Our Dark Duet (Monsters of Verity #2)(62)

Sloan stood on the lowest landing and looked down at the sea of red eyes, reminding himself that this teeming mass, these filthy, feral things were nothing more than shades, foot soldiers, subjects.

And he, their king.

“There is an intruder in our midst,” he said. “A monster has seen fit to come into our city, and feast upon our food. It is a thing of darkness,” continued Sloan. “But we are all things of darkness. The Corsai claim they cannot catch it”—here the shadows chittered—“but we are not all Corsai.”

A low growl, a snarl of agreement.

“Sloan is right.” This came from Alice.

She was perched on the rail of a balcony above. It looked as though she were wearing dark gloves—in truth, she simply hadn’t washed her hands after her latest feast. The sight repulsed him, but the other monsters stared at her in rapture, as she knew they would.

“We are Malchai,” she said. “There is nothing we cannot hunt, no one we cannot kill.” She flashed a smile at Sloan, all teeth. “What would you have us do, Father?”

He gripped the railing, but did not rise to that last bait. Instead, he looked down at the Malchai.

“The intruder is drawn to live bait. Raid the fridges, take your prey into the streets. The first monster who kills this pest and brings me its corpse will find a place with Alice at my side.”

“That is, of course,” Alice added, “if I don’t kill it first.”

Sloan spread his hands, the picture of munificence. “Let the hunt begin.”





The Compound changed after dark.

Kate didn’t see the sun go down, but she could feel the shift all the same, the nervous energy coalescing, the tension drawing tight around her. The stream of soldiers thinned as some retreated to off-site barracks and others went on watch or on missions, and the number of guards on each door multiplied.

The cafeteria was still full, but she sat at Twenty-Four’s table alone. Whatever invisible thread had bound the teams together during the day, it dissolved by dinner, freeing the soldiers to choose their own company. New divisions were drawn, between North and South, young and old, her exclusion yet another reminder that she didn’t belong.

A huddle of twentysomethings played cards a few rows over, and Mony was perched on a tabletop, chatting with friends, while Colin sat against a wall, telling a story. He seemed engrossed, but every time Kate so much as glanced at the door, his face gave a nervous twitch, so she decided to wait him out. Make a game of it. And at some point, outlasting Colin became outlasting every other nervous glance or whispered word, each one designed to chip away at her.

She drew the tablet from her pocket and booted it, surprised to discover someone had connected the device to the network.

Her fingers danced over the screen as she booted the server, and typed in the address for the Wardens’ chat room.

Page not found.

She tried again.

Page not found.

Frustration welled inside her and she clicked over to the message drive and started a new email. She typed in Riley’s address, and wrote a single word—alive—before hitting SEND.

It went nowhere.

The message hung suspended, a grayed-out line in a sea of black text. Flynn had been telling the truth about the internal server. There was nothing here but memos, notices transmitted to everyone in the system.

Kate tapped through the various drive folders and found mission logs, registers of targets, captures, casualties.

The files were ordered by month, and Kate was skimming the most recent one when the tablet chimed, and a new message popped up.

The subject line was AUGUST.

The sender was ILSA FLYNN.

There was no note, only a set of attachments. Kate knew exactly what they were. She’d seen her fair share of security footage in Prosperity, and a lifetime ago she’d sat in her room at Harker Hall and scoured her father’s database, watching every clip she could find of the monsters that lurked in her city.

Callum had a wealth of footage on Leo, but when but when it came to August Flynn, there’d been nothing.

Now she stared down at the footage Ilsa had sent her.

One was shot from what looked like a symphony hall. Another from a cam on top of the Seam. A third, somewhere in the street. Six months’ worth of files, every one of them titled BROTHER.

What happened to August? she’d asked his sister.

And Ilsa had sent her an answer.

Kate braced herself and hit PLAY.

August’s hand kept drifting to the six small holes in the front of his shirt.

“I should change,” he said as they walked down the hall.

“Nah,” said Harris, cuffing him around the shoulders. August tensed—he’d never gotten used to being touched. “Show them you’re a man of steel.”

Ani shook her head. “I can’t believe you let her go.”

“She was upset,” said August.

“She shot you six times!” said Harris.

“With your gun,” snapped Jackson.

“It wasn’t a crime,” said August.

Only because you can’t be killed, said Leo.

Or because I don’t count.

“Way to let your guard down, Harris,” snorted Ani.

“I didn’t expect a middle-aged lady to snatch a sidearm.”