Page 6 of Creatures that Breathe

Lapochka? Is that another Christ-mass thing?

“It’s Leni,” I offer brightly, browsing tanned leather gloves as I take a deep breath to settle my racing heart. I pair two lefts and start a tidy stack of rights.

How will you procrastinate yourself out of this one? Buy mittens with the cookie crumbs in your pocket?

Ignoring the hairs standing on the nape of my neck, I deploy a gentle smile. “And you’re Lev Mikhailov, but I still haven’t caught his name.”

For a moment, all I hear is the rush of wind on the tent, and wet boots tripping over cobblestone.

Lev wipes a hand over his mouth, nods at his spymaster. “You have a name for her?”

“No.”

With his massive arms held high on his chest, Mikhailov returns to me. “You heard him. Run along.”

No one’s panting or sweating or bleeding. The nearest weapon is a stumped knitting needle, yet violence hangs in the air with tangible vibration. My pulse has gone supersonic and there’s a tightening rope encompassing my lungs, as if my body’s saving air for when I inevitably bust ass out of here.

The instinct to flee in the face of danger is not innate.

It’s trained.

Wired through me as well as the strung bulbs overhead. It’s a constant hum in my veins.

If you ever find yourself in danger: don’t. Run, escape, surrender. Beg, plead, cry, but do not let them get close and do not let anyone touch you.

I flinch, arms, head, legs, every part rears at the sudden snap of a frayed white thread in the spymaster’s hand.

I estimate it’d take one percent of his strength to overturn this table and bury me in it. Suffocation by scarf.

But he doesn’t. Hasn’t.

Neither one has done anything. All week.

The same males who bested the feral Keres Empire with a relentless twelve year siege, the males who stained the Cliffs of Dover blue with Atlantide blood, the sadists who dismembered their own Hydra advisor limb by regenerating limb their own are regulars at the cute cafe on Kopli. They order the usual. Extra hot Pekoe and a barrel of drip.

It hurts to raise my head, to grind my toes into the soles of my shoes, to stay, hurts the same way it does when I watch an addle-minded bunny in the gardens veer too near a foxhole, but I do it. “I guess I’ll have to call you spymaster then. Pity, since it drags on the tongue, and I’m sure your name is lovely.”

“It’s not.”

Guess the manners portion is over. “They told me you were scary, but you both look normal. Almost. If it weren’t for the …” I draw a finger across my throat, slow, insinuating. “The tattoos are a definite choice, yes, but not scary. More regrettable.”

“Are you saying we’re not scary … or pretty?” Lev’s accent softens the growl of his voice, the palatalized vowels and sharp Rs are so melodic, it takes me a moment to realize he’s taunting me.

“We’re not creatures,” adds the spymaster.

“Well, of course not, creatures are scary.” Lev tucks thumbs into his armpits, and wets his bottom lip, settling in to make a meal of this.

“You’re not mortals,” I bite. “And I know you’re not Gods, so—”

“How could we be?” Lev interrupts. “Gods are pretty.”

I consider pushing this unwelcome third wheel out of the tent until the question I have a hundred answers for drips out of the spymaster’s mouth, “What are you?”

My response is practiced and playful. “That is incredibly offensive. What’s next? My age? My weight? How many games of baccarat I’ve won?”

“As well as how many you’ve lost.” The spymaster is not in on the teasing vibe. “No mettle in the wins if the losses outweigh it.”

“I’ve never lost.” I’m not really sure if it’s played with cards or dice. Can’t out-rule jelly beans at this point.

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