This Savage Song (23 page)

And then he was gone. It was the most she'd spoken to her father in five years.

Kate stayed on the line and listened to the silence until August came back.

August stood at the hotel window, watching the sun arc over the city skyline. The rain had stopped, the clouds broken from a solid pane of gray into a hundred slivers, blue shining through. Kate had burned through the last of her cigarettes, and when he refused to buy her more, she'd stretched out on the bed, and stared up at nothing, turning her silver pendant over in her fingers.

She said she had to get out of the city. She didn't say where she was going, only pushed herself up from the bed and nearly tore her stitches when she fell. Between the blood loss and the painkillers and the lack of sleep, she wasn't fit to go anywhere right now.

One night, he told her. They'd paid for the room. She could leave in the morning.

She
. As if August was just supposed to walk away. That's what Leo wanted him to do. That's what Henry would probably tell him to do, if he actually phoned home.

“You should get going,” said Kate, as if she could read his mind. With his luck, it was probably the only thing written on his face.

“Yeah,” said August, sinking into a chair. “I probably should.”

“I'm serious,” she said, the faintest tremor in her voice. “Go while it's still light out.”

“I'm not leaving you,” he said.

“What if I don't want you to stay?” she asked, which wasn't the same thing as asking him to go.

“Too bad,” said August. “I'm not staying just for you. Whoever's behind this, they tried to frame my family. Do you have any idea what will happen if this truce breaks? If the city's plunged back into territory war?”

“People will die,” she said hollowly.

“People will
die
,” he echoed, thinking of Ilsa. Ilsa in her room, surrounded by stars. Ilsa in the Barren, surrounded by ghosts.

“People are already dying,” muttered Kate. But she didn't talk any more about him leaving, only sank back against the cushions and returned her attention to the silver pendant.

August shivered, his clothes still damp with rain. He turned away, and felt Kate's eyes on his back as he stripped the shirt over his head, revealing the black tallies that had circled his forearm and were making their way like roots across his chest and back.

He drew the curtains against the sunlight, dizzy with fatigue. There was only one bed, so he sank to the floor beneath the window, his back against the hotel's faded wallpaper. Kate said nothing but dropped a pillow over
the side of the bed. August stretched out on the dingy carpet, tucking the pillow behind his head.

It was so quiet.

The motel was a nest of muffled noises: dripping water and far-off voices and the electric hum of appliances, and beyond, the growl of engines and tap of shoes on concrete. He missed his music player, missed the hundreds of more familiar sounds that came with living in the compound, every one of them helping to drown the gunshots that now rose to fill the silence in his head.

And then, mercifully, music.

He looked up to see Kate fiddling with the radio beside the bed.

“. . . hate quiet,” she mumbled, turning past a classical station to something with a low, heavy beat. She found his eyes in the curtained dark, and flashed him a tired almost-smile back before sinking gingerly back to the bed. Within minutes, her breathing had evened, and he knew she was asleep.

August let himself sink into the songs, drift past the words and into the instruments, picking apart the threads of sound as he tried to sleep. He couldn't remember ever being so tired. The ceiling swam in his vision, and a shiver passed through him, like the cusp of a cold.

And then, just as he was drifting off, the hunger started.

August woke from fever dreams to cool air and the smell of mint.

His skin ached and his bones were humming, and a shape hovered over him, a nest of hair blocking out the last light beyond the window. His dreams had been a tangled mess of teeth and shadows, and for a second, he thought he was still asleep, still dreaming, but then he felt the cheap motel carpet beneath his back, and the shape leaned closer, revealing blue eyes and strawberry curls and skin covered in stars.

“Ilsa?” he asked, throat dry. But Ilsa couldn't be here. His sister didn't leave the compound. He tried to blink away the phantom, but she only grew more solid.

“Shh, little brother.” She pressed her fingers against his mouth and turned his face toward the bed. “Someone is sleeping.”

Kate was curled up on her side with her back to
them, a blanket slipping to reveal the bandages wrapped around her waist, and it hit him in a wave, where he was, what had happened. Colton. The Malchai. The tunnels. The hunger. August sat up, and the room tipped. “You can't be here.”

