This Savage Song (Monsters of Verity #1)(91)

He watched the car pull away. And then he walked out of the garage and onto the street, toward the Seam, and South City, and home.

They saw him coming.

Word must have gone up from the moment he stepped into the compound, or maybe Paris had even called when he came through, because Henry and Emily Flynn were waiting when the elevator doors opened. Before he could say anything, they were there, pulling him into something more desperate than a hug. August sank against their grip and told them everything.

About Kate.

About Sloan.

About Leo.

He told them about Colton.

About running.

About leaving Ilsa.

About the Malchai.

And his brother’s treason.

And his death.

He confessed, and when he was done, he sank to his knees, and Henry sank with him, and the two sat there on the hall floor, foreheads pressed together.

There’d been a fight, Henry told him, after August’s call, and Leo had left, abandoned the Flynns and their mission for his own. They couldn’t stop him.

August had.

“I thought I’d lost you,” said his father.

You did, he wanted to say, but there was more of him left than there was lost, so he said, “I’m here. And I’m so sorry about Leo. About Ilsa.”

“She’ll be all right,” said Emily, touching August’s shoulder.

His head snapped up. “What?”

August felt himself choking on the hope of the words, and then the fear that he’d misheard. “But Sloan—”

Henry nodded. “It was a close thing, August. She got away, but . . . well, she got away. That’s what matters.”

“Where?” But he was already on his feet and heading past them, toward her bedroom.

He pushed the door open, and there she was, standing at the window with her strawberry curls, watching the sun sink over the city, Allegro watching from the bed. She was wearing a thin-strapped shirt, and even from the doorway, he could see her skin was bare, the thousands of stars that had once turned her back into a sky now gone.

“Ilsa,” he said, breathless with relief.

And then she turned toward him, and August tensed—a vicious red line sliced across her throat. Sloan had told the truth, if not the whole truth.

He didn’t know how the Malchai had gotten away with his life, but he was glad Leo had put a pole through the monster’s back.

Despite the injury, Ilsa’s face lit up when she saw him. She didn’t speak, only held out a hand and he crossed the room and pulled her into a hug. She still smelled like mint.

“I thought you were gone,” he whispered. Still nothing. He pulled away to look her in the eyes. He didn’t know how to tell her about Leo. Ilsa had been the first Sunai and Leo the second, and Leo might not have loved her—or anyone—but she loved him.

“Our brother—” he started, but she brought her fingers to his lips.

Somehow, she already knew.

“I’m scared,” he whispered against her hand. “I lost myself.” And it was more than that, of course. He’d taken in the soul of another Sunai. Even now, it burned through him like a star. “I don’t think it all came back.”

She shook her head sadly, as if to say it never does.

Her lips parted, as if she wanted to speak. Nothing came out, but her eyes, those bright blue eyes, were full of words, and he knew what she would say.

Nobody gets to stay the same.

She turned back to the window, and looked out toward the city, and the Seam. Her fingers drifted to the still-cracked glass, and against the dark she drew a star, and then another, and another. August wrapped his arms around his sister’s shoulders and watched her fill the sky.





ELEGY





Kate drove west.

Through the red, and yellow, and green of the city, through the Waste and the towns beyond. The car reached the border before the sun, and she handed the man the papers, and waited while he looked from page to her and back again—she’d pried off the photo of a smiling child from the upper corner, glued one of her school pictures from Wild Prior or St. Agnes, she couldn’t remember which. Most of the details lined up, but according to the papers, she was Katherine Torrell. It was her mother’s maiden name.

She kept her hands on the wheel, fighting the urge to rap her nails while the guard read through her details.

There were three more men at the border control station, one on the ground and two on elevated posts, each decked out in gear and artillery. Her father’s gun was strapped beneath the driver’s seat. She hoped she wouldn’t need it.

“Purpose?” asked the checkpoint guard.

“School,” she said, trying to remember which of the boarding schools was out this way, but he didn’t ask.

“You know these papers don’t grant you come-and-go privileges, right?”

She nodded. “I know,” she said. “I’m not coming back.”

The man went inside, and Kate tipped her head back and waited, hoping they would hold. Her eyes ached from tears, but they’d stopped falling hours ago, and her shades were down against the glare of the setting sun. The radio was set to a news station, a man and a woman talking about the mounting tension between Harker and Flynn. A riot at the Seam. The fact that Callum couldn’t be reached for comment. She shut the radio off.