This Savage Song

by Victoria Schwab

  Her stomach began to ache in a different, hollow way. “You didn’t pick up any food in that pharmacy, did you?”

  August frowned. It obviously hadn’t occurred to him. Of course. He didn’t eat food. Only souls. And maybe it was the pain, or the blood loss, or the exhaustion, but Kate started to laugh. It hurt, God it hurt, but she couldn’t help it.

  “What’s so funny?” asked August, pushing to his feet.

  “What’s a Sunai’s favorite food?”

  “What?”

  “Soul food.”

  August just stared at her.

  “Get it? Because—”

  “I get it,” he said flatly.

  “Oh come on, it’s funny.” He just shook his head, but she saw the edge of his mouth twitch as he turned to go.

  “How often do you . . . you know . . . eat?” she asked, and just like that, the smile was gone.

  “When I need to,” he said in a way that made it very clear he didn’t want to talk about it. He rattled the change in his pocket. “I’ll go see if there’s a vending machine.”

  The moment he was gone, the cell phone rang.

  August stood in the alcove, staring at the vending machine.

  His vision unfocused, and refocused, and this time instead of the shelves of packaged processed foods, he saw his reflection in the glass.

  You are not a monster.

  He ran a hand through his hair, trying to push the damp curls out of his face.

  He’s not your father, August. He’s a human.

  His rain-slicked shirt clung to his narrow frame, the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, black tallies spilling down his left forearm.

  Four hundred and twenty-two.

  He leaned his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes, fatigue washing over him. He wanted to go home. Wanted to take Allegro into his arms and sit on Ilsa’s floor and look at stars. What were they doing? What was he doing? Maybe they should have gone south. Maybe they still could.

  “Did it eat your money?” asked an old man.

  August straightened. “No,” he said wearily. “Just trying to decide.”

  He fed coins into the groove, punching numbers at random, and collected the contents from the bottom drawer. And then, just as he was turning back toward the room, he saw it.

  A pay phone.

  It was mounted to the wall, one of those old-fashion machines that took coins.

  He looked down, considering the last of the loose change in his palm.

  He didn’t even know if it would be enough.

  August picked up the receiver, listened to the empty tone, like white noise in his ears.

  He wanted to call Henry. Wanted to know that he was doing the right thing. But what if Leo answered? Or worse, what if Henry told him to abandon Kate, to let Harker’s monsters have her? No. He couldn’t do that. She was an innocent. He was a Sunai. He was supposed to make the world better, not worse, and wasn’t letting someone die just as bad as killing them? Henry would understand, and Leo . . .

  August put the receiver back.

  “Katherine? Is that you?” She was caught off guard by the urgency in Harker’s voice. His usual calm had splintered, and he sounded worried.

  “Dad.” It was the only word that came out.

  “Thank God.” An audible exhale, like a wave breaking. “Are you all right?”

  Her voice wavered and she clutched the silver pendant around her neck. “Yeah.”

  “What happened? Where are you?” He was actually raising his voice. Her father never raised his voice.

  “There was an attack yesterday,” she said, trying to stay calm, focused. “At Colton.”

  “I know. I’ve been trying to reach you ever since I heard. Four students and a teacher dead, along with two of my Malchai. It looks like one of Flynn’s—”

  “No,” Kate cut in. “They weren’t your Malchai. They’d clawed off their brands. And it wasn’t a Sunai. It was a setup.”

  Silence. Then, “You’re certain?”

  “They were after me,” she said. “Dad, they brought a blowtorch, for my eyes.”

  “But you got away,” he said, and there was something in his voice, surprise, or grudging respect. “Are you alone?”

  Kate hesitated, eyes flicking to August’s violin case against the chair. “Yes.”

  “Where are you? I’m sending a car.”

  Kate rolled her head on her shoulders. “No.”

  “Katherine, wherever you are, it isn’t safe.”

  “It isn’t safe there, either.”

