This Savage Song (18 page)

“Freddie?”

He blinked. She was looking at him expectantly. The car was idling in front of Colton.

“Sorry,” he said. He climbed out first, and held the door open for Kate. At the last moment he offered his hand to help her from the car, and to his surprise, she actually took it. He fought back a shiver when her nails brushed his skin.

“Hey, Marcus.” She leaned her head back into the
sedan. “I have a counseling session, so I might be a little late.”

The man in the driver's seat only nodded, and drove away.

Kate set off toward the front gate, glancing back when he didn't follow. “You coming?”

“I'll catch you around,” he said, nodding at a random cluster of juniors as if they were his friends.

Again, the edge of a smirk, the raise of a brow, the careful composure that he now realized went with disbelief. “I'm glad we talked, Freddie,” she said, her voice sliding smoothly over the name.

“Me, too,” he said, pulling his cell from his pocket the moment she turned away.

He dialed Henry, but it was Leo who answered.

“Where's Dad?” he asked.

“Flynn is stitching someone up. What is it?”

“She knows.”

“Knows what?” pressed Leo.

“Something. Everything. I don't know. But she
knows
, Leo.”

His brother's voice was stiff, impatient. “What changed?”

“I don't know, but yesterday she threw me against a locker, and today she wants to be my friend. It's off, something's off, and the way she said my name—not
my name, I mean, Freddie's name, it's wrong, and I look at her and I see two people and I can't tell which is real and—”

“Stay put, August.”

“But—”

“Stay. Put.”

August dug his nails into his palms. “I forgot my medal.”

A sigh. “Well,” he said slowly, “try to stay away from monsters. In the meantime—”

“Leo—”

“You're letting your head get away from you. If Kate Harker knew what you were, she would have felt compelled to tell you.”

“I know, but . . .” August closed his eyes. But she
did
tell him. Didn't she? What was she trying to say? “I have a bad feeling. Could you just have Henry call me when he's done? I need to talk to him.”

“Fine,” said Leo. “But in the meantime, little brother, take a deep breath, and try not to lose your head.”

“Okay, I'll—” he started, but Leo had already hung up.

Kate slammed her hand into the bathroom counter.

She glared at her reflection. “What the
hell
is your problem?”

A girl behind her jumped. “Um, nothing!” she whimpered before scurrying off.

Kate exhaled as the bathroom door swung shut, and slumped into a crouch, resting her forehead against the cold counter. “Dammit, dammit, dammit. . . .”

She hadn't done it.

He'd been right there in front of her, but every time she thought of crossing to his seat, of reaching for the copper ties in her pocket, she couldn't do it. She tried to picture black-eyed Leo torturing that man until his life welled up like blood, but all she saw was Freddie sitting there folded in on himself like
she
was the monster.

The images didn't line up.

But she'd
seen
the photo on her phone, she
knew
what he was, knew the thing sitting across from her was just a trick of the light, a façade.

Freddie might look innocent, but he wasn't.

He was a Sunai.

But he didn't know that she knew. She still had the upper hand, the element of surprise. But for how long?

It was okay. She'd prepared for this, given herself another chance. Kate would just offer him a ride home. She didn't really have a meeting after school, but she'd seen his name on the practice room sheet, in smooth cursive.
Frederick Gallagher
.
4 p.m
.

“What are you
doing
?” came a voice, the words like a whine.
Rachel
. The girl who'd cornered her on the way to the gym.

Kate forced her grip to loosen on the counter. “Praying,” she said, straightening slowly, composing her features.

Rachel arched a brow. “For what?”

“Forgiveness,” said Kate. “For the things I'm about to do if you don't
get out of my way.
” Rachel had the good sense to back up and let her pass without another word.

By the end of the day, August was beginning to think he'd overreacted about Kate. She'd sat beside him in History, doodling monsters in the margins of her own work instead of his. They'd passed in the hall, exchanged a nod and an awkward smile, a murmured
hey there
, and that was it. He'd waited on the bleachers during study hall—found himself
wanting
her to show—but she didn't come. At lunch, August sent Leo a text that simply said,
Feeling better
, and got back a single word:
good
.

