Page 84 of Creatures that Breathe

“Homicidal silhouette. I don’t care how long it takes to say it.”

He runs his finger along my scarf, nudges it down to see my smile. “Maybe I don’t want a knickknack?”

“I do,” I return, resolutely. “I want a hundred from a hundred places, tacky and neon. Game pieces and paperweights and little ships in bottles. I’ll have to dust them and cram them on the same buckling shelf, but when I look at one, I’ll remember exactly where I was when I got it.”

Cross’s smile fades as he searches my eyes, his brows drawing together. “A hundred knickknacks from a hundred places,” he repeats softly. “Your next exhilarating plan.”

Mine. Not his.

We continue walking, passing a history museum painted mustard yellow, flanked by vivid blue apartments and a mauve deli. Each building a slab of delicious color. Yaya would love it. We stroll down the port, absorbed in the city, the squawk of seagulls, the salt smell.

In another life, without the Queensguard and Draven chasing me, without the Blackguards curse, without favor and interrogation looming, I’d call this a date.

My first date. With easily the most attractive male I’ve ever met.

The chances of a first date in a snow-covered city with a male who leaves me feeling as clever as Athena and as strong as Artemis are ...

Moot.

Because this isn’t a date.

Still, I like it.

How he slows when my breath catches, how he steers me around puddles, bends on one knee to retie my boots, and anchors his arm around my waist to lift me off sore feet while we wait for the crosswalk signal to turn.

I like it more than three chocolate rice crispies and a dozen glazed donuts. I like it more than those spindles of wafer and hazelnut, which I suspect contain cocaine additives. I like it …

I just like it.

Cross points out statues and whispers their secrets to me. How the king of Denmark knows Nereids flood his waters, and that the Atlantides considered conquering Nyhavn, but the mortals were too friendly.

He enjoys history and I soak up every detail like a dehydrated sponge, ignoring the shard of sadness burrowing beneath my skin.

Who can Cross share his stories with?

He’s a fountain of information, an expert on so many things, and no one will ever realize it except for me.

I sink into him as we walk, ask who the bronze man on the horse is as if he’s Divine, marvel in the rare moments the sun peeks through the clouds.

I like it more than I know I should.

20

Leni

no sand, doesn't count

The weather turns. First to fluffy powdered sugar snowflakes, then to wet and hostile menaces that glob into loogie-like splats.

I overhear three separate unseasonably warm conversations, and refrain from pointing out that warm constitutes a three-digit temperature. Only twice.

Cross whisks us inside a small pub, signaling to the hostess for a table toward the back, thanking her in flawless Danish and passing her a smile she fans herself to.

“Danish, English, Estonian.” I tick off as we weave through the crowded dining room. “Is there a language you don’t know?”

His arm curls around me when we get to our table, pulling me to sit beside him on the bench against the wall.

“I’ve always been good with my tongue,” he says, loud enough to make my eyes bulge, a slight smirk on his lips. “But you’d know about that, wouldn’t you?”

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