Chapter 2
Sorrow
With a twist, she dives into the air beside Envy.
Mid-flight, Sorrow registers the synchronized arc of their bodies before crashing through the surface.
On impact, liquid thrashes around them like an underwater tsunami, engulfing her upon descent.
She plunges, the deluge funneling around her with the force of a vortex.
Her eyelids part, seeking Envy through the cluster of vines, through which another arrow spears toward her, its point a flashing asterisk. Sorrow swerves, avoiding the projectile. It torpedoes past her skull and misses shearing Envy’s torso as he pumps his limbs out of range.
Despite the god’s monstrous size, he’s better at aquatics than Sorrow. Launching ahead, they swim parallel to one another, firing in and out of the water. When they bolt upward, arrows swoop beneath their stomachs, and when they plummet, the projectiles fly above their spines.
Geysers of water slap the foliage. When Sorrow hits the pond’s edge, she twirls and rockets back the way she came. That’s when—fuck!—the targets change course, assaulting them from unpredictable angles.
While immersed, she keeps her eyes open, discerning Envy’s form receding to an area shrouded by glowing pentagram shapes, little starfish who’d been minding their business.
The separation brings her crew to mind. They had trespassed into enemy territory only days ago. So which adversary has managed to spot them this quickly? Have they ambushed Sorrow’s crew as well? Are her friends hurt?
In retrospect, advancing her target skill with underwater training would have been a good idea. Learning to wield her longbow while in this predicament could have come in handy.
Then again, her weapons are out of reach, discarded in the grass. If their attacker has seen and identified the ice element of her archery, she’s done for. Provided she survives this attack.
Another strike beneath the surface. Sorrow pivots, causing a subterranean tidal wave.
After a full rotation, her gaze staggers across Envy, who floats before her, having closed the distance between them.
Time slows, pauses, holds its breath. For a second, it’s deceptively peaceful down here, the lapse numbing her senses.
It’s nice not having to feel anything, hear anything, especially when faced with this god.
Envy’s collar flutters in place, rippling against the pulse at his throat. His long hair skims through the water, the thick mane lashing around his aghast expression, as if he’d just caught Sorrow picking her nose.
Whatever. In reality, he’s still recovering from shock, the audacity that she’d heeded their enemies before he did.
Sorrow jabs her thumb. He blinks and takes the hint, darting out of range from another arrow. They’ve got few options, seeing as her weapons are unreachable from here, and who knows where Envy left his archery.
Evanescing would be ideal, except there are restrictions. Among the inability to vanish in the presence of their rulers, most deities can’t disappear with a companion in tow, and they sadly can’t do so while underwater.
In these cases, immortal magic needs an old-fashioned, commonsense alternative.
Flipping headfirst, Sorrow pushes herself down and snatches a rock from the sediment.
Gliding upward, she breaks the surface, cranks her arm, and flings the rock.
The makeshift weapon smashes through the underbrush and explodes into dust against a trunk.
A small gasp resounds from the thicket, its owner on the verge of laughter. And okay, that makes no goddamn sense. Aside from a certain demon god, what predator would cackle as if this were a game?
Nevertheless, the rock surprises their opponent. At the clatter of a bow dropping, Sorrow dives sideways and catches Envy’s shirt collar. Hoisting the god upward, she shoves him toward the bank, but he jerks from her grasp.
“Watch the tailoring,” he warns, outraged.
“Watch the trees,” she snaps, exasperated.
His eyes slit, telling her exactly what the fuck she can do with her orders.
His dripping chest heaves beneath the sheer material clutching his torso, the soaked fabric emphasizing those insufferable abs and pecs.
Aww, he’s gotten his precious garments wet.
Such a pity that Sorrow has no time to celebrate.
They surge out of the pond. While racing across the grass, Sorrow swipes her discarded archery off the ground. Belatedly, she remembers her clothes, which she’d left at the camp, electing to stroll naked to the pond.
Garments would have afforded her some measure of protection against the enemy, but oh well. Shit happens, and she couldn’t care less about conjuring a new skirt right now. Being naked won’t affect her aim.
On the bright side, Sorrow’s running a hell of a lot faster without obstructive material. Sprinting through the woodland, they pound past offshoots and shrubs, then spill into the glade where their crew should be—but aren’t.
