Page 3 of Creatures that Breathe

It’s incredible how the feeble species endures, embroiled in a scheme of merriment and capitalism.

Some amble aimlessly, chasing sparkles and sales calls. Some walk with determination, clutching lists, tightening wool scarves at their necks. Others simply enjoy. Clogging the cobblestone aisles, marveling at the lights and color, laughing, nursing drinks, relaxed and at ease.

If the Blackguard of myth were here, blood would flood the roads, blue lightning would snap overhead, mutilated creatures would dangle across telephone wires like icicles, dripping down pink and blue and green.

My gut flips at the cheap, 2D fictional gore. I tip my mug away, lightheaded, palms suddenly clammy and force myself to inhale brittle ocean air.

Being sheltered has its drawbacks. Primarily, it fails to adequately prepare you for unspeakable horrors.

Buck up.

This is the calm before the storm, and I’m striding into the eye.

“You really don’t want anyone?” Nadja asks, oblivious to my sudden bout of nausea. “No one to take care of you? No one to hold you? No one to share with? What’s the point of life?”

“I’d rather be dead than treated like less than a pet.”

“Fritz is—”

“Nadja—” a harsh German accent pierces the air. Fritz. A vein pulsates on his overlarge forehead as he charges toward us, glare zeroing in on me. “What are you eating? And who the fuck is this?”

I’m gone. Sisterhood and friendship and girls-lifting-up-girls race down the drain. I’m out. No hesitation, no one final wine chug, no please-dump-him-he’s-toxic farewell, just self-preservation.

Threat? Run.

Creatures of prey learn it fast.

I sprint down the nearest aisle, stumbling through slush piles and dodging extension cords, fear hitting me harder than a physical blow, stinging my skin, constricting my breath.

It was stupid to intervene. Risky.

No more procrastinating.

Better alone. That’s my motto.

I glance behind me, cursing the least malevolent Gods for a lack of night vision and warrior strength.

Then I hit the jackpot.

The sentries in their infinite wisdom—double air quotes—implied the Kingsguard would rise from murky waters in flapping midnight cloaks, death singing at their fingertips.

In reality, Lev Mikhailov rocks a leather jacket made from ten cows and jeans that could put Wrangler out of business.

He’s taller than the stories. Thick as a battering ram with a nest of luscious, I-could-smother-you-with-these locks in rich brown.

Russian born, with fists deadlier than swallowed bullets, the former Kingsguard is best known for slitting his own father’s throat, and apparently, growing muscles on his muscles. Adorned with the signet of the Blackguard—a collar of impenetrable darkness tattooed around his neck.

I wince.

A needle pulled along skin is painful. I know this from experience. The tattoo on my chest still throbs.

Armies of needles shooting against pulses, getting dragged over and back until the skin is drenched in onyx? It must be excruciating.

Holding my breath, I divert into a jeweler’s stall as Lev stalks by, his chin high, dark eyebrows slanted together.

Without realizing why, the mortals cower, stare, or feign fascination with the ground and their phones.

The others, the creatures like me, betray themselves. A trio of hook-nosed females pause their inspection of one hundred percent sheep’s wool yarn to glare. A beautiful emerald eyed Triton spits his disdain for the Blackguard.

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