After all, the other territories wanted Verity’s brightest minds.
They just didn’t want their monsters.
She tossed the booklet aside.
A stack of fresh medallions sat on the marble counter, heavy iron disks with the ornate V branded onto the front. Kate spun a pendant absently between her fingers. Iron. It was true that monsters loathed the stuff, but it wasn’t the metal that bought safety. It was Harker. Anyone could hang a piece of metal around their neck and hope for the best, but these were special.
The back of every medallion was engraved with a number, and every number was—or would be—assigned to a person; a ledger in her father’s office kept track of every soul who purchased his protection from the things that waited in the dark. Not because the monsters feared the metal. Because the monsters feared him.
She snapped her fingers, spinning the medallion again, watching the two sides flash past over and over.
No pendant, no protection. That was Harker’s law.
As the disc wobbled, she felt something move behind her. She couldn’t hear it, not over the pounding beat of the stereo system, but she knew, instantly, in that hairs-standing-up-on-the-back-of-your-neck way, that she wasn’t alone anymore.
Her hand drifted under the lip of the counter, and closed around the handgun strapped against the granite. By the time the medallion fell, she was on her feet, the safety off, and the gun raised. She looked down the sight, and found a pair of bloodred eyes staring back.
Sloan.
Six years ago, she’d come home to V-City, to her father, and found Sloan at his side. Dressed in a tailored black suit, her father’s favorite Malchai looked almost human. He had Callum Harker’s height, if not his build, and Harker’s deep-set eyes, though Sloan’s burned crimson where Harker’s shone blue. But if her father was an ox, Sloan was a wraith, the dark bones of his skeleton just visible through the thin vellum of his skin. With his pallor, Sloan looked sick. No, thought Kate. He looked dead. Like a corpse on a cold day.
An H was branded into the monster’s cheek, just below his left eye, the letter the size and shape of a college ring. (Her father wore it on his left hand, above his wedding band.)
Sloan’s thin lips drew back to reveal sharp teeth, like a shark’s, each filed to a point.
Malchai, Malchai, sharp and sly,
Smile and bite and drink you dry.
Sloan was saying something, but she couldn’t hear his words over the blaring music. She didn’t want to hear them. Sloan’s voice was all wrong, not a rattle or a growl, but something soft and cloying. She had never seen the Malchai feed, but she could imagine him, covered in gore, his voice still sickly sweet.
I can’t hear you, she mouthed, hoping he would go away. But Sloan was too patient. He reached out and touched a panel on the wall with a single sharp nail, and the beat collapsed, plunging them back into silence.
Kate didn’t lower the gun. She wondered what kind of rounds were loaded. Silver? Iron? Lead? Something that would make a dent.
“Home for less than a week,” he said, his voice so low in the wake of the music that she had to strain to hear, “and you’ve already found the weapons.”
Kate smiled grimly. “What can I say?”
“Do you plan to shoot me?” he asked, taking a prowling step closer, red eyes bright with interest, as if it were a game.
“I’ve considered it,” she said, but she didn’t fire, and then she felt a weight on the gun, and looked down to see Sloan’s hand resting casually on the weapon’s barrel. She hadn’t even seen him move. That was the way with Malchai, slow until they struck.
Sloan clicked his tongue against his sharp teeth. “My dear Kate,” he said. “I’m not your enemy.”
His fingers slid forward, brushing hers, cold and slick, almost reptilian, and she jerked away, surrendering the gun. He set it on the counter between them. “No problems today, I assume.”
Kate gestured to herself. “Home in one piece.”
“And the school?” As if he cared.
“Still standing.” The temperature in the kitchen was falling, as if Sloan were sucking all the heat out of the room. Kate crossed her arms. “You’re up early.”
“A vampire joke. How original.” He never cracked a smile, but Sloan had her father’s dry humor. Only the Corsai were truly nocturnal, allergic to the light of day. The Malchai drank blood and drew their strength from the night, but they weren’t vampires, didn’t shrink away from crosses, wouldn’t catch fire in the sun. A piece of pure metal through the heart, though, that would still take them down.
Kate watched Sloan eye the stack of medallions on the counter and recoil ever so slightly before he turned toward the floor-to-ceiling windows and the thinning light.
She had a theory about Sloan, that he wasn’t just Harker’s servant, but his Malchai. The product of some awful crime, an aftermath, just like those Corsai in the clip she’d watched. Something that slithered out of Harker’s wake. But who had he killed to gain a creature like Sloan? And how long had the Malchai been there, at her father’s side when Kate wasn’t? The question made her want to put a silver bullet through the monster’s eye.
Her gaze flicked to the brand on the Malchai’s cheek. “Tell me something, Sloan.”
“Hmm?”
“What did you do to become my father’s favorite pet?” The Malchai’s face stiffened, as if freezing into place. “Have you learned any tricks since I left? Can you sit? Lie down? Play fetch?”
“I only have one trick,” he said, lifting a bony hand to the air beside her head. “I know how to listen.”