A frantic “Psst” drifts from the sidelines. Following the sound, Sorrow catches sight of pink hair tucked behind a tree trunk. Then a set of black wings bristling behind another. And a clenched jaw behind another.
Sorrow darts behind her own respective tree. With her spine braced against the bark, she takes inventory of the crew, each of whom have claimed various points of the sylvan forest.
Beyond the mist, Merry’s shoulder-length pink hair clashes with the darkness.
Draped in that frothy pastel dress, the goddess should have been born gift-wrapped and tied with a bow.
A neon arrow is nocked to her archery, the shaft emitting a glow only when released.
It’s a gift from The Stars and a recent addition to Merry’s cache of weapons, seeing as Anger has been teaching her to shoot, and she couldn’t bring her firstborn pride and joy with her.
Driving a motorcycle through this realm wouldn’t exactly amount to a quiet entry.
Anger festers several feet away. His nostrils flare as he toggles between checking on Merry—his soulmate—and choking his archery in a death grip. At this rate, he’s going to snap the iron in half.
Across from him, Malice smirks. Angel’s face.
Devil’s soul. He’s the approximation of a disheveled demon, with that just-rolled-out-bed-after-having-hours-of-rough-BDSM-sex hair.
His boots peek from beneath low-slung jeans, tattooed letters constrict around a muscled bicep, and he’s leering like an asshole, hankering to jump in plain sight.
As psychotic as he is calculating, either Malice has a devious reason for the element of surprise, or he’s purely in a bloodthirsty mood.
When it comes to him, both are legitimate possibilities.
Meanwhile, Wonder—the objective of Malice’s passionate obsession—dangles upside down, her curvy legs hooked over a branch fifteen feet above everyone. Stars almighty. Only she can balance a longbow and quiver while in that position.
A corsage of star-shaped wildflowers encircles Wonder’s wrist, her billowy pants and off-the-shoulder blouse defy gravity, and chestnut tresses spill around her face.
Across from Wonder stands Love. The goddess perches atop a bough, black wings tucked against her back and a raven dress clutching her petite frame as she kneels, aiming her bow at an unseen target.
Presumably, they’re surrounded; yet that doesn’t stop Love’s mouth from peeling into a mischievous grin.
Casually, she knocks a pebble from the beech tree with her elbow.
It’s a risky jibe, but Love has the most impeccable aim of them all. The pebble lands without a sound, striking where she’d meant it to—the black coat framing her mate’s robust shoulders.
Stationed at ground level, Andrew’s mouth twitches in amusement.
In contrast to the layers of dark hair springing from Love’s loose bun, sharp layers of snowy white dash around Andrew’s head.
Glancing above, he regards Love with a flirty, combative look that promises she’ll pay for that later.
Because if they weren’t about to defend themselves, Andrew would have already lobbed his own pebble at her, shortly before hauling his goddess someplace private to fuck.
Sport is an aphrodisiac for those two. Sorrow respects that.
Anyway. It’s not every day that a former mortal finds himself in a deadly realm of mist and starlight, on a mission to usurp its celestial rulers, and about to engage in combat with a legion of Dark Gods.
Though, if Andrew’s remotely intimidated, he doesn’t give that impression.
With the sort of confidence that puts immortals to shame, this man wields a human bow with finesse, his grip tight on the weapon.
Since Envy was barefoot at the pond, he retrieves his lace-up shoes from the camp and scales one of the trees. Despite the god’s bulk and spiffy clothes, he makes quick work of the climb. The wet shirt and trousers shift in concert to his movements, stacks of muscle contorting under the material.
At some point during their arrival, he’d found time to snatch his glass archery from their encampment. Ascending the offshoots, Envy positions himself and—for the love of fucking Fates—combs through his dripping hair before nocking his bow. Then he puckers his lips, blowing Love and Wonder a kiss.
Unimpressed, the females merely stare at him.
But what does make a unanimous impression is Sorrow as she waits behind her tree, wearing nothing but her archery. Briefly, every head swerves in her direction. Nudity isn’t sacred to deities, yet some members in this bunch have prudish sensibilities.
Merry turns away, poppies of red suffusing her cheeks. Anger glares in frustration. Wonder simply raises her eyebrows but quickly gets distracted by the environment as she assesses the canopy, the woods illuminated in phosphorescent jewel tones.