  An exhale. A beat of silence. She could hear the words he wasn’t saying. I should never have brought you back. I should have kept you away.

  She swallowed. “Where is Sloan?”

  “He’s out. Why?” challenged Harker.

  “Someone tried to have me killed, Dad. Someone tried to break the truce, and that someone had enough power to bend other Malchai to his will. And logically—”

  “Sloan has always been loyal.”

  “Confront him, if you’re so sure,” she said icily.

  Silence again. When Harker spoke, his tone was careful. “You’re right, it isn’t safe here. You need to get out of the city until the problem is solved. . . . Do you remember the coordinates?”

  She stiffened. “Yes.”

  “I’ll call when I know more.”

  Her fingers tightened on the cell. “Okay.”

  “I promise, Katherine, the problem will be solved—”

  “I killed them,” she said, before he could hang up. “The Malchai at Colton. I drove my spikes into their hearts, and when you find the monster behind this, I want to be the one to kill him, too.” Even if it’s Sloan. Especially if it’s Sloan.

  A single word in answer. “Done.”

  And then he was gone. It was the most she’d spoken to her father in five years.

  Kate stayed on the line and listened to the silence until August came back.

  August stood at the hotel window, watching the sun arc over the city skyline. The rain had stopped, the clouds broken from a solid pane of gray into a hundred slivers, blue shining through. Kate had burned through the last of her cigarettes, and when he refused to buy her more, she’d stretched out on the bed, and stared up at nothing, turning her silver pendant over in her fingers.

  She said she had to get out of the city. She didn’t say where she was going, only pushed herself up from the bed and nearly tore her stitches when she fell. Between the blood loss and the painkillers and the lack of sleep, she wasn’t fit to go anywhere right now.

  One night, he told her. They’d paid for the room. She could leave in the morning.

  She. As if August was just supposed to walk away. That’s what Leo wanted him to do. That’s what Henry would probably tell him to do, if he actually phoned home.

  “You should get going,” said Kate, as if she could read his mind. With his luck, it was probably the only thing written on his face.

  “Yeah,” said August, sinking into a chair. “I probably should.”

  “I’m serious,” she said, the faintest tremor in her voice. “Go while it’s still light out.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” he said.

  “What if I don’t want you to stay?” she asked, which wasn’t the same thing as asking him to go.

  “Too bad,” said August. “I’m not staying just for you. Whoever’s behind this, they tried to frame my family. Do you have any idea what will happen if this truce breaks? If the city’s plunged back into territory war?”

  “People will die,” she said hollowly.

  “People will die,” he echoed, thinking of Ilsa. Ilsa in her room, surrounded by stars. Ilsa in the Barren, surrounded by ghosts.

  “People are already dying,” muttered Kate. But she didn’t talk any more about him leaving, only sank back against the cushions and returned her attention to the silver pendant.

  August shivered, his clothes still damp with rain. He turned away, and felt Kate’s eye
s on his back as he stripped the shirt over his head, revealing the black tallies that had circled his forearm and were making their way like roots across his chest and back.

  He drew the curtains against the sunlight, dizzy with fatigue. There was only one bed, so he sank to the floor beneath the window, his back against the hotel’s faded wallpaper. Kate said nothing but dropped a pillow over the side of the bed. August stretched out on the dingy carpet, tucking the pillow behind his head.

  It was so quiet.

  The motel was a nest of muffled noises: dripping water and far-off voices and the electric hum of appliances, and beyond, the growl of engines and tap of shoes on concrete. He missed his music player, missed the hundreds of more familiar sounds that came with living in the compound, every one of them helping to drown the gunshots that now rose to fill the silence in his head.

  And then, mercifully, music.

  He looked up to see Kate fiddling with the radio beside the bed.

  “. . . hate quiet,” she mumbled, turning past a classical station to something with a low, heavy beat. She found his eyes in the curtained dark, and flashed him a tired almost-smile back before sinking gingerly back to the bed. Within minutes, her breathing had evened, and he knew she was asleep.

