Page 62 of Creatures that Breathe

Pushing six ten, body honed like the most savage dagger, Sinis—Sin as he preferred—is stuffed into skin tight maroon leather pants, and a black-and-white checkered beach polo stolen off Elvis’s corpse.

Every other day, he claims a different Godly parent, but the front runner in our pool remains aggravatingly constant: Aphrodite.

Olive skin, lilac eyes, a corona of golden hair. He’s so beautiful, he’s made a weapon of it.

“Quit being dramatic.”

“Me? You’re dunking me in buckets of hate and lust. I need a fan and grapes to calm down.” He gives me a double eyebrow lift. “Honestly, I’m surprised you slant so sugary, so fruity, thought you’d be more like scissorhands over there, and skew bloody when you’re feeling a certain type of way.”

I glance up at Drake sitting alone in an aisle seat and redact the last minute of information from my memory. He keeps his leather gloves laced in his lap, elbows secured firmly on the armrests. His black hair clutters around his pale temples, poised to fall. Drake’s file is sliver thin. For good reason. All the king’s personal executioner must do is touch another to learn their deepest, darkest fear.

Behind Drake, at the back of the theater, lording above the rest, Zeke’s slumped sideways, tearing pages out of a book, strips of white vellum floating to the floor.

He’s buzzed his mullet to a fine white fuzz, unintentionally stressing the jagged scars slashing through his eyebrows, ending just short of auburn lashes. He’s paler, like he’s not just seen a ghost, but been taken possession by one, and he’s lost weight too.

His army jacket—sans patches thanks to dishonorable discharge—hangs off his shoulders. The hollows in his cheeks are nearing sallow. At least, each rip of the book makes him smile. Small, but something.

Meda and Luke are locked in an arm wrestling match at the perfect center of the theater, her ruby ring shining against dark skin as she sinks teeth into her lip to concentrate.

The battle is surprisingly close, considering she’s a thief known for light footedness and Luke’s the super sized version of Heracles. Then again, she has the stubbornness of a born immortal and Luke doesn’t possess a drop of ichor.

Poor kid has had a crush on Meda since she told him nothing would ever happen between them.

That’s only five.

“Rune’s breaking into the phones we found,” Lev says, reading my mind. He raises his chin at me, plopped in the front, eyes dark with lack of sleep.

“A stranger in our home,” Atlas says from the dead center of the screen. He doesn’t yell, he doesn’t stray from his strict, even voice. Doesn’t need to. The leader of the Blackguard exudes lethal grace. Black designer suit flawlessly pressed. Oxfords glowing like spilled oil. Thick black hair styled to hide finely pointed ears.

“Have I not bled for you?” he asks. “Have I not protected you? Have I not been your family?”

I refuse to recoil, even as my throat burns with shame.

He’s done more than bleed. Two tattoos ring his neck. Twice the curse, twice the strain, twice as often. With the death of Calydon, the horrible cost of being our leader made itself known. Not even death frees us of the curse.

“What were you thinking?” Atlas continues. “Risking us—”

A piece of popcorn nails Atlas in the forehead, leaves a sticky yellow mark. “Come on, you big baby,” Sin croons, jogging up the risers to dump popcorn in Zeke’s waiting palms. “He met a female. He didn’t stake you in the heart.”

“A female who’s hurt one of mine.”

“Who?” I ask, breaking for my normal spot next to Lev.

Atlas gives the barest shake of his head, eyes narrowed. “I can smell you bleeding from here.”

“Me?” I sit on the edge of the black velvet. “I was shot. She didn’t pull the trigger.”

“You placed yourself in the line of fire for her.”

Shit. Lev tattled. There goes any chance of mentioning she’s fated to me. I gnaw on my lip. “She doesn’t control me, and she’s clueless about the effect she’s having on me.”

Sin sings “I’m not!” from the cheap seats.

“She put you in the Ballasts.” Lev. A snarl. Low and quiet.

“You begged to go to the Ballasts,“ I remind him. “You should thank her. You got your fight.”

Lev grunts, switching tactics to the classic gang-up as he tells Atlas, “He blacked out in the ring he was so distracted.”

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