3. Cross

It doesn’t matter which way I turn. Dark alleys, light-flooded corners, murky stretches between, the entire world blurs to hues of blue. Swirling, winding, mocking, distorting until I’ve escaped the confines of reality. Here the air is blue and tastes like someone dropped a Mento in a fine red wine. I can’t breathe and I can’t get my lungs full enough.

It’s not the first time the world’s flipped on me. Not the first time a stranger and a handful of words have obliterated all I know.

Who says no to immortality once they learn the ancient creatures of myth exist? Gorgons, Furies, the Lycaon.

Olympians.

Hidden and devastatingly powerful.

I was never pious, but that—learning the Gods, and legends, and Olympus were not only real, but living amongst us—struck harder than getting bucked off a horse in Hyde Park and landing ass up on the continent.

There was only one secret left in the world, before she showed up. Now ...

My power didn’t work on her. She didn’t forget me. Not a flicker of confusion.

Who is she?

The same twisting riddle has ransacked my thoughts since those pale blue eyes first chased me in the hotel lobby. Every step across the terrazzo, from the door to the elevator, she held me in her crosshairs. Not Lev, not the bellhop, not the dark power flowing from our cursed tattoos. Me.

No one good searches out the Blackguard. No matter how sweet their smile.

Is she an assassin? Posing as a seductress to disarm me?

It’d work.

That’s the same MO as Sinis. Flirt, lick, stab. How does my brother describe himself?

A total smoke show honeypot panty-melter with a heart of liquid lust.

I hate that I’ve memorized his word vomit.

I shut my brother’s mental file and update hers. Teal, aqua, and cerulean hair in short choppy waves, lips a too delicate shade of blush, darker when pressed, a nest of tangled gold necklaces, and most interesting, a tattoo slicing down the bone of her wrist. A series of square edged numbers.

A cipher? Does she have information about Kadmos?

Is she cursed too? Is she an Oracle? I’d meant to question her. To interrogate and threaten until she quaked with fear, abandoned her pursuit, and left us forever. Her head barely reaches my shoulder, but she stared me down, threw me off my game.

Even now, I struggle to focus as random details force themselves into her file. How striking she is in her hot pink coat. The slight hitch in her breath before she skewered me with exactly what was running through her mind.

Unnecessary details.

I keep them.

Most of my mental files cover killers, combatants, warlords. Abilities, weapons, alliances, families, vendettas. Weaknesses.

Targets.

Collateral.

Black files, side by side in my head, organized for easy referencing. Never know how quickly negotiations will necessitate extortion, or how often an ally will turn foe.

Her file is blue. The spine reads Leni in such a ditsy script, I might as well dot it with a heart and fireworks.

Fuck.

She’s come at the worst time in the worst way. Atlas is verging on tin foil hat paranoid, Lev’s smashing tallboys in his sleep again, and none of us know how long we have before the curse strikes again.

I rake a hand through my hair and cut down a dark alley, heaping distance between me and Leni.

She said my name. Purred my name, repeated it.

Ice water seeps into my shoes as I stride through a puddle of slush and hang right, sticking to shadows while I scan for Lev, and catalog her.

Eyes so light, they evoke images of death, the cold sterility of sliding trays in a morgue, framed with blue lashes, burning with life.

I can smell the echoes of her. Honeysuckle and vanilla. A stroll in a yellow and white garden under sunrays streaking from the heavens.

More useless information.

I don’t scrap any of it.

Instead, I change tactics. Analyze her like a target. Prepare a Devastation Report like I used to for the King. Clinical recall. The smallest detail has the potential to be your greatest weapon.

I comb back through our interaction, poking for holes, for pressure points.

Friendship bracelets.

I bite my lip against a laugh. The tattoos are … something like that.

Who am I to correct her? My brothers in the Blackguard have vowed never to reveal the truth of our curse.

New outlandish theories emerge every few years. Last I heard, the prevailing idea was that we’d died and Hades refused our entry at the River Styx. If only we were so lucky.

A wave of deep blue unease washes over me, causing my hands to tremble, and my heart to pound a violent thump I drown out with hard steps on the pavement.

Kingsguard.

It’s been decades since I’ve heard it aloud, longer since I heard it in that tone, clouded with awe and reverence. Admiration.

The title hasn’t deserved respect for longer than I’ve been in these chains.

Few realize we were the Blackguard even before the King fell. Too drunk on pride and power to remember our primary goal: protecting the King.

With his death, the Blackguard became who we were. A name delivered with a sneer. The Fallen Guard, the Cursed Guard. Sadistic, barbaric, pitiless.

We tried. For centuries we fought for good, for more, for better. We were ruthless in our goals.

I tried. Relentlessly.

I fought and battled and raged. I tried so hard it broke me, stole an entire life from me, stole all of our lives.

I still can’t stomach the sheer violence of our implosion, the brutal crash from heroes to traitors. For months we suffered in agony, the curse punishing us, whipping deeper than any cut, wrenching us apart, breaking us to shards and scattering the pieces.

We didn’t all survive it.

Most of us would flinch at the mere mention of the Kingsguard. And yet, she said it as if it were the most beautiful fragment of a fairytale. As if I rode in on a Pegasus shooting rainbows.

She wasn’t scared. She looked at me … and she saw him. The man I used to be.

I could kill her.

Should kill her.

For using that word in front of me, for stirring up these feelings, for following us, for countless condemnable reasons. But I’m tempted again, thrilled by the unknown, desperate to uncover and investigate.

Once I’m sure I’ve lost Leni, I backtrack to the market, smothering a strange disappointment that she’s not on my heels.

Forget her. Find Lev.