  August let himself sink into the songs, drift past the words and into the instruments, picking apart the threads of sound as he tried to sleep. He couldn’t remember ever being so tired. The ceiling swam in his vision, and a shiver passed through him, like the cusp of a cold.

  And then, just as he was drifting off, the hunger started.

  August woke from fever dreams to cool air and the smell of mint.

  His skin ached and his bones were humming, and a shape hovered over him, a nest of hair blocking out the last light beyond the window. His dreams had been a tangled mess of teeth and shadows, and for a second, he thought he was still asleep, still dreaming, but then he felt the cheap motel carpet beneath his back, and the shape leaned closer, revealing blue eyes and strawberry curls and skin covered in stars.

  “Ilsa?” he asked, throat dry. But Ilsa couldn’t be here. His sister didn’t leave the compound. He tried to blink away the phantom, but she only grew more solid.

  “Shh, little brother.” She pressed her fingers against his mouth and turned his face toward the bed. “Someone is sleeping.”

  Kate was curled up on her side with her back to them, a blanket slipping to reveal the bandages wrapped around her waist, and it hit him in a wave, where he was, what had happened. Colton. The Malchai. The tunnels. The hunger. August sat up, and the room tipped. “You can’t be here.”

  “Can’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t, won’t,” she whispered. “No one saw me go. No one thinks to look for someone who’s always there. They are all looking for you.”

  “How did you find us?”

  “You tick, I tock,” she said, her voice so soft that only his ears could pick it up. “I would hear you anywhere.” A breeze blew through the window. It was open, twilight streaming in. He’d slept all afternoon, and he winced as his pulse thudded in his skull, and Ilsa pressed her cool palm to his cheek. “You’re warm.”

  He brushed her hand away. “I’m all right,” he mouthed, because it was still true. “Is anyone with you?”

  She shook her head. Her eyes were wide, the skin tight over her bones, her edges haloed by the thin light from the window. She looked wrong outside the compound, as if she’d left some part of herself behind.

  Our sister has two sides. They do not meet.

  “Ilsa,” he whispered. “You can’t be here.”

  “Henry is worried. Leo is angry. Emily wanted me to come. She didn’t say the words, but I heard them anyway.”

  “You need to go back home. If Harker’s men see you, if they catch you—”

  “I told you everything was breaking.” Ilsa sank down next to him, curled up right there on the floor with her cheek to the carpet, picking at the fibers. “I could feel it,” she murmured. “And I’m glad it’s not inside me, but that means it’s out here. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I let the cracks into the world.”

  He rolled toward her. “Hush, Ilsa. It wasn’t you.”

  “I told Leo about the cracks, and he told me everything breaks. But I wish it didn’t have to. I wish we could go back instead of forward.”

  “I wish we could stay the same,” whispered August.

  She gave him a rueful smile. “Nobody gets to stay the same, little brother.” She nodded at Kate. “Not even them.” She took his hand and folded it in hers, the way she had with the traitor’s back at the compound, just before she took his soul. “Please come home.”

  “I can’t, Ilsa. Not yet.” His eyes went to the bed.

  “Do you care about her?” The question was simple, curious.

  “I care about us. About our city. Someone tried to kill her. To frame us. To break the truce.” A shadow swept across Ilsa’s face.

  I don’t want to burn again.

  “She’s an innocent,” he added. “I’m just trying to keep her safe.”

  Ilsa’s features smoothed. “All right,” she said. “Then I’ll help.”

  August shook his head. “No. Please go home, Ilsa.”

  I need you safe, he thought. There is too much to lose. I can’t risk you.

  A small crease formed between her eyes. “But someone has to keep the shadows back.”

  August tensed. “What shadows?”

  “The ones with teeth.”

  He sat up. “Malchai?”

  Ilsa nodded. “They are coming. They are on their way.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can feel the cracks they make and—”

  He took her by the shoulders. “But how do you know?”

