Page 21 of Creatures that Breathe

My actual reaction disturbs me.

Pride.

The same light tingling I get when I’ve charted a foolproof path to checkmate. My skin tingles. My cheeks flush.

What else? His rasped question skitters down my spine. He’d asked me. Me. As if he were my weapon to wield. As if the only reason he’d stopped evading and attacked—destroyed—was because I willed it.

My lungs deflate, my head spins, but I never shift my focus from the sparkling blood floating over the gray floor, filling in cracks and holes. The metallic scent of blood fills the air, mingling with the building’s musk.

To a creature who wasn’t allowed to use scissors until she was fifteen, Cross’s declaration felt as if I suddenly had an atomic bomb at my fingertips. Exhilarating and petrifying.

Until he collapsed. The sound of his body hitting concrete, the thud of fractured bone and shredded muscle echoes in my ears.

What was that?

How bad are his injuries?

Why do you care?

Guilt. Yes. That’s why my feet have turned into cement blocks. Because I entered his name in the Ballasts’ lineup. Because I was desperate to know if he could survive me.

He’ll outlive us all.

A human with immortality. Might as well teach a sheep how to use a chainsaw.

The thump of my heartbeat pounds in my head.

Elbows dig into my back, driving me against the cage’s fence. I’m executing a triple pat on the back while every other creature is trying to make sense of the clusterfuck of the fight.

Murmurs leak into the air, slipping from scratchy throats.

“ ... deserves to bleed.”

“ ... a fucking cheater.”

“ ... disgraced cockroach. Thinks he’s better than us.”

“You there.” The male next to me snatches my shoulder, claws popping holes in my coat. “You’re with them.”

“Sorry, who are you referring to?” I’m sideways, body contorted to avoid his grasp. “Can you specify?”

“Him ...” A confused slash of his features. “The ...” He shakes his head, growls. “You ... I know you killed the Annhiliator.”

“Me?” I peel his fingers off me as delicately as possible. “How could I? Look at me.”

The only true weapon of a lesser creature: playing on other’s assumptions. Helpless, stupid, puny ... bring them on.

“Someone killed him!” The buddy behind him yells, a big line on his forehead.

The room still pulsates with fury, but there’s a vagueness to their rambling now, as if a layer of frost has crawled across a window and all of us are throwing elbows to peek outside.

Questions bounce from one creature to another like a game of leapfrog. What happened? Who did I bet on? Where’s my wallet?

“Do we even know if he’s dead?” I ask, feigning devil’s advocate, guilt rooting me to the spot. If the spymaster behaved as my weapon—then this life is on my hands. “Shouldn’t someone check?”

General murmurs of agreement. Yeahs, and checks, and you do it, followed by, Me? Why don’t you do it?

I’m not getting in there with him.

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