Page 135 of Cold-Blooded Creatures
Her back expanded and collapsed with a deep breath. “Sometimes I go to bad places,” she admitted, throat bobbing. “And I need a minute to come back.”
We had triggered a memory. And there was not a fucking thing I could do to erase it. The saying that the soothing balm of time was a universal medicine for wounds was an utter piece of shit. Time injured people irrevocably, including those who inflicted the wounds.
I adjusted my weight on the mattress, my knees at each side of her legs. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” Kali said so fast it cut through the air. “No, I… No. Please. Just no.” She sighed, and quietly added, “I don’t want to go back there.”
I flexed my jaw to placate the razors cutting up my insides, and gently worked the lotion into her slightly pink skin, undoubtedly aggravated by Zion’s smack, while he left a trail of kisses down her spine. A minute later, she was practically purring like a kitten, her mumbles incomprehensible.
Carefully pulling her sweatpants back up, I brushed my lips along her shoulder, coaxing her to sit up. “Come on.”
“Nooo,” she groaned into the fluffy pillow. “This is so comfortable. I don’t want to get up.”
“But my cock is already up,” Zion drawled, squeezing himself over his gray sweatpants. The fact that he wore nothing underneath stood out undeniably, recalling last night’s events and spinning them in a loop, like a chain with endless links from his collection.
“Ask Gedeon to take care of it.” She rolled onto her back and winced as her sensitive skin grazed the sheets.
“Pillow.” I hauled her up and down on the pillow he had put underneath her and passed him one plate of fries, placing the second one in her lap. “Eat. You need your strength.”
“What for? I’m staying in bed today and not moving anywhere until my shift at Vice.”
“I like it when you fight. And you cannot do that without breakfast.”
“One day, I will kick both of your asses.” Resting a hand on her chest, she looked up at the ceiling. “I swear it to the gods.”
Zion snatched a potato strip from her plate. “What gods?”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full. At least not when it’s not me in there,” she scolded. “And those who live in the stars. When I was a kid, I found a book with a story about all-powerful gods ruling over humans. The teachers said it wasn’t true and that I shouldn’t read things like that. They took the book away, but since then, I have always imagined the deities are hiding in the stars and laughing at us from there. That they can help us, but they choose not to.”
“No one is laughing at you. Only with you. Do not think otherwise is even an option.” My knuckles brushed her jaw, as sharp as her mind. A scythe to slice her opponents into pieces. “But is that why you stare at the sky at night?”
“Something like that.” She dipped a long strip of potato into tomato sauce and bit the reddened end off. “It’s like they listen to me. React to my thoughts. Know my secrets. See who I am. I don’t know. It simply helps.”
A coping mechanism. A way to withstand the stifling atmosphere of Ilasall and its cruel principles and methods. An ability she had developed and nurtured with the help of her imagination and folklore tales.
“A question for a question.” She munched on another fry. “What does your tattoo mean?”
“That I lead the compound. That I take care of everyone.” I twisted my right arm marked with a drawing of an abstract forest and a lonely bird perching atop a branch of the tallest tree. The fading ink absorbed the late autumn sun like a void created specifically for such a purpose.
“No, not that one. The one on your back.” She traced a line from my neck to my shoulder, and I closed my eyes to savor her soft touch.
The birds.
I had started collecting them the day I got my first tattoo. They had become smaller and smaller over the years, filling any available space on my back, to the point the newest additions had inked my nape and sides.
“Each bird represents a person from our compound who has died because of my decisions. I’m responsible for every life here.” I scratched the back of my neck where the two most recent tattoos had settled. “It helps me to remember it.”
“Then where are the others?” Kali asked, her breakfast forgotten on the mattress and her legs crossed as she leaned against the sleek wooden headboard painted in the lightest shade of gray, way too bright for my taste.
“The others?”
“What I’ve told you many times.” Zion picked up her plate and loaded it on top of his finished one, devouring her leftovers as if he had not just scarfed down his own meal.
“Your tattoo doesn’t make sense. From what I’ve seen and heard, people here risk their lives willingly for what they believe in. They know it comes at a cost, primarily—your life.” She licked the tomato sauce that had dribbled on her wrist. “But by whatever favor from the gods, things have worked out so far, and the compound has flourished. Yet you mark your body with deaths, and not lives saved. It’s stupid.”
“My tattoo is stupid?”
“Yes,” both of them said simultaneously.
