This Savage Song (Monsters of Verity #1)(22)

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.”