Chapter 24 #2
During archery practice on the hill, he twirls his arrow. The glass weapon flashes, reflecting his visage a thousand times over as the target marker across the range awaits his strike.
Oftentimes, it’s difficult to concentrate. Over the decades, he’s developed two odious habits. One, a tendency to compare his skill with those of his crewmates, the result only darkening his mood, because Love is the best shot, an accolade she’ll carry into eternity.
From Siren, Envy has been educated on the signs of jealousy. The stench of resentment, the tang of spite, and the sting of rivalry. He’s been trained to avoid those temptations in himself. Deities aren’t meant to be overwhelmed by their root emotions.
However, that doesn’t mean they’re utterly impervious. At the ripe age of one hundred, these things have become second nature among his peers.
Anger’s temper escalates with each failed shot.
Love is constantly preoccupied with the concept of mortal affection, so that she traces her fingers more than she nocks her iron arrows.
Wonder’s mind drifts during practice. On a regular basis, either she ends up meditating or daydreaming about libraries.
As for the last female in their crew, the murky goddess mopes every time she misses the bull’s-eye, then plugs her disappointment with a dismissive scoff.
Sorrow might be deceiving the others, but she’s not deceiving Envy.
***
Sorrow
At every target practice and training session, the fucker is there.
He’s there, harassing her whenever she misses a shot at the archery range.
He’s there, pretending to be a scorekeeper as she competes against herself.
He’s there, ridiculing, teasing, and sabotaging.
He’s there, his baritone voice oozing like molasses—sticky, addictive, and bad for her.
The god croons and insinuates. He pops his head from behind the target marker and drapes his arms lazily over the bull’s-eye, his appearance throwing her off balance.
He pisses off Love as well. But not this frequently.
Ignoring him or making snide remarks only refuels the asshole’s tongue. Fates only know why.
By their hundred and fiftieth year, Sorrow’s had enough of his shit. She plots revenge in silence, because as much as he’s been watching her, she’s been watching him. By now, it’s obvious what will weaken him the most.
When The Fate Court hosts a demonstration, Sorrow makes her move. Every archer takes a turn exhibiting their skill. Envy saunters from deity to deity, charming like a rogue, flirting like a whore.
He fancies himself a good luck charm to everyone except Sorrow. With her, he’s just a bad omen.
When her turn comes, his shadow looms from behind. Aggravated, Sorrow fists her longbow as he strides past while muttering into her ear, “The wind is fickle today. Play nice with it.”
Her finger spasms on the weapon. This must be a deception. He can’t possibly be tipping her off.
As Envy strides away, she catches the disparaging lift of his mouth, his tethered mane swinging behind him like a whip, his fitted brocade jacket molding to all those muscles, and his polished weaponry shining like a trophy.
He winks at Nostalgia, who sniggers. Well, now Sorrow knows who Envy’s next flavor of the month will be.
She gulps, realizing she was right the first time. She’s a joke to him. Instead of being a true comrade, he’s only pretending for the crowd, faking his consideration, wearing it like a varnish. When in reality, he’s mocking her as usual.
More bully than crewmate. More critic than ally.
Everyone waits. A legion of deities. Archers-in-training. Gods and goddesses.
Her Guide, Echo, stands on the sidelines. He nods at Sorrow with encouragement.
From a dais, The Fate Court presides over the event. A pale goddess in snowy lace. Another with amethyst hair. Another with dark skin draped in iridescent fabric, the gown bearing resemblance to a galaxy. A god with a hawkish nose and long braids. And a cloaked male with planks for eyebrows.
Each one of them had witnessed Envy strut past Sorrow like a parade float, his proximity plying her flesh with an infestation of goosebumps. Under a dome of stars, she clenches her teeth.
Before he can take another step, Sorrow whips an ice arrow from her quiver. The projectile cleaves the air, spearing across the distance, flying toward Envy’s back.
He wheels an instant before the weapon slams into his chest and blows him off his feet. The motherfucker cannons backward, the arrow ramming him into the bull’s-eye. Momentarily, the impact pins him to the facade, then the arrow vanishes in a flash of light and reappears in Sorrow’s quiver.
A collective gasp stirs across the field.
Anger curses. Wonder gasps. Love snorts.
Echo drops his face into his palms. He and The Court will give Sorrow all kinds of shit for this later. Lack of comportment. Lack of dignity. Lack of marksmanship. Lack of respect. Lack of camaraderie. A disgrace to her crew and a far cry from the elite unit they’re supposed to be.