He snapped his fingers next to her bad ear. Kate went for the gun, but Sloan got there first. “Uh-uh,” he warned, waving it side to side. “Play nice.”
Kate held up her hands, and took a step back. “Who knows,” said Sloan, twirling the weapon. “If you behave, maybe Harker will finally claim you, too.”
August felt like hell.
Every one of his four hundred and eighteen tally marks was humming faintly by the time he slumped into the subway seat and closed his eyes. His pulse pounded in his head along with the steady, distant sound of gunshots. He tried not to think about it, but it was like trying not to scratch an itch.
“How could you?” snapped a woman across the aisle. She was standing over a man reading a tablet. When he didn’t look up she slammed her hand down on the screen. “Look at me.”
“Dammit, Leslie.”
“I work with her!”
“Do you really want to do this right now?” he growled. “Fine, let’s make a scorecard.”
“You are such an ass.”
“There was Eric, and Harry, and Joe, but are we counting the ones who didn’t want you—”
She slapped him, hard—the sound was a crack in the subway car, a bang in August’s skull. Heads turned toward the fight. He swallowed hard. His influence was spreading, radiating off of him like heat. Two seats down, a man began to sob. “It’s all my fault, all my fault, I never meant to do it. . . .”
“You really are a bitch.”
“It wasn’t worth it.”
“I should have left.”
“It’s all my fault.”
The noise in the subway car grew louder, and August gripped the seat, knuckles white, and counted the stops until the Seam.
“You okay?” asked Paris when he reached her apartment. She had that extra sense, the one that knew when things weren’t right.
“I’m alive,” he said, swapping the blazer back for his FTF jacket.
She reached out, brought a hand to his cheek. “You’re warm.”
His bones were heating up, his skin stretched too tight over them. “I know.”
The cellar downstairs felt blissfully cool and dark, and part of him just wanted to lie down on the damp floor and close his eyes, but he kept going, through the tunnel and into the building on the other side, up, and out, and four blocks south through the broken streets to home. In the elevator he
found his reflection, and did his best to smooth his hair, compose his features. He looked peaked, but otherwise, the sickness wasn’t showing yet.
Henry was waiting for him in the Tower. “August?” he chided. “You were supposed to text when you left school.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“Are you okay?”
God, he hated that question.
“I’ll be fine,” he managed. It wasn’t a lie. He would be fine, eventually.
“You don’t look fine,” challenged Henry.
“Long day,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
Henry sighed. “Well, perk up. Emily’s making a nice dinner tonight to celebrate your first day.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Three of us don’t even eat.”
“Humor her.”
August rubbed his eyes. “I’m going to take a shower.”
He left the lights off in the bathroom, peeling the uniform away in the dark. The water came on cold, but he didn’t turn it up. He stepped in, and gasped as it hit his bare skin, shivering under the icy stream. He stayed until his bones stopped hurting, until the cold loosened the fire in his chest and he didn’t feel like he was swallowing smoke with every breath. He leaned his forehead against the shower wall. You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.
By the time he got out of the shower, the sun had gone down.
Everyone was waiting for him in the kitchen.
“There he is,” said Emily, wrapping him in a hug. “We were starting to worry.” His skin was still cool from the shower, so she didn’t notice the fever. Still, he pulled free and made his way to the table.
August cringed; the overhead lights were too bright, the scraping of chairs too sharp. Everything was heightened, like the volume on his life was turned up but not in an exciting way. Noises were too loud and smells too strong and pain—which he did feel—too sharp. But worse than the senses were the emotions. Agitation and anger burned under his skin and in his head. Every comment and every thought felt like a spark on dry wood.
The table was set. Two plates had food on them; the other three were garnished only by napkins. This was ridiculous. It was a waste of time. Why were they even trying to pretend like—
“Sit by me,” said Ilsa, patting the seat to her left.
August sank into the chair, fists clenched. He could feel Leo’s gaze on him, heavy as stone, but it was Henry who spoke.
“So, did you see her?”
“Of course I saw her,” said August.
“And?” pressed Emily.
“And she looks like a girl. She doesn’t exactly exude murderous kingpin.” Sure, she tried to, but there was something about the performance that rang false. Like it was a piece of clothing. His own clothing felt too tight. August closed his eyes, a bead of sweat sliding down his back. He felt like he was made of embers, someone blowing faintly on the—
“Anything else?”
They were both looking at him so expectantly. August tried to focus. “Well, I think I might have . . . accidentally . . . made a friend.”
Ilsa smiled. Leo raised a brow. Henry and Emily exchanged glances. “August,” said Henry slowly. “That’s great. Just be careful.”
“I am being careful,” he snapped. He could hear the annoyance in his voice, but he couldn’t calm down any more than he could cool off. “You wanted me to blend in. Wouldn’t I stand out more for not making friends?”
“I’m all for you making acquaintances, August,” said Henry evenly, “but don’t get too close.”
“You think I don’t know that?” The anger rose in him, too fast. “Do you really think I’m that stupid? Just because you’ve kept me cooped up in this place for four years, you think I don’t have any common sense? What am I going to do, Dad? Invite them over for dinner?” He shoved up from the table.
