Page 4 of Creatures that Breathe

Lev’s stride falters, the front of his boot catching on dark purple stone.

I stop breathing. My hands shake as I mimic the mortals, slipping a mother-of-pearl bracelet from a display and draping it around my wrist. All the while, my ears ring, waiting for the next crunch of his boot.

One last test. A final confirmation of my theory.

My lungs burn, desperate for him to leave. Go. Walk away.

Inexplicably, he does, allowing the offense to go unanswered. The Triton heaves relief while the females titter.

They think they’ve been spared.

They’re wrong.

They were never in danger. Not from Mikhailov. But there’s another in play. One far more dangerous.

In the mirrored surface of my bracelet, wreathed in shadows of onyx, I catch a glimpse of another figure—the spymaster.

No one notices him.

Unseen by the crowd, the spymaster drifts through like black smoke in the night sky—everywhere at once and yet impossible to pin. One moment, he’s disappearing under knitted gloves dangling on twine, the next he’s ducking between a lush display of juniper pics.

My stomach plummets into my shoes.

Easy—Yaya once trilled while raking my annual allowance into her lap—is a synonym for worthless. Do you want a worthless win, little bird? No? Then earn it.

Right. I ditch the bracelet, fluff my hair, approach heart-attack level pulse.

There should be a guidebook for this. A Creature’s Guide to Liberation. Twenty Steps to Claim Your Power. How to Demoralize Yourself without Causing Mass Bloodshed.

Maybe I’ll write it.

The salty breeze assaults my cheeks as I scurry after him, instinct guiding me like checkers sliding off a tipped board. Adrenaline courses through my veins as I squeeze through a narrowing gap, determined not to lose sight of my target.

Glancing back, I count the looks that skip past him and land on me instead. I add them up as points on a scorecard. Five. Six. If I could read minds, I’d have a repeating transcript of she doesn’t belong here.

It’s nothing new.

I pull my hood down until my lashes stick to the bright pink trim and persevere, closing in on the dark silhouette. Blustering winds strip scarves from necks, and snatch bright red berries from shuddering wreaths, but they don’t touch him. Not a single hair on his head moves, as if Boreas, the very God of the North wind cannot see him.

Fascinating.

He stops to enter a shop and I press myself against the outside wall, coarse canvas rubbing roughly at my knuckles. The faint scent of damp leather and soap teases as I peer through a small gap in the fabric, capturing a glimpse of the dimly lit interior.

Stern, hushed murmurs reach my ears.

“No,” someone whispers, voice bleeding with frustration. His voice. His. Has to be. It hovers like night. Hiding secrets, blurring corners, swallowing questions. “End of discussion.”

Cautiously peering through the gap in the curtain, I catch a fleeting glance of strong fingers tracing silver embroidery on a tablecloth. Casual, he’s shopping, considering a gift, or perhaps planning an intimate holiday soiree. Nevermind that he’s six and a half feet tall, solid as an oak, and dressed to curb stomp some teenagers. Combat boots, dark jeans, black jacket.

A second voice joins the first. Bombastic, deeper than the spymaster’s. “I’ll draw it out. Keep the crowd wanting. No bodies. Pulled punches. Three rounds and I’m done with it. In. Out. No one’s the wiser.”

I tug the curtain tight to get a better view.

Lev Mikhailov is perusing a pair of lilac fur trimmed earmuffs. “Hey, I need this. I need a release.” He’s pleading. “If I don’t—” he stops suddenly, palm ensconcing one muff. “Just allow me tonight. You can chaperone. The drunk talk, they won’t know you’re there. We can—”

“We’re not on vacation.” The spymaster isn’t happy. His back is to me, chin tucked. The swinging bulb above his head has burned out. “The Ballasts are swarming with creatures whose deepest desire is to see our heads on pikes. It’s too high of a risk. Stay with me. Atlas said—”

“Atlas expects me to be sharp.”

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