This Savage Song (Monsters of Verity #1)(47)

“No,” he said gently.

They stood for a while in silence. When she spoke again, her voice was steadier. “Thirteen. Twenty-six. Two hundred and seventeen.”

August frowned. “What’s that?”

“Thirteen Malchai. Twenty-six Corsai. Two hundred and seventeen humans. That’s how many died in Lyle Square.” He stiffened, didn’t realize he was still holding her hand until she let it fall from the glass. “That was its name, before the Barren. They were holding a rally; that’s why there were so many people there. I didn’t mean to do it, August. But I had to do something. Leo wasn’t there, and the rally was turning, and . . . I just wanted to help. I’d never gone dark before. I didn’t know what would happen. Leo makes it look so simple, I thought we all burned the same way, but our brother burns like a torch, and . . .”

And Ilsa burned like a wildfire.

And August?

You could burn so brightly, that’s what Leo told him. If you let yourself.

“It was night,” whispered Ilsa, “but they all left shadows.” When she met his gaze, her eyes were haunted, dark. “I don’t want to burn again, August, but if the truce breaks, I’ll have to, and more people will die.” She shuddered. “I don’t want them to die because of me.”

“I know,” he whispered, drawing her away from the splintered window. “We’ll find another way.”

If it came to war, thought August, how many would he kill to spare her the task? How brightly could he burn? He thought of the knife, of the life lurching through him, the sickness, and Leo’s promise it would get better. Get easier.

Ilsa sank onto the bed. Allegro hopped up, and nestled against her. She didn’t notice. “I’ll stay with you,” said August. “Until you fall asleep.”

She curled up on her side, and he sat down on the floor, his head back against her bed. Her fingers wove absently through his hair.

“I can feel the cracks,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” he whispered back. Allegro bounded down, considered him with his green eyes, then curled up in his lap. His chest loosened with relief.

“Everything breaks. . . ,” murmured his sister.

“Hush, Ilsa,” he said, looking up at the stars across her ceiling.

“. . . breaks apart . . .”

“Hush . . .”

He fell asleep like that, surrounded by Ilsa’s voice and Allegro’s purr and hundreds of stars.





Kate spread her tools on the bed.

Duct tape (the utility of which really couldn’t be overestimated), half a dozen copper-threaded zip ties, and a set of iron spikes the length of her forearm (at the very least, they might slow him down). She considered the meager selection, feeling like she was going into battle with a toothpick, then packed the tools into her backpack and headed out.

She was halfway through the kitchen, shrugging on her Colton jacket, when she noticed Callum Harker sitting on the couch.

She’d barely seen her father since the trials in the basement, but there he was, arms stretched along the back of the sleek leather sofa. A step toward the couch, and she realized he wasn’t alone—Sloan was kneeling at his side, head bowed and stiff as a statue, or a corpse. Harker was speaking softly to the Malchai—Kate couldn’t hear the words—and she hesitated, feeling like an intruder. But this was her house, too. She fetched a mug and poured herself a cup of coffee, making no effort to be quiet. Harker clearly heard. He made a short motion with his hand, and Sloan withdrew and went to stand by the window. Morning light streamed in against his blue-white skin, and seemed to go straight through it.

“Good morning, Katherine,” said her father, lifting his voice.

Kate took a long sip of coffee, ignoring the way it burned her throat. “Morning.”

She imagined him asking her how she was settling in, imagined telling him that she didn’t need Sloan keeping tabs. Maybe he would ask her about school, and she could tell him that she’d met a boy and planned to bring him home. But of course, he didn’t ask her any of those things, so she couldn’t answer. Instead she said, “You’re up early.”

“Actually,” he said, “I’ve been up all night.” His arms slid from the couch as he stood. “I figured I would stay up a little longer to see you off.”

Hope flickered through her, followed almost immediately by distrust. “What for?” she challenged, blowing on the coffee.

Harker crossed the room, moving with the sure steps of someone who expected the world to get out of his way.

“I’m your father,” he said, as if that were an explanation. “Besides, I wanted to give you something.” He held out his hand. “Something more fitting for a Harker.”

Kate looked down and saw a new pendant glittering in his palm. It looked like a large coin on the end of a thin chain, the V embossed and filled with nine garnets, each shining like a drop of blood. “The metal is silver,” he said. “More delicate than iron, but still pure.”

Kate tried to find the meaning in the gesture. The trap. “Was it my mother’s?”

“No,” said her father sternly. “It was mine. And now it’s yours.” He crossed behind her and swept her hair aside to unfasten her standard medal. “And one day . . . ,” he said, sliding the silver chain around her throat. “Perhaps you’ll have more than my pendant.” She turned to face him, this man who’d given her his eyes, his hair, and little more, this father who’d always been a shadow at the edges of her life, more legend than real. The knight in a story, strong and stoic and always somewhere else. He was all that she had now. Was she all that he had, too?