By the last class, he was glad he hadn't left—it was finally his turn in the practice studio. As soon as the bell rang, he grabbed his violin from the locker and headed straight for the room. He was breathless by the time he reached it, heart tight with the panic that it would be locked, or taken, but it wasn't; the only name left at the bottom of the page was his own.

He knew he should go home, talk to Henry, and he
would
, but Leo was probably right, he was overreacting, and the chance to play—
really
play—was too tempting. Besides, the longer he stayed, the less likely he was to run into Kate on the way out. A win-win, that's what he told himself. And he believed it.

August swiped his ID, and the door gave a small beep of approval before letting him in. The studio itself was a cube so white it swallowed the corners and made him feel like he was standing in a void, the emptiness interrupted only by a black stool, a music stand, a bench. When the door closed behind him, it sealed, and he felt as much as heard the soundproofing kick in—a subtle vibration followed by sudden, absolute quiet.

Of course, it was never quiet in his head. Within a heartbeat or two, the gunshots started up, distant but relentless, and August couldn't wait to drown them out. He laid the case on the piano bench and took out his phone, setting the timer for forty-five minutes—he'd still have plenty of time to get home before dark. The violin case clicked open at his touch, the sounds short, staccato in the silence. He drew the instrument and bow free, then lowered himself onto the stool.

With a deep breath, August brought the violin beneath his chin, the bow to the strings and . . . hesitated. He'd never done this before. There were so many days when he ached to pick up the violin and just
play
.
But he never could. Music wasn't idle in the hands of a Sunai. It was a weapon, paralyzing everyone it touched.

He would have loved a place like this at the compound, but resources were always stretched, every inch of space was given over to the FTF—housing, training, supplies—and Leo said he didn't
need
practice; if he wanted more chances to play, all he had to do was hunt more often. Once or twice, August had fantasized about stealing a car, driving past the red and the yellow and the green, out into the Waste, with its empty stretches of field, its open space. He'd park on the side of the road and start walking out, go until he was sure no one could hear his song.

But that fantasy came with its own dangers. No people meant no souls, and he'd calculated how long it would take to get that far out, and back, and knew it was too risky.

“Pack a meal,” Leo had said dismissively.

August had wanted to say several things back, none of them kind.

But now . . .

Now it was just him and the white walls and the violin, and August closed his eyes and began to play.

Kate lingered after school, watching the campus empty. The students left in a wave, heading for the subway or peeling out of the lot as if they were racing against the
darkness, which she supposed they were. Curfew was technically sundown—7:23 today, according to a helpful chart outside the main office—but nobody ever cut it that close, not even the teachers. As long as they had a medallion, they would be safe—that was the idea—but no one seemed eager to test the theory, and twenty minutes after the 4
P.M.
bell, the only people still on campus were a handful of sophomores retaking a quiz, a pair of seniors loitering in the parking lot, and the monster in the music room.

Kate perched on a bench inside the gate, waiting for the black sedan to show. The copper-lined zip ties jabbed at her through her back pocket, a nagging reminder of what she needed to do. She glanced back at the school—the car needed to get here before Freddie.

Thirty minutes after the bell, there was still no sign of either.

Kate rapped her nails on the bench. She'd told Marcus she'd be late, and she tried to still the nervous prickle in her chest, but fifteen minutes later, with Colton going quiet around her and no sedan in sight, she broke down and phoned the driver.

He didn't answer.

Fear flashed through her, sudden and sharp.

It was almost five.

The light was already starting to weaken. Kate got
to her feet, began to pace. She thought of calling her father, but couldn't bring herself to do it. She wasn't a child. But Freddie was still inside, and without the car she had no way of getting him to go with her anyway. Abandoning the mission, she shifted the backpack on her shoulder and headed for the subway entrance across from campus.

But when she got there, it was locked.

Kate's pulse quickened as she wrapped her fingers around the metal bars.

This wasn't right. The subway lines were supposed to run until sundown, but the gate had already been pulled across the entrance and padlocked shut. Her bad ear started ringing, the way it did when her heart was going too fast. She closed her eyes for a moment, tried to slow it down, but it was telling her, over and over, to
run
.

No. Kate closed her eyes, took a breath. Think,
think
. She let go of the bars and turned back toward the school, dragging her phone from her pocket and phoning a cab.

The guy didn't want to dispatch, and she didn't blame him, but it was after five and the sun was getting lower, and she had no intention of being trapped alone on campus with a monster after dark.

