Page 2 of Creatures that Breathe

Nadja makes a universal out of my hands gesture. “Fritz really, really likes Christmas.”

Sweet Hera, I’ve been pronouncing that wrong for two weeks. All those confused faces on the receiving end of Happy Christ-Mass—I fiddle with the brass zipper on my coat and peer at the crowd behind me, stomach rolling.

No. Stop.

Draven’s not here. He doesn’t know where I am, he can’t punish me for the slip up.

I force my face forward and give a slight smile to my new friend. Rather than dump on Fritz the Dick further—because honestly, where does one begin? The mohawk or the misogyny?—I nudge the to-go box across the red top of our picnic table. “Try the kringle. I can’t tell if it’s white or milk chocolate.”

It’s dark. And I’m procrastinating. A chronic skill. It started off innocently enough. General stalling because my plan was riddled with holes and half insane. Not half. Full-blown straitjacket crazy, hit-the-emergency-eject mad.

Could my fiancé—ex-fiancé!—really be worse than sadists who quite literally eliminated the realm’s last hope?

Coin-flip.

Then, precisely three days ago, halfway through a party-sized cheese plate and still chowing, I realized what I’d been missing. What an idiot I’d been, distracted by a change of scenery and a dash of freedom. The truth was dangling in front of me, begging for attention.

None of the scary campfire stories were true.

How could they be?

The Blackguard had been in a major creature city for four days and there was a complete lack of terror, an absence of gruesome murders. Zero shrieks of horror at twilight.

I had to investigate.

And tonight—yes, definitely tonight—was time to test my theory.

After Nadja ate.

Earlier, when I determined it’d be impossible to succeed without dessert first, I overheard Bag of Dicks Fritz tell Nadja she’d had enough to eat, before promptly instructing her to sit and wait for him.

Like a pet. Like he’d swat her with a rolled up SkyMall if she didn’t.

“It’s easy for you to say,” Nadja remarks, savoring her wine. “You’re every guy’s dream.”

Ha! “Try telling that to my ex-fiancé.” Draven hates me. He only tolerates me for my potential. A wife too terrified to defy him, willing to be used and abused at his convenience. “There isn’t a single part of me he intends to keep.”

Nadja’s wool mitten curves over my pink coat sleeve, offering a comforting touch. “You’re heartbroken now, but you’ll find someone else,” she assures, her voice filled with genuine affection. “He was wrong to let you go.”

Innocent, misunderstanding mortal. I pat her hand and force a smile, pushing aside thoughts of Draven. “I wish he’d let me go. I’d love to be alone.”

“And then what?” she asks, finishing her wine, then the kringle.

I don’t understand the question. “And then … everything?”

She waits as if I’m about to spout the bullet points of my ten-year plan, and a stream of embarrassment scours my stomach. I wipe my palms down the front of my coat. “Whatever I want.” I shrug. “Read. Learn how to bake. I don’t know. People seem to enjoy knitting.”

The details are fuzzy. They’ll work themselves out. Right now, I’m focused on the main goal: gaining freedom.

Nadja looks at me intently and if her cheeks weren’t flushed bright red, I might guess she’s a Morai, reading my fate. “Honestly, that’s like so sad.”

“No, it’s not,” I snap. What does she know anyway? She’s not a Morai, she’s a mortal. And she’s dating Fritz.

Squelching the twinge of worry, my attention slips from our roped in dining area to the street.

Tallinn’s town square has been transformed into a dazzling Christmas market. Makeshift shopping stalls share flapping white linen walls and curved paths lead shoppers through pure holiday wonder.

I’ve never seen so many mortals out of doors in the winter. The subfreezing temperatures nip my cheeks and I’ve only read one book on mortals thanks to the Argos laws against fraternization—i.e., not allowed—but I’m amazed to learn the cold doesn’t blister their weak constitutions.

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