As Envy hits the ground, a twinge of remorse assaults Sorrow’s conscience. She let him get to her. And yes, she debased her crew and her mentor, not to mention she betrayed herself.
But hey, at least Sorrow hadn’t loosed the arrow harsh enough to shatter his bones. Only the god’s most viable commodity will languish. Namely, his ego.
That is, if she’s not counting his dick. And on the flip side, so be it. She’s done being his target and will gladly take the punishment, including a stint in solitary confinement.
Sorrow stalks across the grass, the toes of her boots mowing through grass. Squatting before Envy’s dumbstruck face, she amplifies for the congregation to hear, “There’s a good reason you get so much attention. An ugly god is easy to spot.”
Then she marches off the range.
***
Envy
An ugly god is easy to spot.
He lays there, his nuts thoroughly shorn. A tide of blood scorches a path up his throat, a recognizable visceral response he’s seen in others but never felt in himself. He senses the dark shade of crimson infusing his complexion, but he’s unable to squelch it in time.
Mortification. That’s what this is.
He’s the God of Envy. The object of lust by countless deities. Unparalleled charm. Abs to match his abs. A smile that deserves its own constellation. Never a cause to be covetous or jealous of anyone. He’s sex on legs, a paragon of perfection.
An ugly god is easy to spot.
Yet he’s never been so thoroughly, mercilessly embarrassed.
Even Love—who shoved him down a cliff when he tried to steal a kiss, who wanted to claw his face off when he teased her—has acknowledged his attributes.
He grates on Love’s nerves, but he doesn’t repel her, and her gaze doesn’t peel him layer for layer like a fucking onion.
Sorrow is the exception to every rule. To her, Envy is ordinary at best.
Such a bizarre event, to desire the approval of an elusive bitch who denies him at every opportunity. It chafes like burlap. It stings like a deep whiff of pepper. A suffusion of blood rushes to his jugular, reminiscent of a river rapid, swift and savage.
That. Immortal. Cunt.
He’d been trying to help her by making a tactical suggestion about the wind. Yet she demeaned him for it.
An ugly god is easy to spot.
Perhaps Envy should care less about her opinion. A lot less. He’ll show her what dismissal feels like. From this day forth, she’s beneath his fucking notice outside of their crew.
Envy scowls at his surroundings. The crowd glances away, either out of sympathy or awkwardness.
Several leagues off, he locates Siren. She’s curvaceous, her wrist bangles clacking together. Thank Fates, she hadn’t witnessed this humiliation. Currently, she’s conversing with Wonder’s mentor, Harmony.
Envy picks himself off the grass like roadkill and strides to join the females. For the rest of the proceedings, he makes flippant comments about the incident to anyone who reflects on it.
Later, as attendants gather in the reception pavilion, his boot knocks into an item. Envy halts, a beam of light catching his attention. Kneeling, he swipes the blossoms aside.
An ice arrow rests in the soil.
Sorrow had grabbed her archery and trudged off in a hurry, the quiver’s contents rattling against her tailbone. She must have failed to notice one of her arrows falling.
Envy should catch up to her, then fling the weapon at her chest, thus illustrating her negligence. He should embarrass her the fuck back.
Either way, he has to return the weapon. According to their creed, it’s bad form to do otherwise.
An ugly god is easy to spot.
Then again, fuck her. Rising to his feet, Envy checks the perimeter to make sure nobody’s watching. He twirls the arrow like a baton, then jams it into his quiver and stalks away.
***
Sorrow
As the sky darkens, Sorrow stands before his home. She’d forced herself here to apologize for what happened. Partly, Echo had insisted. Mainly, Sorrow hadn’t been able to stomach the guilt, once her temper subsided.
Tapping on the front door yields no response. In what morbid fantasy would he ever answer the door to her anyway?
Irate, Sorrow rams her fist onto the facade, harder than she’d intended because the door swings open. She freezes, her hand arrested midair. For some reason, the scene inside causes her breastbone to clench.
The flesh. The groans. The thrusts.
Nostalgia is plastered to the opposite wall, his head flung back and his mouth open in rapture.
Envy’s the reason. He stands behind the god, with his dick waist-deep inside his houseguest. Although the carved muscles of Envy’s back are visible, he’s kept his pants on, the waistline slumping low, the front clasps undone to bare his cock.
Not that it affords Sorrow a glimpse, but the angle of his body and the violent thrash of his ass tell her enough.
She stumbles backward. Before she can flee, Envy swings his gaze toward her. His lunging hips cease for an instant, shock flickering in his eyes before they taper with ridicule.