This Savage Song (Monsters of Verity #1)(82)

The moment they did, she drove the switchblade up into his wrist. Sloan recoiled at the silver, and she drew the knife free and tried to slash at his throat, but he was too fast, and before she could get in another shot, his fist connected with her jaw, and she went down hard, spitting blood into the gravel.

The lighter skidded out of reach, and cold fingers curled around her wounded shoulder as he forced her onto her back and wrapped both hands around her throat.

“Our little Katherine, all grown up.”

She clawed at his wrist, but it was like fighting stone.

“You think you deserve a chance to rule the city? It doesn’t belong to you, or Callum Harker—not anymore. Soon the monsters will rise, and when they do . . .” he leaned close, “the city will be mine.”

He knelt on her wounded ribs and she tried to cry out, but there was no air. Her lungs screamed.

“You’ve made a mess of things,” he went on. “Can’t even die when you’re supposed to. Even your mother could do that much.”

She kicked and squirmed, trying to gain purchase, to get a leg up as her vision swam, tunneled. “I should kill you now,” he said wistfully. “It would be a kindness. But—”

He slammed her head back into the ground, and everything went dark.

August stumbled into the bathroom. He fell to his knees on the tile, and pulled the violin case onto the floor in front of him, fumbling with the clasps as a shadow appeared in the doorway, its red eyes reflected in the mirror.

August wasn’t fast enough—his fingers barely brushed the strings of the violin before a boot connected with his ribs and sent him hard into the base of the sink.

Porcelain cracked against his spine, knocked the air from his lungs.

“Well, well,” came the Malchai’s wet rasp, “not so scary now, are you?”

August struggled up onto his hands and knees, and crawled back toward the case, but the creature’s boot came down on his wrist, grinding it into the tile floor. Pain flared through him, too bright, too human. Sharp nails hauled him up, and then he was flying backward into the wall so hard the tiles cracked, and rained down around him when he fell.

August tasted blood, staggering upright as the Malchai’s hand closed around the neck of his violin.

No.

“Sunai, Sunai, eyes like coal,” sang the monster, running a nail along the string. “Sing you a song and steal your soul.”

August lunged forward, but at the same moment the Malchai wound up and swung the violin at August’s head.

He tried to get his hand up to stop the blow, or at least save the instrument, but he was too late, and the violin shattered against his skull, turning the world to splintered wood and broken strings and silence.





The world came back in pieces.

Concrete beneath his knees.

Iron around his wrists.

A shifting pool of light.

A metallic tap tap tap.

The echo of large, empty spaces.

The world came back in pieces, and so did August. For a moment he was terrified that he’d lost himself, but the pain in his head, the ache in his wrists, and the searing heat across his skin told him that he hadn’t gone dark. Not yet.

He was kneeling on the floor of a warehouse, surrounded by glass and dust and a single harsh light, the edges so sharp that the space beyond registered as a wall of black. His arms had been wrenched up over his head. Pain flared around his wrists, and August could feel the metal chains cutting into the base of his hands, rubbing the flesh raw in a way they shouldn’t be able to.

Where was he?

Where was Kate?

The tapping continued from somewhere beyond the pool of light, and when August squinted, the first thing he saw wasn’t the glint of metal or the smudge of skin but the blazing red of the Malchai’s eyes.

August fought to get his feet under him as the creature in the black suit stepped forward, a long metal bar dangling from one hand, its edge sharp, jagged, as if broken off from some large machine. The torn end dragged along the concrete with a screech, and August winced as the sound knifed through his head.

There was something strange about the monster. He was all bone, of course, but the lines of his face, the width of his shoulders, the way he carried himself, was almost human.

Almost.

August got one foot beneath himself before an electric droning started up and the chains overhead drew taut, dragging him the rest of the way to his feet and then onto his toes. He fought for purchase, his shoulders straining in their sockets. Since when did he feel the subtle tests of muscle and bone? His whole body felt fragile, breakable, and some distant part of his mind wondered if this was what it truly felt like to be human.

“August Flynn,” said the Malchai, rolling the name off his tongue. “My name is Sloan.”

Of course. Harker’s pet.

“You know,” continued Sloan, examining his fingers, which tapered into pointed nails, “you don’t look very well.” He leaned forward. “How long has it been since you fed?”

August tried to say something and realized that he couldn’t. His teeth were jammed together, his mouth sealed shut with tape.

“Oh, yes, that,” said the Malchai. “I know the power of a Sunai’s voice. Especially if they turn. Leo and I have a bit of a history.” A thoughtful pause. “You know, between your brother and your sister, I’m learning so much about your kind. But I’m getting ahead of myself.”