love a job. And Love will live.

That’s what will happen.

***

Now she knows what heartbreak feels like.

His fever gets worse. There’s not much time left, but he’s stuck with her. A goddess from an otherworldly place, a sad creature with no clue how to save him.

Even if she brushed her hand across his skin, he would still be dying. She finally understands—a touch isn’t enough to heal him.

He’s fading because of her. And she will miss the chance to answer his question.

Who takes care of you?

Foolish human. For a while, he did.

But he shouldn’t have.

***

“I love you.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“Not like this.”

“Please.”