This Savage Song (22 page)

They walked three blocks to a motel—the kind you paid for by the hour—and used the majority of Kate's cash to pay for a room. The place claimed it wasn't linked to Harker's feeds—only a closed loop, for security purposes—and the man at the front desk gave her a seedy smile as he handed her two keys.

“This place is dirtier than the subway,” said Kate, lowering herself onto the edge of the bed while August laid out the medical supplies. She thought of yesterday morning before school, the way she'd laid out the zip ties and duct tape and iron spikes. How had it only been a day? “Do you really know what you're doing?” she asked when he tore open the suture kit. And then when he started to answer, she held up her hand. “Flynn. Surgeon. Got it.”

He tossed her a bottle of painkillers and she swallowed three dry, then peeled off the jacket and shirt.
August didn't even try to sneak a glance as he pulled on a pair of plastic gloves. She should have known he wasn't human.

The tooth marks on her shoulder weren't deep, but the gashes across her stomach were angry and red. Kate lay back, wincing as August cleaned the cuts and sprayed the area with a numbing agent. She drew a steadying breath as he took up the needle.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “I'll try to be quick.”

“Wait.” She dug the pack of cigarettes out of her bag. The package was a little soggy, but they still lit.

August shook his head. “Of all the ways to die—”

“I'll be lucky if I live long enough for these to be a problem.” She put the cigarette between her lips and took a drag. “Okay. Let's do this.”

The whole thing hurt like hell, but Kate had to hand it to August: He was careful. Gentle. As gentle as someone could be when they were stabbing you with a needle and thread. But he obviously wasn't trying to hurt her—if anything, he seemed put off by the whole thing. Great. A squeamish monster. Go figure.

But halfway through, Kate felt her resolve failing. The room was too quiet and the pain too sharp, and before she knew it, she was talking. She didn't know why, but the words just started coming, and she didn't stop them.

“I grew up with stories of my father,” she said, trying
to keep still. “That's all he was really, for years, a good story. But I wanted him to be real. Mom made him sound so strong, invincible, and I could barely remember him myself—I was so young when we left the city—so over time, all I wanted was to see him again. To be a family again.” She winced, continued. “And then we finally came back to V-City, and it was all wrong. None of it was like the stories. Dad was never around, and when he was, it was like he was a stranger. Like we were strangers in his house. Mom couldn't take it.”

“The night she died,” continued Kate, “she dragged me out of bed. Her mouth was too red, and she'd been crying.”

Get up, Kate. We have to go.

Where are we going?

Home.

“She kept looking back. But no one stopped us. Not when we snuck through the penthouse. Not when she took the car. Not when the city blurred past.”

He's going to be mad, Mom.

Don't worry, Kate. It's going to be okay. Sit back. Close your eyes. Tell me where you are.

It was her favorite game, a way to turn where you were into where you wanted to be.

Go on, Kate. Close your eyes.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but before she could come
up with a place, she heard the
skritch
of claws on metal, saw the sudden flash of headlights. The horrible shift of gravity before the crash. The deafening screech of metal and tires and breaking glass and then . . . silence. Her mother's face, cheek against the wheel, and in the glass behind her mother's head, the fractured light of two red eyes.

Kate gasped, and tried to sit up.

“I'm sorry,” said August, a hand against her good shoulder. “It's over. I'm done.”

No, no, what had
. . . Kate scrambled for the memory, but it was already falling apart. It was like waking up too fast, the dream crumbling before you could grab the threads. She'd seen something, something . . . but she couldn't catch it. The pieces were broken again. Her bad ear was ringing.

“What was I saying?” she asked, trying to shake off the strange panic.

August looked down, embarrassed. “I'm sorry.”

Her head spun. “For what?”

“I can't control it,” he said. “Trust me, if I could . . .”

“What are you
talking
about?”

August ran a hand through his black hair. “It's just something that happens around me. Around
us
. People open up. They tell the truth. Whether they realize it's happening or not.”

Kate blanched. “What did I
say
?”

He hesitated. “I tried to tune most of it out.”

“How considerate,” she growled. “You really should have told me about this up front.”

One dark brow twitched up. “Well, it's only fair.
I
can't lie to
anyone
.”

He turned his attention back to her stomach. “You're going to have scars,” he said, pressing an adhesive over the stitches.

“Not my first,” said Kate. She looked down at the lines of white tape tracing lines across her stomach. “Your father would be proud.”

August winced a little.

“How does a surgeon end up running South City?”

“His whole family dies.”

An uncomfortable silence, and then August said, “What about
your
father? Any word?”

Kate looked at the cell. There were a handful of messages, all for someone named Tess, who was probably the girl she'd stolen the phone from back in the restaurant bathroom. She hadn't stopped to get her name.

“Not yet,” said Kate, deleting the texts.

They both knew that was a bad sign. Harker should have seen the message. Should have known it was her. Should have called by now. She'd tried a second time while August was in the pharmacy. Now she tried a third.