“August,” pleaded Ilsa.
He heard his parents push up from their chairs as he fled the room, but it was Leo who followed him into the hallway.
“When’s the last time you ate?” he demanded.
When August hesitated, Leo came at him. He cringed back, away, but his brother was too large, too fast, and he only made it half a step before Leo pinned him against the wall. He took August’s chin in his hand and wrenched his face up, black eyes boring down into his. “When?”
Leo’s influence bled through his voice and his touch at the same time, and the answer forced its way out. “A few days ago.”
“Dammit, August,” said Leo, stepping back.
“What?” he challenged, rubbing his jaw. “You go a week, sometimes more. And Ilsa doesn’t even seem to need it. Why should I—”
“Because you do. This is a foolish, futile pursuit. You have a fire in you, little brother. You should embrace its heat instead of trying to dampen it.”
“I don’t want—”
“This isn’t about what you want,” cut in Leo. “You cannot build up resistance by starving yourself. You know what will happen if you don’t eat. All those precious little tallies will go away and you’ll have to start again.” But that wasn’t what August was afraid of, and Leo knew it. It wasn’t about losing the marks. It was about what he’d lose with them. What Leo had already lost. “How many are you up to now, little brother?”
August swallowed. “Four hundred and eighteen.”
“Four hundred and eighteen days,” echoed Leo. “That’s impressive. But you can’t have it both ways. You feed or you go dark. How many died last time you fell? Eight?”
The number clawed its way up August’s throat. “Nine,” he whispered.
“Nine,” repeated his brother. “Nine innocent lives. All because you refused to eat.” August wrapped his arms around his ribs. “What do you want?” chided Leo. “To be ordinary? To be human?” He said the word as if it stained his tongue.
“Better human than a monster,” he muttered.
Leo’s jaw tightened. “Take heed, little brother,” he said. “Do not lump us in with those base creatures. We are not Corsai, swarming like insects. We are not Malchai, feeding like beasts. Sunai are justice. Sunai are balance. Sunai are—”
“Self-righteous and prone to speaking in third person?” cut in August before he could stop himself.
Leo’s black eyes narrowed, but his calm did not waver. It never wavered. He pulled out his cell and dialed. Someone answered. “Tell Harris and Phillip to take a walk,” he said, then hung up. He drew a folded piece of paper from his pocket and pressed it into August’s hand. “Go eat before you lose more than your temper.” Leo wrapped his fingers around the base of August’s neck and pulled him close. “Pretend it’s chicken,” he said softly. “Pretend you’re normal. Pretend whatever you like, little brother. It does not change what you are.”
And with that Leo let go and returned to his place at the table.
August didn’t follow. He stayed in the hall until his heart settled, and then he went to find his violin.
By the time Harker’s office door finally opened, the sun had gone down, the last echoes of light streaked violently across the sky. Kate was still sitting at the kitchen counter, less out of academic diligence—her homework was done—than a stubborn determination to be there when her father emerged. He’d been avoiding her all week, ever since the black transport had deposited her in the hours before dawn.
That first good-bye—when she was five and the city was tearing itself apart, and Harker was bundling them into a car, and she was sobbing because she didn’t want to go—he’d taken her chin in his hand and said, “My daughter does not cry.”
And she’d stopped, right then and there. But when she came back after the truce, the first words he said to her were, “Make me proud,” and somehow, then, she’d let him down. Now Kate was here again, and this time she wouldn’t fail.
Charlotte’s words rang in her ears.
He can’t stand to look at her.
But it wasn’t true. He just didn’t understand yet—she wasn’t the little gi
rl he’d sent away twelve years ago, the one who set bugs free instead of killing them and was afraid of the dark. She wasn’t the girl who’d come back six years later, the one who cried when she had bad dreams and got sick at the sight of blood. She wasn’t weak like her mother, wouldn’t break down and try to vanish in the middle of the night.
She was her father’s daughter.
Kate sat very still at the counter, her head turned so she could hear the sound of Harker’s heavy steps across the paneled floor. She waited, listened as the steps moved away instead of toward her. Listened to the sound of the elevator being called, the scrape of its arrival, the hush of its descent. When it was gone, Kate got to her feet, and turned to follow, only to find Sloan blocking the doorway.
It was dark out now, and Sloan seemed more real, solid in a way that put her on edge. His skeleton stood out like a bruise beneath his skin, and his teeth looked longer and sharper and silver as knifepoints. “Hungry?”
Kate shook her head. “Where did he go?”
“Who?” asked the Malchai, narrowing his red eyes. Surely he had better things to do than babysit her. His expression certainly said so.
“Is this how Harker has you spending your time?” she goaded.
“Let’s play a game,” he said amiably. “You can tell me to get out of your way. You can call me a monster and I can call you a sheltered little brat and we can have a quarrel. It will be entertaining. Maybe when it’s over you’ll even storm off to your room and slam the door like an ordinary teenager.”
Kate gave him a cold smile. “I’m not an ordinary teenager.”
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