Page 5 of Creatures that Breathe

“He wants you alive.” The spymaster maintains a steady tone, unyielding in volume. He continues browsing, venturing toward over-embellished knitwear. “If you must, you can fight me tonight.”

A knot forms in my throat around a jagged, selfish denial.

The originator of organized crime, of syndicated murder, the Russian does not end a fight without death, and I really, really need the spymaster to live.

Lev’s gaze lingers on the spymaster’s hands. “I’ve heard that promise before.”

When the spymaster responds, his words carry a faint trace of amusement, “Have you?”

“Not funny.”

“Wrong,” returns the spymaster, now a definite teasing edge there. “Three out of four times, you laugh. Over half is pass-fail funny.”

Lev’s expression softens momentarily, a mix of pity and affection. None of it reaches his voice. “Half the time I pity you.”

“Bullshit.” The spymaster turns smoothly, silhouette becoming features, light unveiling a stare that fixes directly onto me.

The warmth vanishes from his face, replaced by an unreadable mask.

My heart stops.

The wind snatches the ties off the tent and slams it shut.

2

Leni

not lost, but maybe slightly misplaced

In that moment, I lose everything: what they’re saying, who they are, why I’m wearing tights and a knee-length parka. My name blinks black and shuffles out of reach. My fingers slip from the fabric. I recoil, a sickening dip in the pit of my stomach.

Run. When there’s trouble, run. Hide. Do not risk yourself. Yaya’s taught me how to survive.

I twist and a vision floods me, robs me of my escape. Silky curls in the softest shade of brown, intense eyes, the curve of a mouth falling, flattening, and firming.

Him.

The spymaster.

I shove off my hood as panic engulfs me. This is my only chance at freedom, I can’t lose it.

Ears roaring, I push inside the tent, blinking away the sudden prick of tears behind my eyelids. I stumble forward, dizzy from the shards of returning memories.

“Leave us.” The voice is black ice. A hard sheet of it stuck to a road, daring me to cross.

I’m panting, I’m sure of it, and my fingers are numb from fear, but I’ve played this game a thousand times over.

Laying awake in bed, hands squeezed together, heart racing, predicting moves, mounting countermoves.

Combatting the surge of frazzled energy, I imagine the two of us in my sitting room, cream carpet tickling my bare feet, a wide checkered table between us, game pieces waiting my command. A place where we’re equals, confined by rules and limits.

And it’s my turn.

“What gave me away?” I ask, slightly breathless, stroking a stack of colorful placemats on display as I put myself between Lev Mikhailov and the spymaster. “That I speak English?” I keep my tone light and my chin down. “Is it the hair? Or did you hope your tone would do enough to dissuade me, regardless of the language barrier?” I peek an eye at the dark silhouette. “Not very friendly.”

The Blackguard exchange a look, neither sure what’s happening or who’s spinning out between them. I can’t help but feel a little insulted when the spymaster’s gaze darts to the linens, silently unleashing his dog on me.

The Russian crosses bulky arms at me. “Shop elsewhere, lapochka. There’s nothing here for you.”

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