Chapter 28 Sorrow #2
Yet again, nothing. If it’s a trap, the culprits would be manifesting here by now. That is, unless the Fate Court is nearby.
At any rate, the small faction of perpetrators might indeed be expecting more than one rebel, as Sorrow had theorized earlier.
In which case, they may have stationed themselves at a distant vantage point, the better to target the crew.
If only a handful of thieves took the archery, hoping to impress The Court by capturing Sorrow’s friends, those wankers will seek guaranteed success.
As such, facing off with the elite crew would risk that.
At best, Sorrow’s retrieval of the weapons is an unfeasible stroke of fortune. At worst, she’s being watched.
There’s nothing for it. She harnesses the quiver to her back, the foreign weight tugging down her shoulders.
“Fates eternal,” she whispers.
Sorrow has held Anger’s weapons before, but this is different. Evidently, the infamous Love carries a heavier burden than the rest of them.
Aligning her spine with the wall beside the door, Sorrow peeks between the crevice and inspects the perimeter. Exhaling slowly, she arms herself with Love’s weapons, rounds the corner, and slinks through the partition with the arrowhead nocked.
Then she halts.
Standing beyond the threshold, an archer stares at her. Garbed in a velvet robe and brandishing arrows forged of clovers, he watches Sorrow with a slant of his head, the differences between life and death materializing in her consciousness like a bullet list.
This deity observes her with curiosity.
This deity has painted eyelids.
This deity is one she’s seen before.
That’s why he was easy to miss when she skulked into the house. Because he stands no taller than her breasts.
Shit. This tiny god is a child.
Craning his head, the fledgling studies Sorrow. His pupils veer from her wet clothing, to her bare feet, to the archery. He’s a beautifully tanned soul, with lively sprigs of onyx hair.
Upon closer inspection, Sorrow can’t decipher his root emotion. But she can guess, and she can guess well. This youth isn’t a pride god, nor a rage god.
Neither is he like Sorrow, Melancholy, Despair, or Loss. He’s not a trauma deity.
As she sets a finger to her mouth, his lilac eyes brighten with intrigue. Encouraged, Sorrow whispers, “Are you a wish god?”
Is he Trust or Hope in the making? That can’t be, unless those deities have already ascended to mentor status. So is he Desire? Anticipation?
The tyke gives a start. He steps forward and opens his mouth.
Someone shouts. A projectile flies toward Sorrow from the opposite pier, cutting a path across the distance. It’s a clean target, which should hit her square in the chest. But the problem with targets is, one can’t predict what bystanders will do.
The child is runty, engulfed by the shadows, his presence unnoticed by the assailant. Hearing the whistle, the runt turns on reflex, inadvertently placing himself in the arrow’s path.
Son of a bitch! Sorrow shoves the youth aside, hurling him into the safety of Love’s house. He yelps and goes flying. Meanwhile, she dives sideways, tumbling across the planks as the arrow slams into the house’s facade and vanishes in an illuminated blast.
More voices holler, silhouettes hastening into the fray. Someone blows a horn dangling from their necklace, alerting the residents. Doors whip open, boots slam across the peers, and arrows twang.
Dozens of voices bellow her name. If those conniving deities from the rapids had wanted to catch members of her crew covertly, that plan has just gone to hell.
Sorrow rolls across the walkway, each rotation avoiding a series of strikes. She surges to her feet as another arrow spears in her direction.
After several attempts to evanesce, Sorrow growls. If disappearing isn’t possible, that confirms at least one member of The Fate Court is nearby.
Nocking Love’s bow brings Sorrow up short, the iron delaying her speed. Dammit, she has to be cautious. Because this archery has retained the magic of its root emotion, Sorrow must render the arrows infirm. And since this isn’t her own weapon, that makes things challenging.
Her fingers stall, arrested by the sight of another arrow slicing past her from behind, intercepting the attack. A direct block from a glass shaft.
Sorrow whips around, her gaze darting toward the source.
Atop one of the houses, an opalescent moon outlines a masculine frame positioned on the roof.
Long mahogany hair tied at the nape. Trousers and V-neck shirt with the sleeves jammed up his forearms. Envy lowers his bow, his mercenary eyes slamming into hers.
How long has he been here? How did he get his archery back?
What had made Sorrow think he wouldn’t come after her?
Alarm flashes across his pupils. Awareness jolts through Sorrow.
In unison, they vault toward a stream of incoming arrows and fire. It’s a chain reaction, a stampede of gods and goddesses flooding the walkways, the cliffside slopes, and the shoreline. Flabbergasted, the masses identify Sorrow and Envy on sight.
From every direction, projectiles fly. One by one, Sorrow looses arrows, each ramming one into another, thwarting the shots. Bodies sprint along the planks, leap over the gaps, or tumble into the water.
Blood sprays the air and squirts against her vest. Someone takes an arrow through the neck before plummeting into the sea.
Sorrow ducks, evading a punch and retaliating with a jab of her elbow. Envy slashes through a god who springs atop the roof, crimson pouring from the deity’s stomach.
While catapulting from one walkway to the next, Sorrow skewers through chests, tears through flesh with her arrows, and spins around random fists. With otherworldly speed, she nocks iron and pelts archers into the sea, red puddling to the surface.
While barreling from one roof to the next, Envy dodges arrows. With each landing, he targets and impales an adversary.
Sorrow vaults to a dwelling parallel to him. They jump between houses, shooting while racing toward the bluffs, where the secret channel leads to the waterfall enclave.
Yet it’s a million leagues away. They can’t make it, can’t outrun everybody.
Not both of them.
Sorrow goes still. The lapse of movement catches Envy’s attention. Wielding his longbow, he peers at her, panting in confusion.
They haven’t said a word to each other since this morning. She’s sorry about that. Already, she misses the depth of his voice, and she misses their honest talks.
There are so many things she longs to say. Poignant things and truthful things.
There are countless feverish touches she should have stolen with him before leaving their sanctuary, endless kisses she’s missing out on, centuries of fierce lovemaking and ardent fucking.
But because of this half-assed idea to get their weapons back, she has fucked up those opportunities. So she won’t fuck up now.
Committing his baffled expression to memory, Sorrow gives Envy a weak smile. Contrary to what they always believed, they’re good together. But not that good.
Understanding dawns on Envy. His eyes widen, those orbs flaring with rancor and protectiveness. “Sorrow, don’t you fucking dare!”
Except one of them has to.
Sorrow gives him no choice. She mouths, Envy, don’t you fucking follow!
Anyway, why would he do that? This is his chance to retreat.
She tosses him the iron archery. As he catches it absently, she blows his livid face a kiss and turns. Unarmed, she jumps into the crowd.