The word dangles off a hook. It waits to be plucked, to be claimed by a courageous soul.
Battered and bruised and bleeding, Wonder snatches the word and clasps it tightly. Is she in love? With him?
Him, him, him?
Which him?
It’s the same thing Malice had asked her. Me or him?
She feels the brushfire of his gaze. Her eyes cut over to the demon god, the scholarly satyr, the maddened outcast who has become her friend and lover.
Malice, who thinks her intelligence is beautiful. Malice, who inspires her to darkness as well as lightness. Malice, who treats each of her thoughts like books, individual and infinite. Malice, who doesn’t hold back.
Malice, who makes her scream. Malice, who makes her laugh.
His eyes flare like furnaces, as though he doesn’t want her to answer. Wonder’s gaze trickles over his features, slipping to the rapid pulse in his throat. She’d give anything to see that pulse beat for eternity.
Her attention slides back to his wiry lips withholding breath—and belief. He thinks he knows what she’ll say, how she’ll answer, because how can she reply any other way? Who would love a black soul like his?
Are you in love?
Meeting his eyes, Wonder whispers, “I…”
“Too flustered to answer? That’s fine,” the goddess says. “Because I wasn’t asking you.”
Wonder falters, goggling at the sovereign. Then whom had this female been addressing?
Oh. That’s whom.
The goddess maintains a steady gaze on Wonder, but her query shifts toward the only other exile in the room. Malice’s lips split, parting in confusion. He screws up his face as if he doesn’t understand.
But it makes sense. Whatever the deities believe about love, they would deem Wonder susceptible. She’s part of the elite class that had included the first love goddess in history; as time has gone by, her peers have been revealing a penchant for sentimentally. The Fates either assume that it’s due to Love’s influence or because each member of her class—Anger, Envy, Sorrow, and Wonder—is a fundamental component of the emotion.
But Malice isn’t part of Love’s class. Between him and Wonder, he’s the one less likely to emit that breed of affection.
Wonder watches him reach the same conclusion, a snarl curling from his mouth. Those gray orbs waver, wrestling with the notion.
“Sorry. I didn’t get the question,” he lies, and for his trouble, the crystal arrow presses into him. The weapon’s about to break skin, urging him to show obedience, so he offers a scant crank of the head, a brief nod.
“Pardon me?” the gossamer goddess says. “I did not hear that.”
At last, he speaks, averting his gaze from Wonder. “Yes,” he bites out.
Wonder’s mouth falls open, landing somewhere on the floor.
Malice loves her.
Certainly, the hate has evaporated, replaced by camaraderie, respect, and desire. But this?
Joy and fear take root in her body. She should be insulted that he can only confess his feelings at the point of an arrow—but this is Malice. He would rather saw off his tongue in slow motion, or donate his cerebral cortex to research, than to expose a vulnerability.
Or is there another reason? Wonder has a hunch, which causes a twinge in her chest, in her hands, in her everything.
From the rulers, repulsion and denial knot together. Only the goddess draped in butterfly gossamer watches the scene steadily. She stays that way, lost in thought while the Court members shove Wonder and Malice against the only two podiums left standing.
Clearing the debris, the rulers push them to the floor and bind them to the fixtures. They use tethers instead of star-dusted manacles, but no matter. These harnesses are just as impervious to a deity’s strength.
The gossamer goddess suggests a conference, and the others agree. They leave their prisoners mounted to the encasements, surrounded by dunes of glass and manuscripts.
Wonder takes a guess. The Fate Court will allow them to live, then pry their psyches for information, particularly any secrets unearthed from the Chamber, plus whatever revolutionary plans Wonder’s class has devised.
The rulers will prepare themselves for Malice’s mind games, his smarmy half-truths, and his pornographic lexicon. They’ll appeal to Wonder’s nomadic frame of mind and take advantage of Malice’s feelings for her.
Whether or not the Court believes in love, that’s immaterial. The point is that Malice does. Against his will, he’s handed the Fates a bargaining chip, a means to keep him in line. If it comes down to it, they shall torture Wonder in order to pull answers from him.
They might do the same to him, make him watch while they surround her. Regardless if these affections are recognizable to the Court, Wonder and Malice’s actions imply caring and connection. In this room, they had tried to protect one another, and not out of duty.
After the Court’s departure, the quiet grows spectacularly loud. Across from her, Malice glares at a spot over her shoulder. His chest injury oozes, but at least the frosted goddess had ripped out the glass shortly before vacating the gallery.
All the same, Malice winces, blood spritzing from the wound. He drags his tongue over his teeth, stained with dots of crimson as though he’s been gorging on pomegranates.
From opposite ends, their feet brush in the middle, her boot soles against his bare soles. Wonder fixes on the sight while the most vital organ inside her goes wild. If she doesn’t spit it out, she’ll second-guess herself.
She asks, “Did you mean it?”
“I told you to fuck off and take off,” he mutters. “Didn’t I?”
“Haven’t you heard, dearest? I’m not good at following orders.”
“If you had, you’d be long gone.”
“If I had, you’d be long dead.”
“I’ve already been dead once. I can handle it.”
What he can’t handle are the bindings. Malice struggles against them, his breathing rampant because they’d restrained his arms. He might panic soon, revolt against the universe, and hurt himself even more.
Gently, she rubs her foot against his until he sags, his skull thunking the podium, his inhalations evening out. After a few moments, she’s certain he won’t have a meltdown. Though to keep it that way, he shall need a distraction.
Wonder whispers, “Malice, look at me.”
He does, narrowing his gaze. “What?”
“Did. You. Mean. It?”
“You’ll have to be more specific. I mean lots of things, and I mean lots of nothings, too. I’m chock-full of meanings. I like meanings.”
She grins fondly, sadly, because she knows what he’s doing. “You meant it.”
“Meant what? What do you care?”
“I do ca—”
“Oh, I’m sure you do.”
His drawl points right to the past—to Quill, not to him. Is his assumption correct? If the goddess had requested an answer from Wonder instead of Malice, what would she have said? Yes or no?
Loving Quill isn’t the same as craving him.
Craving Malice isn’t the same as loving him.
So which is it? Which incarnation?
Pain creases Malice’s visage, either from her refrain or his injury. His neck bobs as he swerves away, giving her his profile. “I guess sharing you with my ghost is okay.”