Page 102 of Creatures that Breathe

“Andromeda. Can you just focus? Cross. What happened to him?”

“Fuck this,” she snaps, unwinding her apron and unbuckling her seatbelt. Not hesitating as she rams her boot through the driver’s gray partition.

A faint groan escapes Sin’s lips in protest. “Hey,” he complains. “The plan is—”

“Yeah, I’ve been briefed on the plan, but I just remembered that the spymaster isn’t my boss, and you’re making me carsick with your horrible driving,” she replies, climbing into the front seat and plopping down, dirty boots propped on the dash.

White dusted mountains fill the windshield, dense with fluffy snow-laden trees and rounded peaks.

I focus at the beautiful male behind the wheel. “What about you? Can you tell me what happened to Cross?”

“The bride to be. What a pleasure.” Sin directs a wink in the rearview mirror, one of his hands on the wheel, the other shaking an iced coffee. “Oh darling, white is not your color.”

“I’m aware.” I grit out. The dress is filthy, the train knotted, blackened, tucked in a ball at my back. I don’t care. “Where is he?” I’m impatient, worried we’re dragging, worried Andromeda’s going to grab her dagger again and threaten me.

“Who’s Cross?” Meda asks, like I’m speaking in tongues.

“Cross!” I shout, pushing myself up from the seat. “Your friend! Your brother! The one who sticks his neck out for your information, who protects you and fights for you despite getting nothing in return, not even a familiar look from you. He calls you his family and you don’t even know him. You—”

“Calm. Down.”

I do.

As quick as that.

Sin’s command is like a tropical breeze across my senses. The weight on my chest evaporates, my pulse settles.

“Good girl,” Sin continues in the same decadent tone. “All we’ve been told is that Atlas requires your lovely presence. And he dispatched the Blackguard’s ultimate dream team, these sultry, ferocious honey pots, to collect you. Isn’t that right, my darling Andromeda?”

“No,” she deadpans. “You sat in a damn car for half a day wanking it. I’m the one who did the actual work.”

“I’m not a plebeian, Meda. I demand a certain ambiance and sensual accoutrements to wank it.” Sin’s tone is saccharine, and I can’t discern if he’s being sarcastic or genuine.

Meda’s as dry with him as she is with me. “Yes. That’s why you were charged with indecent exposure at Denny’s.”

“If you read the report,” Sin fires back. “I wasn’t wanking anything, I was getting—”

“Why didn’t Atlas send Cross?” I interrupt, ending the debate.

“His royal micropenis only hires females,” Meda drawls. “And Sin’s got the lashes, but his persuasion has its limitations.”

Sin’s persuasion. I read something about that in Kadmos’s dirty scrawl, in one of his journals. The ability to manipulate emotion. It strikes me as relatively useless as I nestle down in my seat, suddenly overcome with exhaustion.

I’ll get answers when I can. In the meantime, might as well rest, try to eat.

I jolt. “You’re doing it to me!”

“Now you understand how we feel,” Sin croons, as the dregs of peace and weariness flake off my skin. “You honestly believe we like forgetting our own brother? We can’t help it. If I say calm, you’ll be calm. If he leaves the room, we forget.”

He stops the car abruptly, throws it into park to share a knowing look with Meda. “So mine worked fine. Which means she’s just immune to him.”

Meda seems surprised. “Atlas will be sad.”

“Atlas sent me to my death,” I balk.

“Oh gee, would love to discuss more, but we’re here.” She twists in her seat with a phony smile. “I vote bath, food, and then nap. What do you say?”

“I’m not doing anything until I see Cross.” I launch myself out of the car, determined, and freeze as soon as my silk slippers hit stone.

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