Page 31 of Creatures that Breathe

My wrist snaps. The curse bands are buzzing, narrowing. I’ve lost too much blood and air. Pain seizes my chest, and still, horrible covetous thoughts rule me.

Touch her. She wants you too. She asked.

No. I clench my teeth.

I’m not a monster.

I strive to relax and command the shadows to overtake her, to douse any memory of me, any fear.

Black flames. I think it so hard, I smell it before I sag into the abyss.

I wanted to be nothing. Nobody.

I didn’t admit it, out loud, not back then, but I craved to disappear.

Every mortal yearns for the unimaginable.

I was born with a lofty title, with means and land, and immense vacuous power, all for happening to be born first and in the gender society preferred.

England was small then, but my own self-importance made it smaller. I hated my status and the expectations bound to it. Properties and servants. Marriage. Heirs.

I rebelled against my birthright, a spoiled lad seeking liberation in the gutters of London.

Days before I turned seventeen, I pledged myself as a spy in service of the Queen under a fake name and no skills and for nine years, for Her Majesty, I pretended to be nobody.

Until I didn’t have to pretend at all.

The ruse sank into my bones, etched lines of fatigue on my face, corrupted memories with false stories.

When my lieutenant sent me home to Mayfair, nothing had changed. There remained a harsh boundary between the lucky and the not. Time changed, I changed, but the rules of society did not.

Atlas found me stuck in the front gate of my estate, unable to enter. The servants hadn’t recognized me. Didn’t know my name, had no memory of me. Not at the house, not the club I frequented, not the neighbors or the church.

No one knew who I was.

“No one’s inside,” Atlas greeted in a harsh, American accent. “They’re in the country, attending a wedding. A fancy affair. Lowborn and a duke, a love match.” He sounded impressed, rather than disgusted, as he wiped his hands with a clean hanky, and tucked it in the pocket of his trousers.

Unrefined.

Barbaric Yankee, I’d thought.

Atlas invited me to share a scotch at the gentlemen’s club, where he shattered my world, and asked for my help.

He convinced me to board a boat. Sail across the ocean.

I was still in my uniform, sashes steamed, buttons gleaming when I met King Kadmos.

He didn’t look up when we entered his study. His desk was a sea of maps and parchment, battalion markers playing paperweight. Toward the back of the room, a sword laid haphazardly in its sheath beside stained glass windows, flung open despite the storm rumbling on the horizon.

The king wore no elaborate jewelry, no crown, only a basic linen shirt. He was unshaven and his black hair was cut unfashionably short. A wide chest and sturdy stance suggested he still fought more battles on the ground than in an office.

“My king.” Atlas bowed, fist over his heart.

“Son,” returned the king. “And you ought to be the male who can hide in plain sight.” Kadmos reached for my hand. “Do not look so shocked. There are a great many things I can do that no other has accomplished,” A charming wink. “Come in, my friend. Let us see if you are the same. If we may achieve something Zeus never could.”

I’d served crowns before, and I thought I knew what royals were—regardless of their blood and which Gods they served, regardless of what they over-promised.

Kadmos was different. Maybe because creatures chose him to be their king, or because he was a Demigod.

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