Page 187 of Cold-Blooded Creatures

We were far from ready to launch our forces onto the city, and the Head of Ilasall was betting on it. His scheme was as clear as day—it was the same one I would have set up in his place.

I had to find a way for us to survive the upcoming years before we grew into a formidable army set on destruction, giving rise to a civil war in his domain.

The dead I heaved blurred together as each wrinkle, each angle of a cheekbone, each curve of an eyebrow formed only one face.

The Head of Ilasall.

59

KALI

Early morning dew glittered on the withered grass covering the clearing like a blanket frozen in time.

Inhaling, I imagined the cracked bark of a birch tree shoving sap straight into the pores of my palm, overfilling me with its strength to take that final step from the tree line and into the circular field that had used to be my bubble of freedom, of connection with my gods in the stars, of peace and war.

I exhaled in a deliberate manner and…walked out of the forest.

This wasn’taclearing. This wasmyclearing. And I was taking it back from the clutches of that messenger and Ilasall.

More than a month had passed since I last stood here, and the twinkles of stars had blessed my plans. But today, the scarce strokes of blue and orange colored the sky between the gray clouds as the sun peeked out on the far horizon, its globe the color of a dried yellow oleander hidden in my closet back at my apartment in Ilasall. As poisonous as the city itself.

My path toward the center of the field carried me through the days since I’d found out about Alora, since Ilasall had tried to turn me into a message. The first ones had been like a nightmarish dream in which the hollowness inside me andthe messenger’s promises mixed with the warmth and safety of Gedeon’s and Zion’s embraces. Their promises.

They didn’t ask me for anything, didn’t push me, not like everyone at Ilasall with their wicked bargains forcing me on my knees or to bend over the tables. No, they simply let me be me, to exist as I was, and…cared for me.

Though they didn’t give me space, looming behind my back or standing at my side, it never felt oppressive. My body had lost its value, having transformed into merely another commodity to be traded, and yet they’d found a way to give it back to me. Now, somehow, I wanted to choose to give them not only it, but my mind too. Even more. I just wasn’t sure I had anything more to give.

I threw my head back and savored the cool breeze briefly piercing the gloomy stillness in the air.

It was time to tell myself the truth.

I was a slave raised by the monsters residing behind the fifty-foot-high gates of Ilasall, born to succumb to their rotten view of the world. But now I knew there was hell beneath my feet and I was determined to send them there. My morals had been corrupted beyond repair, my heart hardened to stone, and my doubts erased.

So I was going to bury my pain, saddle the demons haunting me, and lead them as my army of viciousness to destroy that heinous man at the top of the Spire, the Head of Ilasall, the person who’d forged me into what I had become—his death.

I spread my legs and dug the noses of my boots into the earth in preparation for the choreography Zion and Eli had taught me.

One. Transferring my weight to my half-bent left leg, with my knife flipped open and pressed between my palms, I balanced on one limb, moving my right foot in a circular motion behind me.

Two. I jumped into a half-squat, ducking a punch and sinking my weapon into the gut of an imaginary enemy.

Three. Kicking the back of their knees, I elbowed their nape, the crunch of withered twigs under my boots, a similar sound to a vertebra breaking.

Four. Lowering into a deep lunge, I leaned back to avoid their retaliatory strike and twisted aside, cutting the back of their ankle. The stomped-out grass resembled the shape of a slumped body, rousing my motivation to push further.

Five. Leaping backward, I swiveled around and slashed an unexpected opponent’s throat, instantly withdrawing to avoid presenting them with an opportunity to take hold of me in case I’d failed.

Humidity plastered my hair to my face, and I swiped it away, getting back into the first position. I repeated the sequence in an endless loop, becoming one with the steel of my blade, one with the whoosh of wind caressing my skin, one with the burn of my muscles.

As I danced in the center of my clearing, the movements grounded me to reality, steadying me, creating a sense of balance I could live off.

Feather-light fingertips drummed on my extended arm.

Startled, I met Zion’s soft smile as he fell in line beside me, matching my stances and jabs, my mood and my silence. Except his ignorance of Eislyn’s request to rest so the new stitches could heal bothered me.

Ilasall’s attack of mere hours ago had cut him deep. He’d dissociated, the urge to draw blood overriding any and all rationality.

But I didn’t ask him how he was doing. There was no point.