This Savage Song (Monsters of Verity #1)(61)

“How many?” she asked.

“Four hundred and twenty-two.”

“Since what?”

He swallowed. “Since I last fell.”

“What do you mean, fell?”

“It’s what happens if Sunai stop feeding. They . . . go dark. They lose the ability to tell the difference between good and bad, monster and human. They just kill. They kill everyone. It’s not even about feeding, when that happens. It’s just . . .” he trailed off with a shudder. He didn’t say that every time Sunai went dark, they lost a piece of their souls—if they had souls—a part of what made them feel human. That every single time they fell, something didn’t get back up.

“What does it look like,” pressed Kate, “when you go dark?”

“I don’t know,” he said shortly, “I can’t exactly see myself.”

“But you said, before, that you’d rather die than let it happen again.”

No hesitation. “Yes.”

Kate’s eyes danced in the low light. “How many times has it happened, August?”

Her questions were easier to bear when he couldn’t really see her. “Twice,” he said. “Once, when I was much younger, and then . . .”

“Four hundred and twenty-two days ago,” she finished for him. “So what happened?”

August hesitated. He didn’t talk about it. He never talked about it. There was no one to talk to. Henry and Emily didn’t understand—couldn’t understand—and Leo thought the soul was a distraction, had burned it away on purpose, and Ilsa, well, the last time she went dark, she apparently took a chunk of V-City with her.

“I stopped eating,” he said at last. “I didn’t want to do it anymore. Didn’t want to feel like a monster. Henry and I got into a fight, and I stormed out. Spent most of the day wandering the city in a daze, stuck in my own head.” His eyes drifted shut as he remembered. “I was finally heading back when a fight broke out and I—you know when you’re hungry, and the smell of food is intoxicating? When you’re famished, and it’s all you can think of? I could smell the blood on their hands, and then . . .” His voice wavered. “I remember feeling so empty. Like there was a black hole inside, something I had to fill and couldn’t. No matter how many people I killed.” The words left his throat raw and his fingers shaking. “So yes, I’d rather die than face that again.”

Kate had gone quiet.

August dragged his eyes open. “What, no quip?”

She was slumped on the bench, her eyes closed, and he thought for a second she’d just nodded off, but her arm, which had been crossed over her stomach, had fallen into her lap, and it was slick with something blackish and wet.

Even in the dim car, he knew it was blood.





“Kate.”

August scrambled over, knelt in front of her, and took her face in his hands. “Kate, wake up.”

“Where are you?” she murmured.

“I’m right here.”

“No . . . ,” she mumbled, “not how it works . . .” but she was already sliding back into unconsciousness.

“I’m sorry,” he said, right before he squeezed her wounded shoulder. Her eyes flashed open as she let out a cry and kicked him in the chest. He stumbled backward, rubbing his ribs as she muttered, “I’m okay.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked, squinting to see the damage in the low light.

Kate shook her head, and he couldn’t tell if that was an answer or if she was trying to shake off the haze.

He grabbed the flashlight. “Let me see,” he said, snapping it on, and then wishing he hadn’t. Her stomach was slick with blood.

“I’ll be okay . . . ,” she said, but the words were dulled, and she didn’t fight him as he guided her onto her back along the bench, only swore when he peeled the shirt up from her hip. He told himself the cussing was a good sign; it meant she was conscious, but when he saw the wound, he still cringed. Two razor-sharp gashes—claw marks—ran from the curve of her ribs to her navel. They hadn’t torn anything vital, but the cuts were deep, and she’d lost a lot of blood.

“Listen to me,” he said, pulling off his coat. “You need to stay awake.”

She almost laughed, a shallow chuckle cut short by pain.

He tore the lining from the Colton jacket. “What’s so funny?”

“You’re a really shitty monster, August Flynn.”

He pressed the lining against Kate’s stomach, eliciting another string of curses. Then he got up and scoured the car for an emergency kit.

“Talk to me, Kate,” he said, searching. “Where are you?”

She swallowed, then said, “On a lake.”

“I’ve never been to a lake.” He found a first-aid box mounted behind a set of benches on the back wall and, returning with some disinfectant spray and some gauze, knelt beside her. “Tell me what it’s like.”

“Sunny,” she said sleepily. “The boat is rocking and the water’s warm and blue and full of”—she hissed at the disinfectant— “fish.”

“You need stitches,” he said, cinching the gauze around the wound.