“My name is Kate
Harker
,” she snapped. “Name your price. Just get here fast.” She hung up, and dug the iron spikes out of her backpack, the sound of metal on metal
a reminder of how quiet Colton had become. She shoved one spike into her sock and gripped the other near the blunted top, knifelike point away.

She headed for the front doors, but they were locked; tried to swipe in, but nothing happened. She rattled the handles, just to make sure, and then, through the glass, she saw the body.

He was lying twisted on the floor, his head craned back so she could see his face.

It was Mr. Brody, the history teacher, his neck broken and his eyes burned black.

For the first time in ages, August finished his song.

And then he played it again.

And again.

The melody—this strange, incredible thing that had come to him that first day in the alley and never left, never let go, sang in his head beneath the gunfire, always waiting to be set free—poured from him now through skin and bow and string. It thrummed through muscle and bone, wove through heart and vein, and made him feel human, and whole, and
filled
with life.

Maybe it wasn't the soul he fed on.

Maybe it was this.

Each chord hung in the air, shimmering like dust caught in beams of sun, and as the song ended a third
time and the melody trailed off, he stood there savoring the perfect moment.

The timer chirped, a shrill sound that shattered the last lingering notes and dragged August back to the world and all the troubles waiting in it. He sighed and took up the phone, silencing the alarm, then frowned. He'd sent Henry a text to say he'd be home a little late, but there was no reply. Not even from Leo.

That's when he noticed there was no signal, either. Damn. He reluctantly returned the violin to its case, slung his bag onto his shoulder, and went for the door.

It didn't open.

August tried to put his weight behind it, but the door wasn't just stiff, or stuck.

It was
locked
.

He looked around, wondering if there was some kind of card swipe in the studio, but there was nothing. The access pad was on the other side. Panic chewed through him, but he swallowed and pressed his face to the glass insert, straining to see something—anything—and what he saw was the access pad busted open, spilling cut wires like innards down the wall.

He was trapped.

Kate staggered back from the main doors, the corpse's black eyes staring blankly out at her. She fought back a
shudder, tried to think. Three Sunai. Logic said it was Freddie. But if it
was
Freddie, how had he gotten out and locked the subway gate without her seeing him? And if it
wasn't
Freddie, and the second Sunai never left the compound, then that meant . . . Leo.

Multiple Sunai on the grounds, circling like sharks. Her chest tightened, but she couldn't panic. Panic served no purpose. It clouded your head, led to fatal mistakes. She was a Harker, she thought, clutching the iron spike. She would find another way out. She set off, fighting the urge to run as she rounded the corner of the school, heading for the back gate, digging out her cell with her free hand and—

Something hit her,
hard
.

The phone went skittering away as she stumbled, a steel grip vising around her shoulders from behind. She didn't hesitate, but drove the iron spike back and down into the creature's thigh. It let out a wet hiss, its arms loosening enough for her to drop to one knee and fling it over her shoulder. The body hit the ground, rolled up, and spun with a strange grace, the spike still buried in its leg.

Kate froze.

It wasn't a Sunai.

It was a Malchai.

A skeletal shape, red eyes swiveling in a skull that
looked black beneath his slick dead skin. Half the Malchai's face was a mass of angry lines—the
H
on his sunken cheek had been clawed off, just like the one on the monster she'd killed in the basement. His lips dragged into a crooked grin, his voice a wet rattle.

“Hello, little Harker.”

She opened her mouth to say that her father would have his head but never got the chance. A second shape hurtled forward, too fast to dodge, a blur that caught her in the chest and slammed her back into the brick side of the school. Something inside her cracked, and a scream tore free before the second Malchai's grip tightened around her throat, cutting off the air.

The monster's mouth split into a smile full of sharp teeth.

“This is going to be fun.”

No service.

Of course there was no service. August shoved the cell back in his pocket, took a deep breath, and then threw his shoulder against the door. He was rewarded with nothing but an echo of pain. Just because he didn't bleed and break like a human didn't mean he could out-muscle reinforced steel. He wasn't a battering ram.

He looked down at his hands and thought of Leo the night before, the way the darkness had licked up his
fingers, the doorknob crumbling in his grip, but August didn't have that kind of control. It was all or nothing.