Page 16 of Creatures that Breathe

Cross

the Ballasts of Tallinn

I want to rage.

I want to yell that they’re wrong, that I’m not Blackguard, I’m nobody. I want to pull my blade and gut the next creature who dares to lay a hand on me. I resist all of it.

Denial and hatred crackle under my skin as I stare at the drop of vibrant blue frozen by the door.

My tripwire.

Curiosity snags me. I release the reins of my power, allowing light and faces to watch as I raise my head high, same as I’ve done time and time again in the face of death. I take deliberate steps, ignoring the slander and curses percolating around me.

Fight, argue, scream—that’s what they crave. A coward they can exploit and humiliate. They wish to revel in my fear, watch me stumble and break. Suffer. They crave a grand spectacle, and I refuse to deliver it. Steadfastly, I ascend the short stairs into the domed chain-link fighting cage, leaving my expression calm and hands loose.

The door rattles shut after me, heavy locks clicking into place at the sweep of the showrunner’s pointer.

As far as traps go—unveiling us to a horde teeming with enemies, separating me from my only ally, and confining me behind bars—it’s clever.

Lev juts his chin at me defiantly through the fence, dark eyes lit with fury. Four burly males restrain him. “Make it a challenge,” he taunts, voice laced with poison. “Lead left and don’t lag on the backswing, and—”

—don’t show weakness. “I got it.”

The showrunner, wily, grinning, coos with a hint of amusement about a noticeable lack of confidence emanating from the king’s killers.

If that’s what he wants to think, I let him. Underestimation leads to under-preparedness.

It’s December and the Annihilator—somebody’s mom didn’t love them—stalks back and forth on the cracked cement, wearing nothing but shorts and taped knuckles. With fire red sideburns and a tattoo of a Chimera prowling up his throat, he presents an, I assume, intimidating presence. When he speaks, sharpened fangs snag his lips like a deformed saber tooth, and judging from how jacked he is, I’d guess he’s either a Demigod or he’s ingested enough steroids to never have kids.

Not even the Gods are bored enough to name their offspring the Annihilator.

“What color do you bleed, Blackguard?” he spits, rough voice leaking menace. He thumps chunky hands against his chest.

Definitely drugs. “Black. And it burns hotter than acid.” Fuckwad.

I curl my hands into loose fists, wishing I wasn’t in fucking jeans and wet boots.

Shouts flood the rafters of the Ballasts, equal parts cheerful and deadly when the Annihilator jigs a warmup, swinging windmill arms and jabbing out his legs like we’ve got ten minutes to fill before pay-per-view starts.

I roll my head left, right, popping bones and stretching muscle, disregarding Lev’s advice to lead weakside when pain bursts across my chin. A sharp sting that radiates through my teeth.

Overhead, Fuchsia laughs. Claps. Doesn’t care that the bell hasn’t rung. He decides the rules, and tonight, they’re whatever decimates a Blackguard. “The Annihilator is hungry!”

Blood builds and forms in a pucker beneath my lip until the severe taste of iron coats my mouth. The bell stays silent, and the Annihilator lunges, swinging out wildly with a wide fist. I dodge, stepping swiftly from his reach, resetting my footing, rolling my eyes, and just as I’ve decided our fight will be short—blue.

Bright ocean blue and a coat of dreamy sunset pink.

She’s right up against the fence, delicate fingers curled tightly into the gaps of gray metal. Her voice is easy to catch through the nasty, body breaking yells, through the Sabertooth’s guttural cries and screech of chains. “You’re doing great!”

An uppercut targets me, and I shift at the last minute, spinning to hook my heel on the back of the Annihilator’s thigh. He shouts, banging into the cage.

Leni gives me a thumbs up. Two.

What the fuck?

The Annihilator charges feral and snarling like he’s personally responsible for the creation of D.A.R.E and I can’t stop looking at her.

You’ll save her.

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