Creatures that breathe, p.4
Creatures that Breathe, page 4
I stand, hundred bucks lighter, and wipe the grime from the door handle with the back of my knuckles. Inhale. The scent of decay lingers, too stubborn to fade under the snow, or too rampant.
There’s no doubt in my mind that a trap lies behind the Ballasts’ doors.
But Lev’s inside, and contrary to the Kingsguard code that says the fallen get left, I’ll never abandon a brother.
Shaking condensation from my hair, I crack the door and immediately recognize the sound of flesh meeting bone.
The Ballasts were here first. Before the markets, before the buildings, the cafes, the palpable Scandinavian atmosphere.
Its age shows. Cobwebbed rafters with pigeon nests, white-caked chains. Gnarled hoists droop with sequined bras and hats and blood, a swirl of crimson and shimmering ethereal silver. The steel beams holding the place together have been repaired and refastened ten times over, shiny metal soldered onto rust, slopped over with old paint.
Mortals claim the entire block is an abandoned slaughterhouse, but it’s only one of those things.
There’s hardly free air to breathe as I maneuver between a huddle of Lycaon and a cluster of white-haired males bearing Hamadryad badges and exchanging Canadian currency.
The Dryads sided with Kadmos. Woodland spirits who deserted their peace and joined arms for his reign. Now nothing more than uprooted wanderers. Listless.
Once allies. Now enemies.
Instinctively, I call on my power, pulling darkness around me as I push deeper inside. Lights flicker out, the thrashing music gets louder, and eyes blur around me.
Overhead, preening on orange scaffolding, tonight’s showrunner reigns. He’s draped in a fuchsia trench coat, carries twin assault rifles, and shouts over excited cries to explain the drachma exchange rate with the monotone of PSAs announcing the end of a moving walkway. The pointed toe of his serpent skin boot kicks a tooth through the slats as he checks his nails, sharpened into dagger like points.
He’s bored. Tonight’s tame, which means no one’s faced the Russian hammer.
I should be glad, but I’m not.
This entire place feels like a tripwire.
Tears well in my eyes at the stench of Scylla blood, the cloying reek of daffodils swirling with sweat and death. The showrunner calls attention for the next fight, and creatures cheer halfheartedly. Uninvested.
I find Lev at the bar. An upright bear. No better description. “Did you find anything?” I ask.
“Fuck.” Lev jolts, body instantly tense, hands turned into tight fists.
I palm my dagger, prepared for the blow at his clouded eyes, but he blinks the aggression away, shakes out his shoulders. “Why can’t you wear a nametag?”
“Same reason you don’t use a gun,” I return sharply. “Thought I warned you not to come down here.” I keep my tone low, but hostile to match the surrounding voices, and step closer than anyone sane would dare to the Bastard of the Bratva.
The echoes of my power scatter lingering gazes, and slowly wipe his name from their memories.
The black bands of our curse repel mortals with a drugging sense of dread and doom. However, to creatures, the tattoos excite rather than terrify. The unnatural warning becomes a challenge, a glove thrown on crisp green grass. They’re hungry to prove they’re worse, deadlier. Crueler.
They aren’t.
“Find anything?” I repeat.
Lev shakes out his dark mane. “Nothing. I pretended to be an incoherent drunk. Dropped my name around. Worked too well. A crone threw anise in my hair and some gutter rats filched my watch. I chased them down here before I lost them.” Lev’s shoulder glues to mine, voice thick from shouting. “Not a total loss. No good matches tonight. Money’s with the house, so the Dryads are betting information.”
“Chire?”
“No the Dryads. Listen to this—”
“The rats,” I clarify. “Were they Chire?”
“Two,” Lev confirms.
Shit. I chew on the edge of my lip. “Blonde? Wise beyond their years?”
Lev nods. “Fingers like magnets.”
I hiss a breath. “Me too.” We exchange a sharp look and then we’re moving, shoving through creatures. Over my shoulder, I tell him, “It’s the female. She drew us here, she wants us off the map, we’re—”
“Run!”
Her voice is so out of place here. The tender lilt suggesting a proper childhood with things like tutors and lessons and studies.
