Page 101 of Creatures that Breathe

honestly, like some fucking play doh and a drink umbrella would suffice at this point

“Is he dead?” I ask, mind racing, struggling to process.

I don’t care.

I don’t.

I just—why didn’t he come for me? Why send Andromeda?

He barely flinched when a bullet carved out a home in his shoulder, sewed it up like he was trimming split ends. If he isn’t here, if he couldn’t come, if he sent someone else …

“Was he shot?” I ask, still not caring.

Maybe a little.

A fraction of me still clings to the male who vowed to protect me in the warmth of the pub, smelling faintly of orange and rain, fingers twirling my hair.

The rest of me is bitter and angry and requires revenge. I’m not a killer, but a swift kick to the balls? Let’s do it. A kick me sign on the back? Yes. An onslaught of pointed negs. I’m making a list.

I’ll hurt him back, and leave him, like he left me.

Why did I think he would stay?

Because we got along? Shared a few laughs? Because he tossed a few compliments at me? Because he liked the blue? It’s a five-dollar box dye.

So what if his kiss made me feel alive, hopeful?

Meda—no one calls me Andromeda, Leni—bounces hard in the seat next to me as she wipes her face with what’s left of her skirt.

“Who?” she asks, throwing her golden gaze behind us, snatching up her dagger. Confusion clouds her features.

“Cross.”

“What?”

“Cross,” I hiss. “Atlas sent you to collect me for Cross. Me. Leni.” My hands, covered in a layer of smeared dirt, are raised in surrender. Fresh sweat on my forehead trickles down, mingling with the grime on my face. The entire car now carries our scent, pine sap and smoke. “Your spymaster, remember?”

Meda is efficient and purposeful. For nearly ten hours, she’s kept us moving. Sprinting through dense woods, absconding a backfiring ATV, squeezing us onto a cramped bus, hiding like stowaways on a train, and now in this beast of a car.

If it can be called that.

It’s more like a tank. It lacks any semblance of comfort and safety. The windows are blacked out from the inside, the lap belts struggle to hold us in place, and the constant rumble of the engine rattles my teeth, vibrating through the worn-out seat cushions.

Meda shakes her head as if clearing cobwebs from a forgotten corner of her mind. Her posture relaxes slightly and her clutch on her decked out dagger loosens. “Cross?” She doesn’t sound familiar, more like she’s attempting to jog her memories.

“Yes,” I grunt, barely audible over the engine’s thrum. “Cross. Brown hair, eyes like midnight shooting stars.”

We keep doing this. Having this same conversation.

She wiped his name off her arm while we waited in line at the Poughkeepsie bus station, along with bullet points one and two—retrieve Leni and erase tracks.

I added a step one point five, ripping down the lanterns in Draven’s halls, nearly lighting us on fire as we escaped.

“Meticulous,” she mutters, squinting at the roof. “Paranoid.” A nod. “He’s alive. Kind of.”

Kind of? I fist the singed ruffles of my dress. “Was he shot?”

“I can’t …” she trails off, her eyes haunted by what isn’t there. “I told him we wouldn’t be followed. And Atlas never breaks his word. He said if I obeyed his instructions, no one could track us.”

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