Page 14 of Creatures that Breathe

It’s the little girl who stands up straight, using her brand new boot as a talking device as she meets my eyes. “He is in there.” She speaks slow, formal English. And my Estonian accent isn’t as good as I thought it was. The toe of her boot lands on my knuckles, wet and rubbery. “Do not go after him. He is a bad man.”

Not always, but sometimes when Chire mature, they unlock magnificent abilities. Abilities that have determined the fate of wars, felled Gods. I can feel such power swirling under her skin. She will have one.

If she makes it.

I train my eyes to the frayed ends of her laces and contemplate her words. “You’re right. He is, but so am I.”

She sighs, like I’m comparing apples and oranges. “No, you are wrong. You are not bad. The Goddess said that you will save her.”

I force my face flat, compel a thousand questions to glue on the back of my tongue.

“But you need to show her first,” the girl continues. “You must prove yourself. “

“Do you know where this Goddess is?”

She glances at the neon sign and the glow catches on her necklace. A gold chain holding a letter E dangles around her throat. A vivid image shoots into my mind. Leni draping the gold on this little girl’s neck, smiling as she tells them about me. “She’s inside? You’re sure?”

“Yes. She is waiting for you,” the girl confirms with childlike certainty before she takes her brother’s hand, and in their own tongue, snaps, “We’re leaving. Swift fingers.”

Hands snag on my shirt, clumsy, fondling my pocket, and then small feet slap away, hopping between the sloppy trenches left from big boots. A lone giggle sinks down the road.

I stand, hundred bucks lighter, and wipe the grime from the door handle with the back of my knuckles. Inhale. The scent of decay lingers, too stubborn to fade under the snow, or too rampant.

There’s no doubt in my mind that a trap lies behind the Ballasts’ doors.

But Lev’s inside, and contrary to the Kingsguard code that says the fallen get left, I’ll never abandon a brother.

Shaking condensation from my hair, I crack the door and immediately recognize the sound of flesh meeting bone.

The Ballasts were here first. Before the markets, before the buildings, the cafes, the palpable Scandinavian atmosphere.

Its age shows. Cobwebbed rafters with pigeon nests, white-caked chains. Gnarled hoists droop with sequined bras and hats and blood, a swirl of crimson and shimmering ethereal silver. The steel beams holding the place together have been repaired and refastened ten times over, shiny metal soldered onto rust, slopped over with old paint.

Mortals claim the entire block is an abandoned slaughterhouse, but it’s only one of those things.

There’s hardly free air to breathe as I maneuver between a huddle of Lycaon and a cluster of white-haired males bearing Hamadryad badges and exchanging Canadian currency.

The Dryads sided with Kadmos. Woodland spirits who deserted their peace and joined arms for his reign. Now nothing more than uprooted wanderers. Listless.

Once allies. Now enemies.

Instinctively, I call on my power, pulling darkness around me as I push deeper inside. Lights flicker out, the thrashing music gets louder, and eyes blur around me.

Overhead, preening on orange scaffolding, tonight’s showrunner reigns. He’s draped in a fuchsia trench coat, carries twin assault rifles, and shouts over excited cries to explain the drachma exchange rate with the monotone of PSAs announcing the end of a moving walkway. The pointed toe of his serpent skin boot kicks a tooth through the slats as he checks his nails, sharpened into dagger like points.

He’s bored. Tonight’s tame, which means no one’s faced the Russian hammer.

I should be glad, but I’m not.

This entire place feels like a tripwire.

Tears well in my eyes at the stench of Scylla blood, the cloying reek of daffodils swirling with sweat and death. The showrunner calls attention for the next fight, and creatures cheer halfheartedly. Uninvested.

I find Lev at the bar. An upright bear. No better description. “Did you find anything?” I ask.

“Fuck.” Lev jolts, body instantly tense, hands turned into tight fists.

I palm my dagger, prepared for the blow at his clouded eyes, but he blinks the aggression away, shakes out his shoulders. “Why can’t you wear a nametag?”

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