The Undercutting of Rosie and Adam (Hart and Mercy, #3)

by Megan Bannen

Act first, think never, because fifty years from now, no one is going to remember this anyway, Rosie thought in reply, her oft-repeated personal motto.

Hart Ralston had been Duckers’s mentor, and before that he had been Alma Maguire’s partner prior to her promotion to chief marshal. Like Maguire and Rosie, he was a demigod, but unlike anyone walking the earth, he could see the souls of the departed as they floated off to sail the Salt Sea.

Mother—had died a hundred and twenty-two years ago last month, but Rosie still missed her. She wondered if that deep sense of loss would fade over time. She hoped not.

“Blammo Tinky Fartface.” In fact, most of the time, she called the cat Tinky, or occasionally Fart, but she wanted to make a bona fide god who had witnessed the creation of the world and the birth of humanity say Blammo Tinky Fartface.

No one would ever grieve Rosie. It was like that saying about always being a bridesmaid and never a bride, except she was always the mourner, never the mourned.

I don’t know how to be in the world without my father. I’ve never had to try. But that’s what life is, isn’t it? Trying every single day, even if it might be your last.

Rosie had zero romantic interest in the man, but those forearms could inspire sonnets.

“And with that, he won her undying love forever,” Duckers narrated from the back.

“There are two things Fox loves most in this world: this ridiculous tin can and her underwear.” “I prefer lingerie or delicates or intimates. Get it right, Tighty-Whities.”

“Once more, for the Penrose Duckerses in the back: I can’t die,” she said, even though he couldn’t hear her.

Saltlicker had long been a divisive

“One does not forget a stunning woman with eyes like garnets.”

As she studied his features, she found herself wondering how old he was. The debonair silver streak in his glossy jet hair spoke of his having at least half a century under his belt, but his face showed only a hint of lines around his eyes and across his broad forehead.

Even if he had been staggeringly young when he had invented the portals, he would have to be at least approaching sixty by now, wouldn’t he?

Saltlicker’s bad behavior was infectious, egging on the other equimares.

“I don’t know how old I am.”

Duckers shuddered. “It’s so disturbing when you have to see your boss as a real person with a real life.”

“Paging Clueless, party of one.”

I’m thirty-two years old now.

Heartbreak is an inevitable part of life, and even if you did shatter his heart into a million pieces, look what a good job he did putting himself back together.”

It’s just that… You never stop being who you were, do you? You may be here of the novel that is your life, but that doesn’t mean here no longer exists.

He had behaved as if he were solely to blame for getting them trapped inside Tanria.

“Bless you.” He closed his eyes as he took a bite in evident reverence. “Do you and the cookie need some alone time?” asked Rosie. “You don’t understand. These are the greatest cookies of all time. I’ve been trying to re-create this recipe for years, and I’ve never gotten it right.”

It is so dang hard for me to know that my own daughter is trapped in Tanria when I’m the only Old God who managed to evade that fate. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?

We’re calling him Tinky since Mercy put her foot down on calling him Fartface. Apologies.

If she could die, she would gladly sacrifice her own life for Penrose Duckers—for any of them—yet here she stood, watching him suffer and powerless to do a thing about it.

“Well, most of them are messages of moral support, but, you know, kooks are everywhere.”

“But you can’t be the Briar Thief,” she said at last. “Why can’t I be the Briar Thief?” “Because he died! He’s dead! He got a giant thorn through the heart!” “The Thorn of Eternal Life,” Adam said slowly and evenly, helping her connect the dots. “So there’s a plant growing inside you? That’s your medical condition?” asked Duckers.

“How old were you when this happened?” “Thirty-three.” “So your body is thirty-three years old? Forever?”

“No, I wear glasses because I’m nearsighted.” “But you’re immortal.” “Yes, I’m trapped in my thirty-three-year-old body, with my thirty-three-year-old eyes, which were and continue to be nearsighted.”

“Excuse me. Do you all realize this man is two thousand years old? What the fuck?” “The war was two thousand and twenty-five years ago, so technically, I am roughly two thousand and fifty-eight years old.

Duckers cackled. “You invented toilets?”

“You enjoy a man’s yearning and suffering?” “Fictionally speaking? Very much.”

She was well aware that her body, permanently hovering somewhere in her midtwenties,

And then he took her face in his hands and treated her to the slowest, deepest, most heart-meltingly passionate kiss of her life.

“Are we… What are we?” she asked him, feeling shy all of a sudden.

I mean id ask after one kiss too

“You don’t have to feel brave to be brave.”

“Because I’d rather be stuck in here with you than stuck out there without you, you fucking asshole.”

I’m in love with you, you soft cantaloupe.”

“So I’m basically fertilizer for the Love Plant.”

This was a kiss two thousand years in the making.

“I think you are a thousand times more beautiful in peacock feathers than a peacock could ever hope to be.” “That’s so sweet, but all I heard was cock.”

“It’s true that I have fucked many people, many times, in many ways. I have fucked every kind of person imaginable—every size, every shape, every nationality, every gender, and of every persuasion under the altar of the sky. I have fucked my way through entire years of my life simply to forget the fact that I cannot die. But I promise you, my ruzhkel, I have never made love with someone before now.”

“How do you say your name? Your real name.” “Lidojozháis Mäkherkis Ödamika.”

I have not been Ödam in a long time, and I don’t want to be that man again. You can call me Ödam when you are angry with me. Tonight, I am Adam. I am your Adam.”

“Perhaps kings and gods make better kings and gods than parents.”

“We’re immortal. Loss is inevitable.” He looked at her, his eyes dark and fathomless. “Loss upon loss.” “Loss upon loss,” she agreed.

As she leaned in to kiss him, her fingers brushed the vine draped across his chest. She felt it. She touched it, and it moved. “Adam?” But he was already looking, his eyes going wide as a bud neither of them had noticed until now unfurled like Rosie’s heart, petal by soft petal, into a beautiful red bloom.

He didn’t need to say more. The bittersweet look on his face said everything. I love you, but I have a chance to come to the end. Let me end.

Rosie blew her nose and tucked the hankie into her own pocket, since she couldn’t very well hand Adam a linen square of her own snot.