Page 2 of Quiver

Turns out, overworking isn’t a problem that’s limited to humans.

It was decided a month off would do him—and the rest of the world—some good, and the quest for the Interim Cupid began.

The logical solution?

A lottery.

Pay a few silvers and get an entry. Sure, a few attention-seeking high-rollers spent a small fortune putting their name in dozens… hell,hundredsof times. Mostly, though, it was jackasses sitting around after a few too many He-Brews, with nothing better to do than bet each other to put their names into the drawing.

It’s me.

I’m the jackass who was drunk on Angel Ale and entered the lottery.

Once!

I barely even remembered I did it, and I certainly never expected to win. When the heavenly trumpets blared and called my name, shocked doesn’tbeginto describe my panic.

Mere hours later, Micah showed up at my apartment door, unannounced, and let me tell you, he got a first-hand view of hot mess central. Ebony hair a curly, untamed mess and pajamas stained with pizza grease. I could only stare.

And stutter.

The disgusted cringe on his lips and judgmental, razor-sharp arch to his brow made his disapproval loud and clear, but he didn’t need to worry.

I was already panicking.

Ready or not, the responsibility of The Cupid was destined to lie on my thirty-two-year-old shoulders. That’s young enough for a human, but for a Cherub?

I might as well be sporting the diaper they depict us in.

“Azrael!” Micah barks, his tiny sliver of patience depleted. Spine straightening and eyes wide, I snap to attention. “There is less than a week until you take over for Seraphiel.”

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” I say, my voice coming out as a squeak.

“Oh, trust me, this was theworstidea, but as we’ve discussed a dozen times, you are bound by magical law. Regardless of whether you’re ready, the powers of The Cupid will pass to you in six days’ time.”

“Can’t we ask Seraphiel to wait another few weeks?” I plead, my already oversized eyes becoming wider as I beg.

“Absolutely not,” Micah barks, shaking his head as he gets a faraway look in his eyes. “Last week, there were maps of China spread out on his desk, with some concerning red circles drawn. No, it’s best he takes a break now before there’s no world left to serve.”

Twelve hours.

Seven hundred and twenty minutes.

Forty-three thousand, two hundred seconds until The Cupid’s powers are passed to me.

Get a good night’s rest, Az, everyone said.You’ll do great.

Sure, I’m doing a fantastic job now, staring at the ceiling and staving off a panic attack.

The past week of lessons? Nothing more than a blur. Micah’s midday outburst didn’t do a damn thing for my confidence. He flung his hands into the air and stormed out as he said, “I give up. Things can’t get any worse than they already are.”

And the worst part? I’mreallytrying.

He left, and I was determined to keep practicing until it clicked. There I stood—awkwardly gawking at the target. Fifty feet doesn’t sound like a lot, does it? Seems like it should be pretty easy to hit an enormous bullseye at that distance, but it isn’t.

It really fucking isn’t.

Bright side, there wastechnicallyan arrow sticking out of it, even if it was clinging for dear life to the outer ring. If we get down to the nitty-gritty logistics, it doesn’t matter where the arrow strikes, as long as it hits its human target. Shoulders, chest, leg, kneecap… the magic doesn’t care. It activates regardless of where it lands.

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