Chapter 3 #2
“Fuck.” Coughing, he gargles water, then slumps and gathers her to his chest. “I’m fine. Nothing a shitload of therapy won’t fix when this is over.”
Poor guy. As someone who’s transitioned from mortality to immortality, he’s been coping well up to this point.
Routinely, the man’s a force to be reckoned with amid deities.
He’s snarky, tenacious, and hardly the squeamish type, which Sorrow likes about him.
But finding himself in this situation, fighting the same types of immortals he writes about from the safety of his office, has got to be traumatizing.
Everyone is waterlogged, the sea having sloshed across the boat. They’re also worse for wear, riddled with abrasions, gashes, and bruises.
Anger groans, his shoulder slouching at an odd angle. One of the projectiles must have struck hard enough to dislocate the joint.
Merry waxes poetic about the injury while Envy squats next to Anger and mock flirts, “There, there, sexy god. Allow me to assist. You know, I’m an expert at playing nurse.”
“No idea what Anger’s supposed to do with that information, other than gag on it,” Sorrow remarks.
Without sparing her a glance, Envy replies, “I’m sorry, was I speaking to you? Did I ask for your opinion?”
“I don’t wait to be asked for my opinion.”
Merry combs through Anger’s dark mess of hair. “It’s all right, my love. I’m here in your hour of need.”
“Same,” Envy teases. “Say the word, and Envy shall kiss it better. With Merry’s consent, of course.”
“For fuck’s sake. Get away from him.” Sorrow crawls over to the huddle and swats the pride god aside. “If I may.”
Unlike Anger, who’s too busy grunting, Merry takes that as a signal, burrowing closer to her soulmate in a gesture of support. Without cautioning the god, Sorrow positions his body and pops the shoulder back into its slot. Anger grits his teeth, a bellow scraping from his throat.
Sorrow wipes her hands. “You’ll live.”
“You call that proper first aid?” Envy laments. “What about TLC? Anger, don’t you need TLC?”
“Fuck off,” the rage god snarls. “And then go to hell.”
“I’ll come with you,” Malice volunteers. “It’ll be fun.”
“Hey,” Wonder lectures, elbowing him.
Malice nips her chin with his teeth, then swings his gaze to Anger. “Apologies, mate. I’ll have to retract that. Can’t leave my wildflower any more than you can leave yours.”
As the lovers cling to one another, a covetous sensation pierces through Sorrow. She glances through her mop of wet hair, confirming Envy hasn’t noticed her reaction. That’s one fact to be grateful for.
The stars flicker, chipping away at the indigo sky, which will lighten into a mellow, lapis blue come dawn.
That’s how Wonder describes the firmament, in museful terms to the point where it has rubbed off on their crew.
The goddess has a compulsive tendency to make everything sound like a marvel.
That is, when her nose isn’t wedged in a reference book, when she isn’t staring off into the cosmos, or when she isn’t being fucked by Malice.
Though currently, they’ve got other plans. Her curves fit snuggly into his side, and while he fondles her hair, she closes her eyes and meditates.
Minutes lapse. The river calms down as the boat passes tufts of foliage germinating from the cliffside. Although the water’s surface is as slick as grease, their drifting vessel creates rings that vibrate outward.
Sorrow wants to submerge her pinky and make the liquid dance. Instead, she catches herself absently checking the stock in her quiver. Not that her cache will suddenly change.
She’ll always be one ice arrow short.
When she was young, she lost the projectile.
Where, when, and how remains a mystery. And since weapons aren’t to be handled lightly, deities can’t conjure new ones, not as they can with food or certain inanimate objects.
Although Sorrow has accepted the loss, she reassesses her archery occasionally, in case the lost arrow turns up by some miracle.
The weight of someone’s attention plies her flesh with goosebumps.
With her brow knitting, Sorrow glances over her shoulder, to where Envy has resumed leaning indulgently against the pole.
For certain, his star was feeling ambitious when it birthed him.
The god is solid, built like a monolith despite his impractical outfits.
The instant she locates him, his head swerves from Sorrow’s features to the distant bluffs.