  “—the man downstairs, he told me,” she went on, as if she hadn’t heard him. “It spilled right out of his mouth, little brother. He couldn’t keep it in. He went back and forth, back and forth, but then he broke, like all things do. . . .”

  August let go, pushed his hands through his hair. “Kate,” he said. “Kate, wake up.”

  She made a muffled sound but didn’t stir.

  Ilsa slid to her feet, and crossed to the bed. “No, Ilsa, wait.” But it was too late, she was already reaching out, wrapping her fingers around Kate’s shoulder. She must have squeezed it, because Kate gasped and jerked forward, the lighter in her hand transforming into the small, sharp knife, the silver edge pressed to Ilsa’s throat. His sister looked down at the girl, but didn’t move.

  “You’re hurt,” said Ilsa simply.

  “Who are you?” demanded Kate.

  “We have to go,” said August, pulling on his shirt. But Kate was still staring at Ilsa as if entranced. Which made sense; Ilsa was entrancing. “This is my sister, Ilsa. Ilsa, Kate.”

  Kate’s eyes went to the stars pouring down Ilsa’s bare arms. “You’re the third one.”

  Ilsa cocked her head. “No,” she said sweetly, “I’m the first.”

  Kate lowered the knife, her free hand against her injured stomach. August could see the pain etched into her features. “What’s going on?”

  “Malchai. Coming. Now.”

  Kate pitched to her feet, swaying before Ilsa caught her. Kate stared down at the place where the Sunai’s fingers met her skin.

  “Listen for me, Ilsa,” August pulled on his shoes, slung the violin over his shoulder. His sister pressed her ear to the wall. “Tell me if they—”

  “They’re here.”

  August paled, caught the distant sound of steps, the wet rattle of voices, the scent of rot. She was right. Kate swore, maneuvering her shirt back on. She headed for the door, and August took a step, but turned back when his sister didn’t follow. “Come on.”

  “Go, little brother,” she said, her ear still to the wall. “I will stay here until you are gone.”

  “It isn’t safe,” he said, holding out his hand.

  But Ilsa reached up, and touched his cheek instead. “Safe,” she said
with a hollow smile. “That is a pretty word.”

  “Come on,” snapped Kate beside the door.

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry, August. I’m not afraid of the dark.”

  Our sister has two sides.

  He took his Ilsa’s face in his hands. “Please be careful.”

  They do not meet.

  “Go,” she said. “Before the cracks catch up.”

  Kate had an iron spike out by the time they reached the hall.

  The lighter’s hidden knife was well and good for threatening schoolgirls, but it wasn’t long enough to bypass the ribs of a Malchai and hit the heart. She hadn’t had a chance to clean the spike since the attack at Colton, and the edge was still crusted with blackish blood.

  August was there at her side, one hand up as if he thought she would fall. As if he planned to catch her. There was an elevator and two stairwells, one on either end of the hall. A one-in-three chance of choosing wrong, but she wasn’t about to get caught in a box. Pain burned across her stomach as she raced for the nearest set of stairs.

  August kept looking back toward the room and the other Sunai, with her sad eyes and her skin covered in stars.

  “She’ll be fine,” said Kate as they plunged into the stairwell, and it came out sounding hollow even though the girl wasn’t just a girl of course, she was a monster. She’d made the Barren, torn a hole in the world. Surely she could face a few Malchai, if it came to it.

  They hit the second floor landing right as a door slammed open below, and the air went cold.

  August must have felt the difference, too, because he grabbed her hand, and they burst out onto the second floor, sprinting for the other set of stairs.

  Down, down, steps echoing through the concrete chamber as they passed the first floor and kept going. A door thrown open overhead. They hit the basement level just as a shape dropped like a stone over the stairs and landed before them in an elegant crouch.

  The fall should have shattered the creature’s body, but the Malchai rose fluidly, red eyes little more than violent cuts in her skull. A gash ran down her cheek, obscuring the H once branded into her skin.