Tallinn is a hub for refugee creatures. No ruling species, no Divine temples, the wind from the sea is said to be too strong for the Argos—Hera’s personal attack dogs—to maneuver with regularity, allowing creatures rare freedoms. Kadmos claimed the city didn’t go far enough, that mortals should know who walked among them.

Ironic that I’m only safe now because of a law I once strived to overturn.

The city has changed since my last visit, modernized with streetlights and telephone poles, neon signs and holographic paint lines, and yet, amidst the clutter of progress, the worn grooves of the cobblestones bear the weight of history, each step resonating with echoes of battles fought and victories won, wars mortals have no idea were waged.

The air smells like clove and cinnamon, and the sound of mellow acoustic Christmas carols pulses between shop walls as I weave between the thinning crowds of humans.

Lev’s not here. There’s no hole in the crowd, no leering or affronted gasps, no lingering repulsion caused by the curse.

I debate shooting Atlas in the foot for sending Lev with me. When he’s keyed up, he’s worse than a clumsy dance partner stomping on my foot at every turn.

Sinis would’ve been better, smooth-tongued and able to read emotions. Drake would’ve been best, trained to extract secrets of the most resistant of his victims.

I picture his gloved hands holding a scalpel above Leni’s soft, pale skin.

On second thought, no. Drake’s array of gleaming tools isn’t allowed within a hundred feet of Leni.

Determined, I leave the merry market and traipse inland, cutting down alleys and broken side streets. Gradually, the radiance of the market fades, and a buzzing hum begins. The pulsing, gnarly tremor of old electricity from stolen, spliced lines. And then white neon, pulsating bars appear, rods crossed to form a universal this-is-where-you-want-to-be sign.

A sheen of fresh blood splatters the door’s metal kickboard, and there’s a guy passed out, probably dead, next to it, arm twisted at a wicked angle.

Two kids in thin coats hook fingers into the ankles of his boots and yank them free. They’re murmuring, trying to keep their voices low to avoid attention, but I’m three feet away and they’re failing.

Nearby, hoarse shouts blend into the buzzing as smoothly as a melody joining the chorus.

When the second boot drops, the boy grins at the shrouded moon, dark hair falling back from his face. He’s got a big, toothy smile that’s infectious but when he tips further, my stomach plummets.

Tapered ears.

Kadmos rolls over in his grave.

Chire children. Orphans. Increasing in commonness. The pointed ears are a giveaway, and the reason for their inevitable extinction.

Long ago, mortals great fear of the unknown led creatures to strip themselves of their distinct features. The Nereids forfeit their gills. The Oneroi abandoned their third eye.

The Hecatonchires—Chire for short—used to have fifty heads and one hundred hands. Their makers, the Titans, abhorred them, cast them out as monsters. But Zeus saw their potential, and offered them revenge on the Titans in his war to take control. The Chire led the charge for Zeus, handing him his place as God King.

Since then, they’ve adapted, but pride still glows in their genes, and the Chire never shed their last defining feature. The pointed ears.

I clear my throat and the kids freeze, expecting the worst.

My blood turns to ice. I used to fight for you, I want to say. Don’t look at me like that. I tried. I bled. I starved, I fought.

Once upon a time, the Chire saw me and cried with happiness, caressed the pommel of my sword as if it were Athena’s spear and prayed. Zeus and his Gods rejected them, despite their help, but we were there to pull them back into the light, to end their decimation.

They loved Kadmos and his warriors.

We were supposed to save them.

Go ahead. Tell them, my curse sneers, knowing every detail in my own black file. Relive those glory days. Remind them of all the vows you failed to keep. Tell them where you’ve been.

“Have you two seen a big, hairy man?” I ask in the local tongue, leaning a shoulder on the wall, nonaggressive, careful to keep my weapons hidden. “He looks like a bear that learned to walk on its hind legs.”

It’s pointless to offer them money for answers. They won’t take it. But I show them, withdrawing a wad of cash, crinkling the corners before balancing it loosely in the pocket of my jacket.

The boy’s eyes fixate on the money. “There are only big males in this area. You should turn back and leave.”

I lower into a crouch, cracking the pebbly film floating on a puddle with my fingertips, and roll up my sleeve just enough for him to see. “I’m looking for one that’s especially big, with a tattoo that matches this one.”

It’s the little girl who stands up straight, using her brand new boot as a talking device as she meets my eyes. “He is in there.” She speaks slow, formal English. And my Estonian accent isn’t as good as I thought it was. The toe of her boot lands on my knuckles, wet and rubbery. “Do not go after him. He is a bad man.”

Not always, but sometimes when Chire mature, they unlock magnificent abilities. Abilities that have determined the fate of wars, felled Gods. I can feel such power swirling under her skin. She will have one.

If she makes it.

I train my eyes to the frayed ends of her laces and contemplate her words. “You’re right. He is, but so am I.”

She sighs, like I’m comparing apples and oranges. “No, you are wrong. You are not bad. The Goddess said that you will save her.”

I force my face flat, compel a thousand questions to glue on the back of my tongue.

“But you need to show her first,” the girl continues. “You must prove yourself. “

“Do you know where this Goddess is?”

She glances at the neon sign and the glow catches on her necklace. A gold chain holding a letter E dangles around her throat. A vivid image shoots into my mind. Leni draping the gold on this little girl’s neck, smiling as she tells them about me. “She’s inside? You’re sure?”

“Yes. She is waiting for you,” the girl confirms with childlike certainty before she takes her brother’s hand, and in their own tongue, snaps, “We’re leaving. Swift fingers.”

Hands snag on my shirt, clumsy, fondling my pocket, and then small feet slap away, hopping between the sloppy trenches left from big boots. A lone giggle sinks down the road.

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.