“Can't, shouldn't, wouldn't, won't,” she whispered. “No one saw me go. No one thinks to look for someone who's always there. They are all looking for
you
.”

“How did you find us?”

“You tick, I tock,” she said, her voice so soft that only his ears could pick it up. “I would hear you anywhere.” A breeze blew through the window. It was open, twilight streaming in. He'd slept all afternoon, and he winced as his pulse thudded in his skull, and Ilsa pressed her cool palm to his cheek. “You're warm.”

He brushed her hand away. “I'm all right,” he mouthed, because it was still true. “Is anyone with you?”

She shook her head. Her eyes were wide, the skin tight over her bones, her edges haloed by the thin light from the window. She looked wrong outside the compound, as if she'd left some part of herself behind.

Our sister has two sides. They do not meet
.

“Ilsa,” he whispered. “You can't be here.”

“Henry is worried. Leo is angry. Emily wanted me to come. She didn't say the words, but I heard them anyway.”

“You need to go back home. If Harker's men see you, if they
catch
you—”

“I told you everything was breaking.” Ilsa sank down next to him, curled up right there on the floor with her cheek to the carpet, picking at the fibers. “I could feel it,” she murmured. “And I'm glad it's not inside me, but that means it's out here. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I let the cracks into the world.”

He rolled toward her. “Hush, Ilsa. It wasn't you.”

“I told Leo about the cracks, and he told me everything breaks. But I wish it didn't have to. I wish we could go back instead of forward.”

“I wish we could stay the same,” whispered August.

She gave him a rueful smile. “Nobody gets to stay the same, little brother.” She nodded at Kate. “Not even them.” She took his hand and folded it in hers, the way she had with the traitor's back at the compound, just before she took his soul. “Please come home.”

“I can't, Ilsa. Not yet.” His eyes went to the bed.

“Do you care about her?” The question was simple, curious.

“I care about
us
. About our city. Someone tried to kill her. To frame us. To break the truce.” A shadow swept across Ilsa's face.

I don't want to burn again
.

“She's an innocent,” he added. “I'm just trying to keep her safe.”

Ilsa's features smoothed. “All right,” she said. “Then I'll help.”

August shook his head. “No. Please go home, Ilsa.”

I need you safe
, he thought.
There is too much to lose. I can't risk you
.

A small crease formed between her eyes. “But someone has to keep the shadows back.”

August tensed. “What shadows?”

“The ones with teeth.”

He sat up. “Malchai?”

Ilsa nodded. “They are coming. They are on their way.”

“How do you know?”

“I can feel the cracks they make and—”

He took her by the shoulders. “But how do you
know
?”

“—the man downstairs, he told me,” she went on, as if she hadn't heard him. “It spilled right out of his mouth, little brother. He couldn't keep it in. He went back and forth, back and forth, but then he broke, like all things do. . . .”

August let go, pushed his hands through his hair. “Kate,” he said. “Kate, wake up.”

She made a muffled sound but didn't stir.

Ilsa slid to her feet, and crossed to the bed. “No, Ilsa,
wait
.” But it was too late, she was already reaching out, wrapping her fingers around Kate's shoulder. She must have squeezed it, because Kate gasped and jerked forward, the lighter in her hand transforming into the small, sharp knife, the silver edge pressed to Ilsa's throat. His sister looked down at the girl, but didn't move.

“You're hurt,” said Ilsa simply.

“Who are you?” demanded Kate.

“We have to go,” said August, pulling on his shirt. But Kate was still staring at Ilsa as if entranced. Which made sense; Ilsa was entrancing. “This is my sister, Ilsa. Ilsa, Kate.”

Kate's eyes went to the stars pouring down Ilsa's bare arms. “You're the third one.”

Ilsa cocked her head. “No,” she said sweetly, “I'm the first.”

Kate lowered the knife, her free hand against her injured stomach. August could see the pain etched into her features. “What's going on?”

“Malchai. Coming. Now.”

Kate pitched to her feet, swaying before Ilsa caught her. Kate stared down at the place where the Sunai's fingers met her skin.

“Listen for me, Ilsa,” August pulled on his shoes,
slung the violin over his shoulder. His sister pressed her ear to the wall. “Tell me if they—”

“They're here.”

