Our Dark Duet (Monsters of Verity #2)(50)

“When did it happen?” he asked.

She had to think. The hours had run together. “Two nights ago. I was hunting something else when I saw it. There was a stabbing in a restaurant, and it was standing in the middle of it all, just watching, growing more solid with every scream. I chased it down an alley and then . . .” She trailed off, recalling the cold, dark, chilling fear before she saw its eyes, saw herself, and fell in.

“I got away. For the most part.” Kate swept the hair out of her eyes to show him the streak of silver cutting through her left iris. “I said it left a trail.”

August tensed, his face unreadable.

“How did you get away?”

Kate shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe I’m just resilient when it comes to having monsters in my head. I guess you were good practice.”

She didn’t tell him the silver was spreading, didn’t want to think about what would happen if it took over the remaining blue before she killed the source.

“It’s not just for looks,” she said. “This shard, it’s some kind of link. I can use it to see this . . .” She didn’t know what to call it. A Shadow? A Void? Liam’s voice echoed through her head. Call it what it is. Call it what it does.

“Chaos Eater,” she said.

“How does it work?” asked August.

Kate chewed her lip, trying to find the words. “Have you ever stood between two mirrors? They reflect, back and forth, until you see yourself a hundred times. When I look at myself, at this”—she touched her cheek—“it’s like the opposite of that. Instead of multiplying, I disappear into the gap. Does that make sense?”

“No,” said August. “But you saw the monster here?”

She nodded. “It’s not always easy or clear”—understatement—“but it’s something.”

August hesitated. “You compared it to a virus . . .”

Kate knew what he was trying to ask, even without the words. “I’m not contagious.”

“How do you know?”

Kate thought of the older woman in the rest stop, tipping up her chin. “Consider the theory tested.” August paled. “Relax,” she said. “No one got hurt.”

She let her gaze escape to the window.

The walls in her father’s penthouse were made entirely of glass, the city laid out on display. The walls here were solid, studded with small windows, but even still, she could tell which wall faced north. The Seam was traced with light—a thin band cutting through the city—and somewhere beyond it, Callum Harker’s tower was shrouded in darkness.

“Is it true?” she asked after a moment. “About Sloan?”

His name tasted vile in her mouth.

August’s eyes widened. “How did you hear?”

“When Soro caught me, I was running from a group of humans in North City. They all had these metal collars around their necks—”

“Fangs,” he said.

“When they cornered me, one of them said Sloan’s name. He said, ‘She’s just his type.’” Kate wrapped her arms around herself. “What the hell did that mean? And how is Sloan even alive?”

“We’re not sure. Things were messy after Callum’s death. Everyone knew it was Harker the monsters followed, Harker they obeyed, but without him, no one knew what they might do, if they’d rise up or scatter.” August ran a hand through his hair, a shadow of fatigue crossing his face. “A few citizens tried to step up, impose curfews, maintain some sense of order. It looked like it might work—and then Sloan came back.”

A shiver ran through her.

“By the time we knew what was happening . . .” August trailed off, dark lashes shadowing his eyes. “Three solid nights and three days. That’s all it took.”

She wasn’t surprised. Sloan had always wanted to be king.

“If I’d known,” she said, “I would have come back sooner.”

August’s head swung up. “Then I’m glad you didn’t know.”

“That happy to see me?”

He fumbled—she could tell he wanted to lie and couldn’t. “Look around, Kate. Only a cruel person would be glad to see you here.”

“You invited me to stay, once.”

“Things have changed.”

“So you’ve said.” She shook her head, exasperated, exhausted. “Anything else I should know?” Something flickered in his face, too fast to read. “What is it?”

He hesitated. The pause was too long, the answer, when it came, too rushed. “Ilsa survived.”

Kate brightened. “That’s wonderful,” she said.

But there was something else—something he wasn’t telling her.

“She has no voice,” he added darkly.

“But she’s alive.”

August’s head bobbed once, and Kate wondered why he had veered toward this particular truth, and what he’d swerved away from. What was he hiding?

“You must be tired,” he said, the formality back in his voice, and Kate was—too tired to pry, to fight, to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until the real August, the one she remembered, came free.

So she nodded and let him lead her down the hall to the room with the open door.