This Savage Song (10 page)

“Anytime now, little Katherine,” said the Malchai,
and Sloan's words shuddered through her.

You will always be our little Katherine.

Kate's hand closed around a crowbar. It took more force than a blade, but the length would act in her favor. She took it up by one end and dragged it casually off the table, letting it scrape, metal on metal, drawing out the moment the way Harker would.

She took up a knife as well, then approached the monster.

Her fourth school, Pennington, had a zero tolerance policy when it came to fighting, but the others had paid off. Back at Fischer, she'd taken karate, then kendo at Leighton, fencing at Dalloway, kickboxing at Wild Prior. St. Agnes didn't have anything like that, but they were big on quieting the mind, allowing room for God. Or in Kate's case, for focus.

Kate twirled the crowbar. The basement went quiet.

“Lean in, pretty,” said the Malchai, “show me your throa—”

Kate thrust the hilt of the knife between the monster's teeth and drove the crowbar up and under his ribs. There was a wet sound, and the grind of metal on bone, and then the Malchai shuddered horribly, wretched a mouthful of black blood onto her shirt, and slumped. Kate lowered him onto his back, and his red eyes gazed up at her, dull and dead. She drew the crowbar free with
a slick scrape, then strode back to the table, and returned the weapons carefully to their places, leaving a trail of gore in her wake.

And then she met her father's gaze. And smiled.

“Thank you,” she said. “I needed that.”

Her father raised a brow, and she thought she saw the barest flicker of respect before he gestured to the basement. “Want me to find you another one?”

Kate considered the hall, still crowded with silent, shocked faces, burning eyes, coiling shadows. “Thanks,” she said, wiping her hands. “But I have homework.” And with that she turned and strode out of the basement.

When the steel elevator doors closed, she caught sight of her reflection. She was still in her school uniform. Her face was dotted with blackish blood, her shirtfront and hands slick with it. She met her own cold, blue gaze and held it as the elevator rose up through Harker Hall, floor after floor until it reached the top.

Sloan was nowhere to be seen, and Kate wove silently through the empty loft to her bedroom and closed the door behind her. Her hands were shaking as she tapped the radio on, and turned the volume
up up up
until the sound vibrated off the walls of the room, drowning everything.

And then, only then, safe beneath the sound, did Kate sink to the floor, gasping for air.

The first time August killed a man, it was entirely by accident.

He'd come to—been born, manifested—at the school, with the black body bags and the worried woman who tried to shield his eyes as she pulled her coat around his narrow shoulders and loaded him into a car. The car took him to a building where other children were being collected by their families. But he didn't have a family, and he knew with a strange, bone-deep certainty that he shouldn't be there, so he slipped out through a back door, and onto a side street.

And that's when he heard the music—the first beautiful thing in an ugly world, as Ilsa would say. The song was thin, unsteady, but loud enough to follow, and soon August found its source: a weary-looking man on a packing crate, wrapped in a ratty blanket. He was tinkering with the instrument, and August made his way toward
him, wondering at the man's shadow, which stretched behind him on the wall, moving even when he didn't.

It had too many hands, too many teeth.

And then the man beneath the shadow held the instrument up to the light.

“Who throws out a violin?” he murmured, shaking his head.

Back at the building, they'd given August a pack of cookies and a carton of juice. The food tasted like white noise on his tongue, so he'd shoved the rest in the pockets of the woman's coat. Now he dug them out and offered them to the stranger. It must have tasted better to the man, because he devoured both, and then looked up at the sky. August looked, too. It was getting dark.

“You should go home,” said the man. “South City's not safe at night.”

“I can't go home,” he answered.

“Neither can I,” said the man, dropping the violin. It made a horrible sound when it landed, but didn't break. “I did a bad thing,” he whispered as his shadow writhed against the wall. “I did such a bad thing.”

August knelt to retrieve the instrument. “It'll be all right,” he said, fingers curling around the wooden neck.

He didn't remember what happened next. Or rather, he did, but it was a set of photos, not a film, stills without the space between. He was holding the violin, running
a thumb over the strings. There was light. There was darkness. There was music. There was peace. And then, there was a body. And sometime later, there was Leo, who found him sitting cross-legged on the packing crate, fiddling with the strings, while the corpse lay at his feet, mouth hanging open and eyes burned black. It took August a long time to understand the vital thing that had happened in the gaps.

“Mr. Osinger?” he called now, stepping into the cluttered apartment. His violin case caught on a teetering stack of papers, and sent them sprawling in his wake. Across the room, Albert Osinger was fighting his way up a narrow set of stairs so crammed with junk he almost couldn't pass. August didn't bother trying to follow. Instead he shrugged the case from his shoulder, and clicked it open. He withdrew the violin with practiced ease, and nestled it under his chin, his fingers finding their positions.

He exhaled, brought the bow to the strings, and drew the first note.

The moment August began to play, everything eased. The headache loosened and the fever calmed, the tension went out of his limbs and the sound of gunshots in his head—which had become a constant static—finally ceased as the melody slid out and twined through the room. The music wasn't loud, but August knew it
would reach its target. Beyond the chords he could hear Osinger's footsteps overhead drag to a stop, and then reverse, no longer frantic but slow and even. August played on as Osinger descended the stairs in measured steps, the music reeling him in.

The song dipped and rose and spiraled away, and he could picture the people scattered through the building, their bodies dragging to a halt as they heard, their souls rising to the surface, most of them bright but untouchable. August's eyes were still closed, but he could feel Osinger in the room with him now; he didn't want to stop playing just yet, wanted to finish the song—he never got a chance to finish—but the sickness was still rolling through him, so he let the melody trail off, the sound dying on the bow as he raised his head. Albert Osinger stood in front of him. His shadow had gone still, and his soul shone like a light beneath his skin.