“Curse them,” Love mutters, breaking the intermission. “They’ll tell The Fate Court.”
“They’ll order a hunt,” Anger grumbles.
“They’ll search high and low, leaving no stone unturned,” Merry sighs.
“They’ll torture us,” Malice says with a haunted edge to his voice.
“They’ll leave scars,” Wonder predicts, her eyelids still sealed.
“Or they won’t,” another voice interjects.
Everyone except Wonder glances at Andrew.
Tilting his head, the male considers his next words.
“Sometimes in stories, and oftentimes in real life, a dumbass who’s determined to prove himself takes matters into his own hands.
Motivations inform each move a person makes.
So what’s the difference in this world? Probably not much.
Who’s to say those cocksuckers won’t come after us themselves?
Maybe they want to impress The Court. Everyone has a journey of their own, and everyone considers themself the hero. ”
That’s not a half-baked idea. As a writer of spicy fantasy romance, Andrew possesses knowledge of human-fabricated mythology, the extent of which surpasses Sorrow and her crewmates.
Perhaps it’s because their kind have been too willfully ignorant, too arrogant to take the tales seriously.
Yet these days, so much has happened to change their points of view.
“There’s no telling what their desires are,” Merry summarizes. “Or their hopes and dreams.”
Wonder’s bright green eyes open. “It could be a window made manifest. If they’re the only ones chasing us, that buys us time to continue with our plan.”
“Or this could be a different means to the same end,” Anger counters, massaging his shoulder. “The Fate Court will eventually know we’re here.”
“Did anyone leave anything behind?” Envy asks.
Anything that will confirm who they are, as if those immortals don’t already know.
Sorrow left her clothes at the campsite. However, since she isn’t famous for her style, that’s neither here nor there.
As for anything else? No. Before the attack, everyone had the presence of mind to grab whatever would identify them, a precaution before arming themselves.
Andrew had brought a notebook. Wonder had brought her corsage. Malice had brought his mouth.
Thus, all possessions are accounted for.
They’ll have to draft a contingency plot, since their original route has been diverted. Although their crew had plotted an alternative before arriving in The Dark Fates, that’s being second-guessed too. Meaning, they need a Plan C.
As their boat skates across the sea, each member falls into quiet contemplation.
Andrew’s fingers twitch. Malice notices and reaches into the breast pocket of his leather jacket, fishing out Andrew’s notebook and pen.
Malice must have been carrying those items since Andrew’s black, high-collared jacket lacks secure compartments of its own.
Leaning over, Malice chucks the supplies onto Andrew’s lap.
“Thanks,” Andrew murmurs.
“Don’t mention it,” Malice replies.
Despite the human’s original desire to maim the demon god, being mortals in their previous lives has forged a tentative bond between them. That, and their respect for the written word.
Andrew jots notes, but Love interrupts. She grabs the quill and writes a message to him, to which he grins, steals the pen from her fingers, and scribes his reply.
They do this while Wonder and Malice murmur theories to one another, citing research texts under their breaths.
Wrapped around each other, Anger and Merry doze in and out of consciousness.
The scrapes and contusions amid their crew will fade eventually, quicker than a mortal’s wounds. All the same, some injuries never fully heal.
Sorrow examines the scars on Wonder’s hands. Those markings won’t go away, because they’d been too gravely delivered.
Envy fusses over his sodden shirt, pouting when he fails to remove yet another grass stain. What a fucking baby. He could conjure new clothes, if he’s so dissatisfied with imperfection.
“See anything you like but can’t have?” he drawls, the inquiry abrading Sorrow’s flesh like sandpaper.
Checking to make sure their comrades aren’t listening, she shrugs. “I see plenty I’ve had but didn’t like.”
Like a true pride god, Envy huffs. Disregarding the outfit, he twists toward the pole and steers the boat through a ravine in the cliffs. The edifices glisten with dew, vines crawling up the facades. Sorrow resumes blissfully ignoring him, though she has the urge to sink her teeth into something.
She knows this emotion. It’s anger. It has to be.
Because it can’t be sadness. Or worse, pain.
Of all people, she knows the difference.