Page 13 of Creatures that Breathe

Tallinn is a hub for refugee creatures. No ruling species, no Divine temples, the wind from the sea is said to be too strong for the Argos—Hera’s personal attack dogs—to maneuver with regularity, allowing creatures rare freedoms. Kadmos claimed the city didn’t go far enough, that mortals should know who walked among them.

Ironic that I’m only safe now because of a law I once strived to overturn.

The city has changed since my last visit, modernized with streetlights and telephone poles, neon signs and holographic paint lines, and yet, amidst the clutter of progress, the worn grooves of the cobblestones bear the weight of history, each step resonating with echoes of battles fought and victories won, wars mortals have no idea were waged.

The air smells like clove and cinnamon, and the sound of mellow acoustic Christmas carols pulses between shop walls as I weave between the thinning crowds of humans.

Lev’s not here. There’s no hole in the crowd, no leering or affronted gasps, no lingering repulsion caused by the curse.

I debate shooting Atlas in the foot for sending Lev with me. When he’s keyed up, he’s worse than a clumsy dance partner stomping on my foot at every turn.

Sinis would’ve been better, smooth-tongued and able to read emotions. Drake would’ve been best, trained to extract secrets of the most resistant of his victims.

I picture his gloved hands holding a scalpel above Leni’s soft, pale skin.

On second thought, no. Drake’s array of gleaming tools isn’t allowed within a hundred feet of Leni.

Determined, I leave the merry market and traipse inland, cutting down alleys and broken side streets. Gradually, the radiance of the market fades, and a buzzing hum begins. The pulsing, gnarly tremor of old electricity from stolen, spliced lines. And then white neon, pulsating bars appear, rods crossed to form a universal this-is-where-you-want-to-be sign.

A sheen of fresh blood splatters the door’s metal kickboard, and there’s a guy passed out, probably dead, next to it, arm twisted at a wicked angle.

Two kids in thin coats hook fingers into the ankles of his boots and yank them free. They’re murmuring, trying to keep their voices low to avoid attention, but I’m three feet away and they’re failing.

Nearby, hoarse shouts blend into the buzzing as smoothly as a melody joining the chorus.

When the second boot drops, the boy grins at the shrouded moon, dark hair falling back from his face. He’s got a big, toothy smile that’s infectious but when he tips further, my stomach plummets.

Tapered ears.

Kadmos rolls over in his grave.

Chire children. Orphans. Increasing in commonness. The pointed ears are a giveaway, and the reason for their inevitable extinction.

Long ago, mortals great fear of the unknown led creatures to strip themselves of their distinct features. The Nereids forfeit their gills. The Oneroi abandoned their third eye.

The Hecatonchires—Chire for short—used to have fifty heads and one hundred hands. Their makers, the Titans, abhorred them, cast them out as monsters. But Zeus saw their potential, and offered them revenge on the Titans in his war to take control. The Chire led the charge for Zeus, handing him his place as God King.

Since then, they’ve adapted, but pride still glows in their genes, and the Chire never shed their last defining feature. The pointed ears.

I clear my throat and the kids freeze, expecting the worst.

My blood turns to ice. I used to fight for you, I want to say. Don’t look at me like that. I tried. I bled. I starved, I fought.

Once upon a time, the Chire saw me and cried with happiness, caressed the pommel of my sword as if it were Athena’s spear and prayed. Zeus and his Gods rejected them, despite their help, but we were there to pull them back into the light, to end their decimation.

They loved Kadmos and his warriors.

We were supposed to save them.

Go ahead. Tell them, my curse sneers, knowing every detail in my own black file. Relive those glory days. Remind them of all the vows you failed to keep. Tell them where you’ve been.

“Have you two seen a big, hairy man?” I ask in the local tongue, leaning a shoulder on the wall, nonaggressive, careful to keep my weapons hidden. “He looks like a bear that learned to walk on its hind legs.”

It’s pointless to offer them money for answers. They won’t take it. But I show them, withdrawing a wad of cash, crinkling the corners before balancing it loosely in the pocket of my jacket.

The boy’s eyes fixate on the money. “There are only big males in this area. You should turn back and leave.”

I lower into a crouch, cracking the pebbly film floating on a puddle with my fingertips, and roll up my sleeve just enough for him to see. “I’m looking for one that’s especially big, with a tattoo that matches this one.”

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