It was stained red.

August lowered the violin. He set it on a chair as Osinger looked at him, eyes wide and empty. And then the man spoke.

“The first time it happened, I was broke,” he confessed quietly. “I was high. I'd never held a gun before.” The words spilled out, unhindered, and August let them. “I just wanted the cash. I don't even remember shooting them. Now the second time . . . ,” the man
smiled grimly. “Well, I knew what I was doing, down to the number of bullets. I kept my eyes open when I pulled the trigger, but I still shook like a baby after.” The smile spread, sickening in the red light. “The third time—that was the charm. You know what they say: It gets easier. Living doesn't, but killing does. I'd do it again. Maybe I will.”

When he was done, he fell silent. Waiting.

Leo probably made some speech, but August never said anything. He simply closed the gap between them, stepping over and around the clutter, and pressed his hand to Osinger's collar, where his half-buttoned shirt split open, giving way to weathered flesh. The instant August's fingers met the man's bright skin, the red light flooded forward. Osinger's mouth opened and August gasped, catching the man's breath as the energy surged into him, cooling his body and feeding his starved veins. It was blood and air, water and life. August drank it in, and for a moment, all he felt was relief.

Peace.

A glorious, enveloping sense of calm. Of balance.

And then the light was gone.

August's arm fell back to his side, and Albert Osinger's body crumpled, lifeless, to the floor. A shell. A husk with no light, no shadow, its eyes burned to black.

August stood very still as the man's energy rolled
through him. It didn't feel electric, didn't leave him high with power. If anything, it simply made him feel . . .
real
. The anger and the sickness and the strain were gone, washed away, and August simply felt
whole
.

Is this what it was like to be human?

And then he looked down at the man's corpse, and a quiet sadness crept through him like a chill. Suddenly normal felt so far away. It was a cruel trick of the universe, thought August, that he felt human only after doing something monstrous. Which made him wonder if that brief glimpse of humanity was really just an illusion, an echo of the life he'd taken. An impostor sensation.

Leo's voice came to him, simple and steady.

This is what you do. What you are
.

Ilsa's rose to meet it.

Find the good in it.

August took a deep breath, and returned the violin to its case. He might not be human, but he was alive. The hunger was gone. The fever had broken, his skin was cool, and his head was clear again. He'd bought himself a few more days. A few more tallies. And he'd delivered justice. He'd made the world a little better, or at least, prevented it from getting worse. That was his purpose. That was his point.

Someone would come for the body.

He was about to leave when he heard a quiet shuffle from the corner of the room. A box toppled sideways, a can rolled across the floor, and August glanced back but saw nothing. And then, from the shadow beneath an old chair, a pair of glowing eyes.

August tensed, but realized, as the thing crept forward, that it wasn't a monster.

It was a
cat
. All black, except for a tuft of white above a pair of bright green eyes. It navigated the cluttered room with feline grace, then came to a stop several feet away. August stared at the creature. The creature stared back. He glanced at the remains of the cat's owner on the floor. The cat did the same.

“I'm sorry,” he said aloud.

He'd seen animals go primal against monsters (it usually didn't end well for the animal) but the cat didn't hiss or attack. It padded around the body and then brushed up against August's leg. He shifted the violin case onto his shoulder and cautiously knelt to pet it, and to his surprise, the cat purred against his hand. He didn't know what to do. He got to his feet and opened the far window onto the fire escape.

“Go on,” he said, but the cat only looked at him. It wasn't a fool. There weren't many animals running loose in the city. The Corsai made sure of that.

Reluctantly, August made his way to the front
door. This time, the cat followed.

“Stay,” he whispered.

He squeezed out into the hall, shutting the door before the cat could follow. He started to walk away, but heard the cat crying on the other side, scratching to get free. August paused, hoping the sound would stop, but the plaintive meow continued, and after a long moment, he sighed and turned back.

Harris was standing on the curb, leaning against one of the half-working streetlights and humming faintly to himself.

Monsters, monsters, big and small.

He trailed off when he saw August coming. “Hey.”

“Hey,” echoed August.

“What's with the cat?” asked Harris.

August had stashed the creature inside his FTF jacket; its head was sticking out the top. “I couldn't just leave it,” he said. “Not after . . .” His gaze went back to the building.

Harris shrugged. “Suit yourself. But just so you know, that's not what I meant when I said you should expand your parameters.”

August let out a tired laugh.

“Home?”

August nodded. “Home.” He looked up, wishing they
could see stars, then heard the sound of Phillip's boots jogging over.

“We good?”

“All done,” said Harris.

“Then we need to go,” said Phillip. “Just caught word on the comm of a flare-up near the Seam.”

“Should we go help?” asked August, straightening.

“No,” said Phillip, eyes flicking to the cat in August's coat. He didn't even ask. “We need to get you back.”

August started to protest, but it was no use. Phillip and Harris had their orders—they'd drag him back to the compound if they had to—so August zipped the jacket up over the cat and fell into step between them.

Henry was in the kitchen when August got home, a blueprint rolled out across the counter, a comm device buzzing in his hand. Leo's voice crackled on the other end.

“Under control . . .”

Henry lifted the comm to his mouth. “Casualties?”

“Two . . . can't ignore . . . signs . . .”

“Return home.”

“Henry—”

“Not now.” Henry flipped the switch and tossed the comm aside. He ran a hand through his hair, which was graying at the temples.

August scuffed his shoe, and Henry's head snapped
up. For an instant, his face was a tangle of surprise and anger, frustration and fear. But then his features went smooth, the shadows pushed back under the surface.