At first, everyone stares at her, eyes skidding to the exit to behold the outlier, the beauty among beasts.
I take a half step back, striving to calm my racing pulse and gather my wits—attempting to play ignorant. Until she calls, “What are you doing? Don’t just stand there. Get over here. Hurry!”
I step forward. Lev growls, grabbing to pull me back. A blinding spotlight pins him.
“Next in the ring,” the showrunner speaks like a snare drum, winding into a big finale. “The Annihilator will take on …” He stumbles, lips moving in silence before the notecard in his hand bursts to flame. “Get your wallets out, my friends. The Blackguard have come to bleed.”
No hiding anymore.
I haul Lev forward by the front of his shirt, urgency surging.
Thirty feet away, Leni’s holding open the door, eyes wide, waving her arm.
The spotlight slides to me. Sticks.
The showrunner shouts, “Grab him!”
It’s immediate. The pounce of bodies.
“Not. Him,” Lev snarls, panicking, swinging out at the incoming creatures.
Boots thunder against the floor, hands slam into me, aggressive and angry, Lev’s talking in Russian, saying things like take me, not him.
I catch Leni’s gaze across the room and dye the pages of her file black.
Enemy.
4
Cross
the Ballasts of Tallinn
I want to rage.
I want to yell that they’re wrong, that I’m not Blackguard, I’m nobody. I want to pull my blade and gut the next creature who dares to lay a hand on me. I resist all of it.
Denial and hatred crackle under my skin as I stare at the drop of vibrant blue frozen by the door.
My tripwire.
Curiosity snags me. I release the reins of my power, allowing light and faces to watch as I raise my head high, same as I’ve done time and time again in the face of death. I take deliberate steps, ignoring the slander and curses percolating around me.
Fight, argue, scream—that’s what they crave. A coward they can exploit and humiliate. They wish to revel in my fear, watch me stumble and break. Suffer. They crave a grand spectacle, and I refuse to deliver it. Steadfastly, I ascend the short stairs into the domed chain-link fighting cage, leaving my expression calm and hands loose.
The door rattles shut after me, heavy locks clicking into place at the sweep of the showrunner’s pointer.
As far as traps go—unveiling us to a horde teeming with enemies, separating me from my only ally, and confining me behind bars—it’s clever.
Lev juts his chin at me defiantly through the fence, dark eyes lit with fury. Four burly males restrain him. “Make it a challenge,” he taunts, voice laced with poison. “Lead left and don’t lag on the backswing, and—”
—don’t show weakness. “I got it.”
The showrunner, wily, grinning, coos with a hint of amusement about a noticeable lack of confidence emanating from the king’s killers.
If that’s what he wants to think, I let him. Underestimation leads to under-preparedness.
It’s December and the Annihilator—somebody’s mom didn’t love them—stalks back and forth on the cracked cement, wearing nothing but shorts and taped knuckles. With fire red sideburns and a tattoo of a Chimera prowling up his throat, he presents an, I assume, intimidating presence. When he speaks, sharpened fangs snag his lips like a deformed saber tooth, and judging from how jacked he is, I’d guess he’s either a Demigod or he’s ingested enough steroids to never have kids.
Not even the Gods are bored enough to name their offspring the Annihilator.
“What color do you bleed, Blackguard?” he spits, rough voice leaking menace. He thumps chunky hands against his chest.
Definitely drugs. “Black. And it burns hotter than acid.” Fuckwad.
I curl my hands into loose fists, wishing I wasn’t in fucking jeans and wet boots.
Shouts flood the rafters of the Ballasts, equal parts cheerful and deadly when the Annihilator jigs a warmup, swinging windmill arms and jabbing out his legs like we’ve got ten minutes to fill before pay-per-view starts.
I roll my head left, right, popping bones and stretching muscle, disregarding Lev’s advice to lead weakside when pain bursts across my chin. A sharp sting that radiates through my teeth.
Overhead, Fuchsia laughs. Claps. Doesn’t care that the bell hasn’t rung. He decides the rules, and tonight, they’re whatever decimates a Blackguard. “The Annihilator is hungry!”
