This Savage Song (Monsters of Verity #1)(13)

But the trees didn’t distract him nearly as much as the people.

Everywhere he looked, he saw them, not FTF cadets or North civilians, but teenagers in Colton’s trademark blue. Boys and girls walking through the gates, or sitting clustered in the grass. He marveled at the easy way they chatted and hung on one another, elbows bumping, arms thrown around shoulders, head to head and hip to hip. The way their faces broke into broad grins, or pursed in annoyance, or opened with laughter. They made it look so . . . natural.

What was he doing here?

Maybe Leo was right; he should have eaten something. Too late now. He fought the urge to retreat, tried to remind himself that he’d wanted a way out of the compound, that Leo of all people had vouched for him, that he had a job to do, one as important as the rest of the FTF. He forced his feet forward, so sure with every step that someone would see through the Colton clothes and the practiced smile, and notice he wasn’t human. As if it were written on his face as plainly as the marks down his arm. All of a sudden the hours spent before the mirror seemed ridiculous. How could ever he mimic this? How could he think that he was capable of passing for one of them, just because they were the same age? The thought snagged him. They weren’t the same age. They only looked his age. No, that wasn’t right: he looked their age, because they’d all been born, and he’d woken up in the shape of a twelve-year-old boy because that’s how old they’d been, the bodies in the black bags when it started with a bang, not the universe only the sharp staccato bursts of gunfire and—

He slammed to a stop, struggling for air.

Someone bumped his shoulder, not a friendly jostle but a hostile jab, and August stumbled forward, regaining his balance in time to see the guy—broad-shouldered and blond—shoot a hard look back.

“What’s your problem?” snapped August, the question out before he could think to stop it.

The boy spun on him. “You were in my way,” he growled, grabbing August’s collar. “You think I’m gonna let some shit newbie mess this up? This is my year, *, my school.” And then, to August’s horror, the guy kept talking. “Think you can scare me with that creepy stare? I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of anyone. I . . .” he shuddered, forcing August closer. “I can’t sleep; every time I close my eyes I see them.”

“Hey now,” said another student over August’s shoulder. “There a problem, Jack?”

The blond guy, Jack, blinked a few times, gaze sharpening, and then shoved August backward. The other student caught his shoulder. “Come on, no need for that. My friend here’s sorry. He didn’t mean to piss you off.” His tone was friendly, casual.

“Keep him away from me, Colin,” snapped Jack, his voice normal again, “before I break his smug face.”

“Will do.” Colin shook his head. “Ass,” he muttered as Jack stormed away. He turned toward August; a short, slim boy with a widow’s peak and warm eyes set in an open face. “Making friends on your first day, huh?”

August straightened, smoothed his jacket. “Who said it was my first day?”

Colin laughed, an easy sound, as natural as breathing. “It’s a small school, dude,” he said with a grin, “and I’ve never seen you before. You got a name?”

August swallowed. “Frederick,” he said.

“Frederick?” echoed Colin, raising a single brow. August wondered if he’d made a mistake, chosen the wrong name.

“Yeah,” he said slowly, then added, “but you can call me Freddie.”

No one had ever called him Frederick or Freddie, but it was the right answer. Colin’s face morphed again, from skepticism to cheer in an instant. “Oh, thank God,” he said. “Frederick is a really pretentious name. No offense. Not your fault.”

They started walking toward the main building together, but a pair of students called Colin’s name.

“Hey, I’ll see you inside,” he said as he jogged over to meet them. Halfway there he twisted around with a grin. “Try not to piss off anyone else before school starts.”

August managed a ghost of the boy’s smile. “I’ll do my best.”

“Name?” asked the woman in the registration office.

“Frederick Gallagher,” said August, managing what he hoped was a nervous smile as he brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. “But I go by Freddie.”

“Ah,” said the woman, pulling out a folder with a yellow band along the top. “You must be one of our new students.”

He nodded, tweaked the smile. This time, she smiled back. “Look at you,” she said. “Dark hair. Kind eyes. Dimples. They’re going to eat you up.”

August wasn’t sure what she meant. “I hope not,” he said.

She only laughed. Everyone laughed so easily here. “You still need to get your identification card,” she said. “Go next door, and hand them the top page in your folder. They’ll take care of you.” She hesitated, looked like she was about to say something more, something personal. He backed away before she could.

Next door, a short line spilled out of a door marked ID REGISTRATION. August watched as a student at the front of the line handed the man behind the counter his paper, then stepped in front of a pale green backdrop. He grinned, and an instant later a flash went off. August cringed. Another student repeated the process. And another. He backed away.