This Savage Song (Monsters of Verity #1)(73)

August had done this before, had starved himself, determined to believe that he was stronger than this, disgusted by the fact he wasn’t, by the way the hunger ravaged him when it barely seemed to touch his siblings, desperate to find something on the other side, something besides darkness. August had gone to the edge of his senses, and over, had memorized the steps, the stages, as if knowing them was half the battle to overcoming, to outwitting—outwilling—the need. First came anger, then madness, then joy, then sorrow. They should make a nursery rhyme about that, anger, madness, joy, sorrow, anger, madness, joy, sorrow, ang—

He was sliding again.

You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.

“You okay, kid?”

He looked up and saw a man standing there, the left half of his face creased with scars.

August swallowed, found his voice. “Tired of fighting,” he said.

The man shook his head, the gesture sympathetic as he washed his hands.

“Aren’t we all?”

The headline on the screen read:

KATHERINE HARKER ABDUCTED, FLYNN FAMILY SUSPECTED

“Henry Flynn is denying any responsibility in the abduction,” the news anchor was saying, “but sources close to the case confirm that a member of the Flynn family was attending school with Katherine Harker and was seen with her immediately preceding her disappearance. “What’s more”— the news anchor’s eyes went bright with morbid glee—“evidence suggests that a Sunai was responsible for the attack at the esteemed school, which left three students and a teacher dead, and Harker’s only child missing.”

Kate’s stomach lurched. Several men were standing around, looking up at the screens. One muttered something vile underneath his breath; another said there better be a reward. “Turn this trash off,” grumbled the third.

“Can’t,” said the old woman working the till. “It’s on every channel.”

The screen then cut to footage of her father, who was standing before a podium in a crisp black suit, as if he didn’t know what was happening, as if his own rogue monsters weren’t to blame. “I will have my daughter back,” he said, “and I will see the perpetrators—whoever they are—punished for their crimes against my family and against this capital. We in North City see this for what it is: an act of war.”

The news anchor was back. “If you have any information about Katherine Harker, contact the number below . . .”

Kate was already coding a message into the stolen cell.

Call. Urgent.

She backed away from the line of televisions, ducking behind a display of some nondescript, nonperishable food. One minute passed. Two. And then it rang.

“Katherine,” came her father’s voice, only a ghost of his former panic in his voice. He’d regained his usual composure. “Are you all right?”

“Why would you say that on TV?” she snapped. “I told you it wasn’t them!”

A measured exhale. “I don’t know that. Not for sure.”

“I do,” she whispered angrily.

“So he is with you.”

The question threw her. “What?”

“Frederick Gallagher. Also known as August Flynn. Henry’s third Sunai.” Her chest tightened. She would have told him, was planning to tell him. Hell, she was planning to deliver the monster to her father’s feet. Now she couldn’t bring herself to say his name. “Has he been with you the entire time?” pressed Harker.

But Kate didn’t give. This wasn’t August’s fault. August hadn’t tried to kill her. August had saved her life.

“Katherine—”

“Where is Sloan?”

“Hunting down those who moved against me.”

“He’s the one moving against you!” she snarled.

“No,” he said evenly. “He’s not. I questioned him myself. Sloan says he had no hand in the attack.”

“That’s a lie!”

“We both know he cannot lie.”

Her thoughts spun. It had to be Sloan. Who else would have done this?

“Dad—”

“Stay out of the city until you hear from me.”

“So you can let people think I’ve been abducted?”

“So I can keep you safe.” His tone was hardening. “And you need not code the messages, Katherine. This is my phone, after all. Who else would see it?”

Your shadow, she wanted to say.

Instead, she hung up.

“You’re letting out the cold,” snapped a rasping voice. August drew his head out of the beverage case to see a wiry old woman in a Horizon uniform.

“Sorry,” he said, shutting the fridge doors. “I meant to let it in.” The words sounded wrong on his tongue, but they were already out.

Nearby, a woman’s voice started rising as she talked into a cell.

A man dropped his cup of coffee, spilling it on another trucker. The second swore, and shoved the first back, a little too hard. Tension rose like pressure in the store around him.

The woman hurried away, and then, between one burning heartbeat and the next, August caught the scent of crime—old blood, a chill in the air that rustled against his fevered skin. August swayed, his fingers tightening on the strap of the violin case as his gaze slid across the store, over shelves and faces until . . . there. The whole world came into focus around the man. He was stocky, with a mud-splattered coat, a short, uneven beard, and a head too small for his shoulders.