She tried to draw a deep breath, and winced; she was still waiting for the pain to blur into a blanket, something she could ignore, or for the comforting numbness of adrenaline and shock. So far, no luck.

Her stomach began to ache in a different, hollow way. “You didn't pick up any food in that pharmacy, did you?”

August frowned. It obviously hadn't occurred to him. Of course. He didn't eat food. Only souls. And maybe it was the pain, or the blood loss, or the exhaustion, but Kate started to laugh. It hurt, God it hurt, but she couldn't help it.

“What's so funny?” asked August, pushing to his feet.

“What's a Sunai's favorite food?”

“What?”

“Soul food.”

August just stared at her.

“Get it? Because—”

“I get it,” he said flatly.

“Oh come on, it's funny.” He just shook his head, but she saw the edge of his mouth twitch as he turned to go.

“How often do you . . . you know . . . eat?” she asked, and just like that, the smile was gone.

“When I need to,” he said in a way that made it very clear he didn't want to talk about it. He rattled the
change in his pocket. “I'll go see if there's a vending machine.”

The moment he was gone, the cell phone rang.

August stood in the alcove, staring at the vending machine.

His vision unfocused, and refocused, and this time instead of the shelves of packaged processed foods, he saw his reflection in the glass.

You are not a monster
.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to push the damp curls out of his face.

He's not your father, August. He's a human.

His rain-slicked shirt clung to his narrow frame, the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, black tallies spilling down his left forearm.

Four hundred and twenty-two
.

He leaned his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes, fatigue washing over him. He wanted to go home. Wanted to take Allegro into his arms and sit on Ilsa's floor and look at stars. What were they doing? What was
he
doing? Maybe they should have gone south. Maybe they still could.

“Did it eat your money?” asked an old man.

August straightened. “No,” he said wearily. “Just trying to decide.”

He fed coins into the groove, punching numbers at random, and collected the contents from the bottom drawer. And then, just as he was turning back toward the room, he saw it.

A pay phone.

It was mounted to the wall, one of those old-fashion machines that took coins.

He looked down, considering the last of the loose change in his palm.

He didn't even know if it would be enough.

August picked up the receiver, listened to the empty tone, like white noise in his ears.

He wanted to call Henry. Wanted to know that he was doing the right thing. But what if Leo answered? Or worse, what if Henry told him to abandon Kate, to let Harker's monsters have her? No. He couldn't do that. She was an innocent. He was a Sunai. He was supposed to make the world better, not worse, and wasn't letting someone die just as bad as killing them? Henry would understand, and Leo . . .

August put the receiver back.

“Katherine? Is that you?” She was caught off guard by the urgency in Harker's voice. His usual calm had splintered, and he sounded worried.

“Dad.” It was the only word that came out.

“Thank God.” An audible exhale, like a wave breaking. “Are you all right?”

Her voice wavered and she clutched the silver pendant around her neck. “Yeah.”

“What happened? Where are you?” He was actually raising his voice. Her father never raised his voice.

“There was an attack yesterday,” she said, trying to stay calm, focused. “At Colton.”

“I know. I've been trying to reach you ever since I heard. Four students and a teacher dead, along with two of my Malchai. It looks like one of Flynn's—”

“No,” Kate cut in. “They weren't your Malchai. They'd clawed off their brands. And it wasn't a Sunai. It was a setup.”

Silence. Then, “You're certain?”

“They were after me,” she said. “Dad, they brought a blowtorch, for my
eyes
.”

“But you got away,” he said, and there was something in his voice, surprise, or grudging respect. “Are you alone?”

Kate hesitated, eyes flicking to August's violin case against the chair. “Yes.”

“Where are you? I'm sending a car.”

Kate rolled her head on her shoulders. “No.”

“Katherine, wherever you are, it isn't safe.”

“It isn't safe there, either.”

An exhale. A beat of silence. She could hear the words he wasn't saying.
I should never have brought you back. I should have kept you away.

She swallowed. “Where is Sloan?”

“He's out.
Why?
” challenged Harker.

“
Someone
tried to have me killed, Dad.
Someone
tried to break the truce, and that
someone
had enough power to bend other Malchai to his will. And logically—”

“Sloan has always been loyal.”

“Confront him, if you're so sure,” she said icily.

Silence again. When Harker spoke, his tone was careful. “You're right, it isn't safe here. You need to get out of the city until the problem is solved. . . . Do you remember the coordinates?”

She stiffened. “Yes.”

“I'll call when I know more.”

Her fingers tightened on the cell. “Okay.”

“I promise, Katherine, the problem
will
be solved—”

“I killed them,” she said, before he could hang up. “The Malchai at Colton. I drove my spikes into their hearts, and when you find the monster behind this, I want to be the one to kill him, too.”
Even if it's Sloan.
Especially
if it's Sloan.

A single word in answer. “Done.”