Blood builds and forms in a pucker beneath my lip until the severe taste of iron coats my mouth. The bell stays silent, and the Annihilator lunges, swinging out wildly with a wide fist. I dodge, stepping swiftly from his reach, resetting my footing, rolling my eyes, and just as I’ve decided our fight will be short—blue.
Bright ocean blue and a coat of dreamy sunset pink.
She’s right up against the fence, delicate fingers curled tightly into the gaps of gray metal. Her voice is easy to catch through the nasty, body breaking yells, through the Sabertooth’s guttural cries and screech of chains. “You’re doing great!”
An uppercut targets me, and I shift at the last minute, spinning to hook my heel on the back of the Annihilator’s thigh. He shouts, banging into the cage.
Leni gives me a thumbs up. Two.
What the fuck?
The Annihilator charges feral and snarling like he’s personally responsible for the creation of D.A.R.E and I can’t stop looking at her.
You’ll save her.
I duck a sloppy fist, shove the druggie to the floor, never taking my eyes off her.
Who would mistake me for a hero? No one.
Absolutely no one, my curse confirms.
I sidestep a tackle and over a chorus of boos ask her, “What’s your great plan when I get out of this ring?”
“Only winner’s leave,” she returns, tone lacking any animosity. “Are you going to hit him? He’s hit you.”
Once, and he cheated. I bow dramatically for her, arms spreading wide. “Apologies for dragging out my death.”
“Given the roster—” She winces as I throw my forearm up to block a harsh combination, the force of the impact reverberating through my bones. “Given the roster, I hoped for this to be brief. I thought ...” She pauses, voice strained, gaze tracking the predatory movements of my opponent. “I thought it’d be easy for you. No one would get hurt.”
“Should I explain the concept of cage fighting to you?” I ask, spitting a swell of blood and ducking a kick before rocking back on my heels as the Annihilator’s momentum throws him to the floor like a sack of flour. “Would you like to tag in and find out?”
“You’re one of the Blackguard,” she hiss-screams, as if that explains everything. All it does is rile the creatures watching, their cheers growing louder, pressing her tighter into the metal, her grip turns white.
My boots are leaving slush marks across the concrete, and Team Roids falters mid combination. Is he really their best fighter? Lev could kill him with a sneeze. My focus is on Leni. “Hey, next time, why don’t you yell it next time for the nosebleeds?”
“Why don’t you end this so we can get out of here?”
“My sincerest apologies,” I deadpan. “Does the Great Plan have a time limit?”
“Yes in fact, it does.” I bet she’s tapping her little silver boot like a rabbit late to tea.
I smile. It’s nice. Chatting. Even with a bright red target painted on my back. A target she painted on my back. She worked with the Chire children to lure both Lev and me here. For what reason, other than to enter me in the ring,?
No. She couldn’t have, that’d mean she’d have remembered my name.
“You will pay!” The Annihilator roars, his face purple with frustration. He’s swinging out like a cat dunked in water, all skill abandoned. I twist from Leni as attack after attack steals my focus, annoying the ever-loving shit out of me.
I almost end it, fed up. Until I notice the dazed frosted blue gaze chasing me around the ring. By the time I return to her, her pupils are overtaking the blue.
“You’re light on your feet.”
I could hear her if I was deaf in heavy gunfire, as if I’ve trained myself to her frequency, but I shrug, nonchalant, pretending she doesn’t sound impressed. Admiring. My veins heat. The first bead of sweat trickled down my forehead. “Hate to disappoint.”
“The opposite.” Her nose scrapes the fencing. “It’s just …” The Annihilator’s angry shout cuts her off, demanding a fight, blood, bones, a fiver for a cab ride home—I’m not listening. Leni’s eyelashes are the color of frostbite. “I didn’t expect you to be graceful. It’s—”
I’m on my toes for her to finish. My heart pounding in my chest, my cheeks, my fingertips.
A foot slams onto her fingers, rattles the fence. Leni cries out.
My limbs lock.
A bolt of anger consumes me as fast and vicious as a bomb’s wick, drowning out everything else. The seedy lights, the smell of sweat, Lev’s impatient stare. I only hear her plea to get off while the Annihilator demands I stop fooling around.