August paled, caught the distant sound of steps, the wet rattle of voices, the scent of rot. She was right. Kate swore, maneuvering her shirt back on. She headed for the door, and August took a step, but turned back when his sister didn't follow. “Come on.”

“Go, little brother,” she said, her ear still to the wall. “I will stay here until you are gone.”

“It isn't safe,” he said, holding out his hand.

But Ilsa reached up, and touched his cheek instead. “Safe,” she said with a hollow smile. “That is a pretty word.”

“Come
on
,” snapped Kate beside the door.

“But—”

“Don't worry, August. I'm not afraid of the dark.”

Our sister has two sides.

He took his Ilsa's face in his hands. “Please be careful.”

They do not meet.

“Go,” she said. “Before the cracks catch up.”

Kate had an iron spike out by the time they reached the hall.

The lighter's hidden knife was well and good for threatening schoolgirls, but it wasn't long enough to bypass the ribs of a Malchai and hit the heart. She hadn't had a chance to clean the spike since the attack at Colton, and the edge was still crusted with blackish blood.

August was there at her side, one hand up as if he thought she would fall. As if he planned to catch her. There was an elevator and two stairwells, one on either end of the hall. A one-in-three chance of choosing wrong, but she wasn't about to get caught in a box. Pain burned across her stomach as she raced for the nearest set of stairs.

August kept looking back toward the room and the other Sunai, with her sad eyes and her skin covered in stars.

“She'll be fine,” said Kate as they plunged into the stairwell, and it came out sounding hollow even though the girl wasn't just a girl of course, she was a monster. She'd made the Barren, torn a hole in the world. Surely she could face a few Malchai, if it came to it.

They hit the second floor landing right as a door slammed open below, and the air went cold.

August must have felt the difference, too, because he grabbed her hand, and they burst out onto the second floor, sprinting for the other set of stairs.

Down, down, steps echoing through the concrete chamber as they passed the first floor and kept going. A door thrown open overhead. They hit the basement level just as a shape dropped like a stone over the stairs and landed before them in an elegant crouch.

The fall should have shattered the creature's body, but the Malchai rose fluidly, red eyes little more than violent cuts in her skull. A gash ran down her cheek, obscuring the
H
once branded into her skin.

“Foolish little Harker,” she said, her mouth twisting into a rictus grin, “doesn't know when to die.” The Malchai's red eyes cut to August, and she let out a wet hiss. “Sunai.”

August started to put himself in front of Kate, but someone was stomping down the stairs. He appeared, a human rippling with muscles, a metal baton clutched
in one meaty hand. Just like the Malchai, the man's face bore her father's brand, and just like the Malchai, it had been
clawed off
. Angry red welts ran down his cheek.

The sight of him made Kate's head spin. A human? The dissenters were gathering steam. And
men
. But that made no sense; Olivier's whole point had been—

The man's baton slashed toward her, and August pulled her out of the way and got his arm up in time to block the blow. When the metal cracked against his forearm, electricity arced and crackled over his skin. August gasped but didn't buckle.

Kate felt a shudder of movement at her back and spun, slashing at the Malchai with the iron spike, but the creature ducked and dodged, her motions terrifyingly fast and impossibly fluid. Beside Kate, August's fist connected with the man's face, and his head cracked sideways, but he didn't fall. He struck again with the baton, and this time August caught it in one hand, the energy arcing over him and filling the stairwell with static. For an instant, his gray eyes burned blue with the power, and then he tore the weapon from the man's grip.

Kate stepped too close to the Malchai, trying to get under her guard, but the monster's skeletal fingers caught her by the jaw and shoved her back into the wall. Light burst across her vision from the force of the blow, and the Malchai's mouth yawned into a smile.

Kate smiled, too, then drove the metal spike down into the Malchai's sinewy forearm. The monster hissed and slammed Kate back again, but this time Kate hit the door instead of the wall and went stumbling backward into the basement garage, landing hard on the concrete. Pain seared through her injured shoulder and across her stomach, and she could feel fresh blood welling against the bandages as the Malchai appeared, pulling the spike free and casting it aside.

