Page 23 of Creatures that Breathe

“Yeah, and I heard a spaceship beamed him up,” retorts the spymaster. I strain to catch a glimpse of his face, but his hand obscures it, wiping away grime and exhaustion.

Lev scoffs, no time for sarcasm. “This is real.”

“It’s a rumor,” returns Cross, all disdain. “A shitty one. There’s been no mention of a fire. Ever. And if there was, it could’ve started after he died, could’ve been to cover tracks.”

“Then why was it covered up?”

“So what then?” Cross yanks on his hair. “Kadmos died in a tragic accident? What does that mean, other than we’re absolutely fucked?”

Lev’s head lowers in determination as he emphasizes, The flames, not the smoke, the flames were black. Ever heard of that? Because I haven’t. That’s not an accident. It was deliberate and fucking bad enough that it either killed everyone who saw it or scared them enough to never mention it—”

“Sounds made up.” I don’t consciously choose to say it, but it’s out regardless. With it, I peel from my spot. “Who’s ever heard of a black fire?”

Lev whips his head to me, dark hair in a knotty mess, face glistening with icy sweat. “You.” Is that my signature greeting? “You set us up, you—” He’s snarling at me, striding to end me. He swipes and I instinctively duck, a rush of air cutting over my head.

He tried to hit me.

“Lev.” Cross doesn’t shout, he berates with a single word.

The Russian doesn’t take his attention off me, fury and suspicion dripping from his fists and bunched shoulders. “No.”

“Yes. Fan out and—”

Lev snaps, teetering on the ledge between argument and fight. “You can barely stand and she’s ...” He turns to me. Big Threat Imminent lights flash.

Run.

“Enough.” Cross is no longer propped against the wall. Standing mostly in shadow, painted in crimson and black, warmth radiates from him. Different from the cocoon of heat he crafted in the tent, this warmth poses a challenge, a flame creeping closer to a fuse, a heavy blanket prepared to smother.

The back of my neck tingles. Too late to run.

“Don’t,” Lev commands the spymaster. When he looks at me, I don’t see the jokester or the brute, but the male who offered himself in place of Cross inside the Ballasts. “Reconnaissance.” His tongue swipes over his teeth. “Yeah. Sure. Who else is going to do it?”

I watch him leave, half convinced he’ll turn around and smack me.

But in fifteen feet, the sleet becomes so thick and the fog descends so low, his wide shoulders and imposing build blur and fuzz. He vanishes.

And I’m alone.

In the rain.

Cold seeps into my bones, my fingers sting and ... didn’t I come out here for someone? Or something? Did I forget?

For the life of me, I have no idea where I am or what I’m doing. Why I’m standing in an alley in tights when I should be macramé-ing the story of my life, competitive cheese rolling, or mastering origami while I can. Chase every wild idea before Draven figures out I’ve—

It snaps back hard. My brilliant masterplan. Code name: Convince the Blackguard my followers are actually their followers by following them. Code-Code name: Panties in a Twist.

Him.

I’m alone with the spymaster.

I stiffen, caught between waves of dread and intrigue. He left me. He yelled at me. He fought for me.

“Hey.” I’m nervous as I spin on my heels to face him, unsure which male will step from the shadows. “So.” I bump my hands together, awkward. “Some weather we’re having, yeah? It’s 83 in Barbados.”

Small talk. The new sorry-I-almost-got-you-killed-but-since-you’re-alive-I-still-need-that-favor.

The spymaster waits a long time to speak, scraping his boots against gravel and snow to push up the wall. In his palm, a streak of silver glints off the streetlamps.

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