This Savage Song (Monsters of Verity #1)(12)

Marcus held open the door, and she stepped out, shaking off the memory of the Corsai and pulling her features back into alignment. She smoothed the collar of her Colton-issued polo, ran a hand over her pale hair. It was loose, parted to cover the scars where her head had struck the glass. It could have been worse—the hearing loss was partial—but she knew better than to let it show. It was a weakness all the same and weaknesses should never show—that’s what Harker told her, back when she was twelve and the scars were all fresh.

“Why?” she’d asked, because she’d been young and stupid.

“Every weakness exposes flesh,” he’d said, “and flesh invites a knife.”

“What are your weaknesses?” she’d asked him, and Harker’s mouth had become something that almost looked like a smile, but wasn’t one.

To this day, he’d never answered that question. Kate didn’t know if it was because her father didn’t trust her with his weaknesses, or because he didn’t have any. Not anymore. But she wondered if there was another version of Callum Harker in one of those other worlds, and if that one had secrets, and weaknesses, and places where knives could get.

“Miss Harker,” said the driver. “Your father wanted me to pass along a message.”

She slipped her silver lighter into her shirt pocket. “What’s that, Marcus?” she asked blandly.

“If you get yourself expelled, he’ll ship you out of Verity. One way. For good.”

Kate flashed a cool grin. “Why would I get myself expelled?” she said, looking up at the school. “I’m finally where I want to be.”





“Park Station,” announced a calm, metallic voice.

August sank back against the train seat and tugged a well-read copy of The Republic from his backpack, opening it to the middle. He knew most of the text by heart, so it didn’t matter which page he landed on. What mattered was that it gave him a reason to be looking down instead of up. He listened to the stops as they were announced, not willing to risk an upward glance at the grid in case he caught the attention of the cameras above. More little red eyes looking for monsters, even though everyone knew they all came out at night.

Well, thought August. Almost all.

“Martin Center.”

Three stops to Colton. The subway car was filling up, and August stood, offering up his seat to an old woman. He kept his head bowed over the book, but his eyes trailed across the passengers, in their nice dresses and slacks, heels and suits, and not a weapon in sight.

A man jostled his shoulder as he squeezed past, and August tensed.

There was nothing unusual about the man himself—suit and tie, a bit slack around the middle—it was his shadow that caught August’s eye. It didn’t behave as a shadow should—in such a well-lit space, he shouldn’t even have one—but when the man stopped, the shadow kept moving, twitching and shifting around him like a restless passenger. No one else could see it, but to August’s eyes, it loomed in the air, a ghostly thing with too many features for a shadow, too few for a man. August knew it for what it was, an echo of violence, a mark of sin. Somewhere in the city, a monster lived and killed because of this man, because of something he’d done.

August’s fingers tightened on the pole.

If they were in South City, he would learn the man’s name. It would be handed to him—or Leo—on a slip of paper along with an address, and he would find him in the night, silence the echo, and claim his life.

But this was North City.

Where bad people got away with everything, so long as they had the cash.

August tore his eyes away as the old woman sitting on the bench leaned forward.

“I’ve always wanted to be on stage,” she said in a confiding voice. “I don’t know why I’ve never done it. I’m afraid it’s too late now. . . .”

August closed his eyes.

“Union Plaza.”

Two stops.

“I’m sure it’s too late . . . ,” the woman rambled on, “. . . but I still dream about it. . . .”

She wasn’t even talking to him, not really. Monsters couldn’t tell lies, but when humans were around Sunai, they became . . . honest. August didn’t have to compel them—if he could compel them not to open up, he would—they just started unloading. Most of the time they didn’t even realize they were doing it.

Henry called it influence, but Leo had a better word: confession.

“Lyle Crossing.”

One stop.

“. . . I still dream . . .”

Confession was without a doubt his least favorite ability. Leo relished it, willing everyone around him to voice their doubts, their fears, their weaknesses, but it just made August uncomfortable.

“Do you dream . . . ?”

“Colton,” announced the voice overhead.

The train ground to a halt, and August said a silent prayer as he fled the subway car, the woman’s confession following him out.

If North City was surreal, Colton was something else entirely. August had never been this far from the red. The Academy was fenced in, but unlike the Seam, the walls seemed more aesthetic than functional; beyond the wrought iron gate, Colton Academy sat on a rolling stretch of grass, a line of trees at its back. August had seen trees once before, in a run-down park three blocks south of the compound, but these were different. There were enough of them to make a wall. No, a forest. That was the name for so many.