Another crash, and August and the man came tumbling into the garage, a tangle of limbs. The baton went skidding away, and Kate was halfway to her feet when the Malchai sent her sprawling backward to the concrete with a vicious kick. She felt stitches tear, and stifled a cry, eyes blurring. Before she could force herself up, the monster was on her, slight but dense, unyielding.

Kate strained to reach her back.

“Oh dear,” said the Malchai, pinning her to the cold ground, her razor teeth shining in the artificial light. “It seems you've lost your toy.”

Kate's fingers closed over the metal against her spine. “That's why I keep two,” she said, driving the second spike up into the Malchai's chest.

The monster gasped as Kate forced the spike home, greasy black blood spilling over her fingers as the Malchai collapsed onto her, more bones than body. She
freed herself from the dead weight, recovered the two spikes, and staggered to her feet in time to see August force the baton up below the human's chin. There was an electric crackle, a spasm of blue, and the man went down with all the grace of a cinder block.

August looked shaken, eyes wide and strangely bright, but he was already moving again. He plunged back into the stairwell and reemerged a moment later clutching his violin case. Kate didn't waste time. She turned and started moving briskly, deliberately, between the rows of vehicles.

“What are you looking for?” he asked. A car alarm was going off in the distance, and he cringed as if the sound were deafening.

“A ride,” she answered. Some of the cars were too new, others too old. She finally stopped in front of a black sedan, nice enough, but not one of the models with fancy security and keyless entry.

“Break that for me,” she said, nodding at the driver's side door.

“The window?” asked August, and she gave him a look that said
yes, obviously the window
, and he gave her a look that said
I don't commit petty crimes very often
before he slammed his elbow into the glass to shatter it. The sound wasn't loud, but it echoed through the garage as Kate reached in and unlocked the doors. She
brushed the pebbles of broken glass from the seat and slid in as gingerly as possible, using the lighter's hidden knife to pry open the panel beside the steering wheel. August rounded the car and sank into the passenger seat, the violin case between his knees as she sliced wires and began stripping them.

“Is this something they teach at boarding school?” he asked, craning to watch the garage behind them.

“Oh yeah,” she said, crossing two wires together. Nothing. “This, breaking and entering, monster killing. It's all standard.” She stripped another pair and tried again. There was a spark, and the car's engine thrummed to life.

“Impressive,” said August dryly.

She lifted both hands to the wheel, then winced as the pain caught up. “I don't suppose you know how to drive?”

August shook his head. “No. I can probably figure it out—”

“That's okay,” she said, shifting into drive. “We already have plenty of ways to die.”

She put her foot on the gas, and the car shot forward with surprising power, letting out a squeal that made August groan.
It wasn't
that
loud
, she thought. Maybe Sunai had sensitive hearing. She gripped the wheel—growing up, she'd always liked cars, the fresh air racing
past, the feeling of freedom, of motion. She wasn't that fond of them since the accident, but driving was a handy skill, like physics and combat. She rounded the corner of the parking structure, and hit the brakes. There was a gate over the exit, a man in the booth.

She reached for the seat belt, then remembered the stitches and decided to leave it.

“Hold on,” she said, gunning the gas.

The car surged forward. August gripped the door. “Kate, I don't think this is a—”

But the rest of his words were cut off by the satisfying crack of the front bumper connecting with the garage gate, the former denting and the latter snapping off as they burst through and onto the darkened street.

The car swerved for an instant before righting itself, and Kate smiled as she revved the engine, drowning the attendant's shouts in their wake.

August twisted in his seat and looked back at the wreckage and the motel, and she wondered if he was thinking about Ilsa. She shifted lanes, following the traffic lights as they changed from red to green so that no matter what, they were always moving. “Is anyone coming?”

August slumped back against the seat with a ragged sigh. “Not yet.” His eyes were closed, his muscles tense, fingers white on the handle of the door as if he might be sick.

“You okay?”

“I'm
fine
.” She didn't believe him, but his tone was clipped in that way that said to let it go. She had more important things to worry about right now than his mood, so she headed east and watched V-City shrink in her rearview mirror until it was a steel hill, a speck, and then, nothing.