Something poisonous and white hot rolls through my blood, coiling and lashing. It’s been so long, I almost fail to recognize it, scarcely think to acknowledge it. But it grows until I can’t feel anything else, sharp and dirty and tempting.
Possession.
Before he can blink, I throw my elbow across his jaw, chase the impact with my white knuckled fist, and slam my boot into the curve of his knee. Only then, when he’s piled on the ground, blinking rapidly, sucking down air, do I begin.
Knocking him forward, pounding his face into the dusty concrete, I grind my boot into his hand. It’s a sickening crunch, the bones cracking and splintering, flattening beneath me. I push harder, teeth clenching.
Payback. A cruel smile spreads across my face.
Every muscle in my body is taut, pulsating with fury. I flip him over so he can see me smiling. The sound of the Annihilator’s skull hitting the concrete echoes, a sharp crack that silences the Ballasts. Whispers permeate up into the rafters, a blend of murmured shock and disbelief.
“Get up.” I tell him, harsh voice slicing through the air, directed not just at the Annihilator but the wall of stone-faced spectators who frothed for my demise.
I clap, slow and mocking as I circle the cage, a hyena on the hunt. “Get the fuck up! You wanted to fight? Get. Up.”
Lev’s vibrating, smiling with all his teeth.
Revenge seizes control as I stalk toward my opponent—a grown male trembling on hands and knees, spittle dripping down his chin, genuine terror in his eyes.
Horrified thoughts smear across his bruised face, mirroring the crowds. What’s happening? Where is this coming from? I want the other guy back.
Tough shit.
I’m out for blood. Each movement deliberate and precise as my fist launches into his face and shatters his nose. Energy crackles around me, tendrils of black skating around my arms like smoking snakes.
I yank his face into my knee just to watch him crumple onto the ground, groaning and rolling.
“How about the other hand?” I’ve given up on him. Now I’m talking to her.
To the woman who seems to have taken up permanent residence in my thoughts.
Her good hand still clutches the fence, revealing an unexpected resilience, but her frosty eyes have tinged red and her lips are pressed. Angry.
In an instant, I’ve got the Annihilator by his wrist, and one by one, his fingers snap. It’s not a harrowing sound, it’s soothing, oddly satisfying, like the gentle click of a clip signaling empty.
He screams.
I’m louder. “What else?”
I’m a pile-up on the highway, stares fixating on me, disgusted and terrified and thankful they’re on the outside looking in. Wicked satisfaction fills me. “His neck?” I ask her, breathless with anticipation and twisted pleasure, already going for the kill.
“Wait!” Leni calls and fool that I am, I look. I devour. Blue. “Please,” she says. “Don’t—”
Pain becomes me. Engulfs my being and sears violently. Wraps around me like a vise, merciless and unrelenting.
Ramming, bone snapping pain seizes fervent and constant. The tattooed bands on my wrists tighten with brutal force, cutting into my skin, while the one on my throat threatens to crush me.
My right foot gives way beneath me, and I go down on one knee, wheezing, struggling for air. My muscles spasm involuntarily, desperately attempting to fight the torment. Blinding white flashes and engulfing black spots mar my vision, and I can’t inhale.
The curse has come. My punishment for failing to protect the King, for failing to avenge him swiftly and with zero reservations: pain.
Pain, pain, pain. It lances up me, around me, lashes like electric whips specifically designed to agonize.
The first time I ever felt it, it struck like lightning. It happened minutes after Kadmos took his last breath. Thick dark bands burning around our necks. At first, we thought the band was a mark of failure, nothing more, a symbol of the Blackguard and it’s disgrace.
It wasn’t.
Together, we’d vowed to find the king’s killer, purpose the only clear way through the darkness. But our progress was infinitesimal. Creatures despised us. Queen Vinia banished us, and Calydon, our expert in arms, the kindest of the lot of us, the most tenderhearted, was slain by the Queensguard in a display of power.
Our anger became sorrow. A fallen brother. A dead king. No hope. We abandoned our search.
And the curse returned. It’s simple: if we stop trying to avenge the king, we get punished. Tortured. Dominated and beaten.
