This Savage Song (Monsters of Verity #1)(64)

August looked down, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

Her head spun. “For what?”

“I can’t control it,” he said. “Trust me, if I could . . .”

“What are you talking about?”

August ran a hand through his black hair. “It’s just something that happens around me. Around us. People open up. They tell the truth. Whether they realize it’s happening or not.”

Kate blanched. “What did I say?”

He hesitated. “I tried to tune most of it out.”

“How considerate,” she growled. “You really should have told me about this up front.”

One dark brow twitched up. “Well, it’s only fair. I can’t lie to anyone.”

He turned his attention back to her stomach. “You’re going to have scars,” he said, pressing an adhesive over the stitches.

“Not my first,” said Kate. She looked down at the lines of white tape tracing lines across her stomach. “Your father would be proud.”

August winced a little.

“How does a surgeon end up running South City?”

“His whole family dies.”

An uncomfortable silence, and then August said, “What about your father? Any word?”

Kate looked at the cell. There were a handful of messages, all for someone named Tess, who was probably the girl she’d stolen the phone from back in the restaurant bathroom. She hadn’t stopped to get her name.

“Not yet,” said Kate, deleting the texts.

They both knew that was a bad sign. Harker should have seen the message. Should have known it was her. Should have called by now. She’d tried a second time while August was in the pharmacy. Now she tried a third.

She tried to draw a deep breath, and winced; she was still waiting for the pain to blur into a blanket, something she could ignore, or for the comforting numbness of adrenaline and shock. So far, no luck.

Her stomach began to ache in a different, hollow way. “You didn’t pick up any food in that pharmacy, did you?”

August frowned. It obviously hadn’t occurred to him. Of course. He didn’t eat food. Only souls. And maybe it was the pain, or the blood loss, or the exhaustion, but Kate started to laugh. It hurt, God it hurt, but she couldn’t help it.

“What’s so funny?” asked August, pushing to his feet.

“What’s a Sunai’s favorite food?”

“What?”

“Soul food.”

August just stared at her.

“Get it? Because—”

“I get it,” he said flatly.

“Oh come on, it’s funny.” He just shook his head, but she saw the edge of his mouth twitch as he turned to go.

“How often do you . . . you know . . . eat?” she asked, and just like that, the smile was gone.

“When I need to,” he said in a way that made it very clear he didn’t want to talk about it. He rattled the change in his pocket. “I’ll go see if there’s a vending machine.”

The moment he was gone, the cell phone rang.

August stood in the alcove, staring at the vending machine.

His vision unfocused, and refocused, and this time instead of the shelves of packaged processed foods, he saw his reflection in the glass.

You are not a monster.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to push the damp curls out of his face.

He’s not your father, August. He’s a human.

His rain-slicked shirt clung to his narrow frame, the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, black tallies spilling down his left forearm.

Four hundred and twenty-two.

He leaned his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes, fatigue washing over him. He wanted to go home. Wanted to take Allegro into his arms and sit on Ilsa’s floor and look at stars. What were they doing? What was he doing? Maybe they should have gone south. Maybe they still could.

“Did it eat your money?” asked an old man.

August straightened. “No,” he said wearily. “Just trying to decide.”

He fed coins into the groove, punching numbers at random, and collected the contents from the bottom drawer. And then, just as he was turning back toward the room, he saw it.

A pay phone.

It was mounted to the wall, one of those old-fashion machines that took coins.

He looked down, considering the last of the loose change in his palm.

He didn’t even know if it would be enough.

August picked up the receiver, listened to the empty tone, like white noise in his ears.

He wanted to call Henry. Wanted to know that he was doing the right thing. But what if Leo answered? Or worse, what if Henry told him to abandon Kate, to let Harker’s monsters have her? No. He couldn’t do that. She was an innocent. He was a Sunai. He was supposed to make the world better, not worse, and wasn’t letting someone die just as bad as killing them? Henry would understand, and Leo . . .

August put the receiver back.

“Katherine? Is that you?” She was caught off guard by the urgency in Harker’s voice. His usual calm had splintered, and he sounded worried.

“Dad.” It was the only word that came out.

“Thank God.” An audible exhale, like a wave breaking. “Are you all right?”

Her voice wavered and she clutched the silver pendant around her neck. “Yeah.”