This Savage Song (6 page)

“
If
the truce breaks—” said Henry.

“She might come in handy.”

“We don't know anything about her,” said August.

“She's Harker's daughter. If he cares about anyone, it's her.”

August stared at the girl in the front row. Katherine looked like her father: slim and sharp and full of angles. Her hair was different from the photo he'd seen. Still blond, but shoulder length, stock-straight, and parted so it covered half her face. Most of the Colton girls had opted for skirts with their polos, but she was wearing slim-cut slacks, her hands hooked casually in her pockets. All around August, people began to whisper. And then Katherine, who had been looking forward with a cool, empty gaze, turned and looked over her shoulder.

At him.

She didn't know—
couldn't
know—who he was, but her dark eyes tracked over him in a slow, appraising way, the very edge of a smile on her lips, before Headmaster Dean instructed them to take their seats. August sank into his chair, feeling like he'd just escaped a brush with death.

“Now,” continued the headmaster, “if you haven't gotten your ID card yet, make sure to retrieve it by the end of the day. Not only can you use the card to pay for lunch and school supplies, but you'll need it to access certain parts of the campus, including the theater, sports facilities, and soundproof music rooms.”

August's head shot up. He didn't care about the cafeteria, had little interest in drama or fitness, but a place where he could play in peace? That would be worth an ID.

“An attendant will be in the ID room during lunch and for half an hour after school . . .” The headmaster rambled on for several more minutes, but August had stopped listening.

When the assembly was over, the wave of students carried him out of the auditorium and into the lobby, where it took him roughly thirty seconds to realize he had no idea where he was supposed to go next. The hall was a tangle of uniformed bodies; he tried to get out of the way as he dug his schedule from his bag.

“Hey,
Frederick
.”

He looked up and saw Colin jostling through the crowd. He caught August by the sleeve and pulled him out of the current. “I've got you.” His gaze flicked down, and he saw August's forearm where the sleeve had pushed up. Those expressive eyes went wide. “Oh, nice tattoos, dude. But don't let Dean see them. He's crazy strict. I wore a temporary one on my face one time—I think it was a bee, I don't remember why—and he made me scrub it off. School policy.”

August tugged his sleeve back down, and Colin stole a glance at the sheet in his hand. “Oh, perfect. We have English together. I thought I saw your name on the roster. I check all the rosters ahead of time, just to see who I'm up against, you know?” August did not know, and he couldn't tell if it was his influence making Colin so chatty, or if the boy was just naturally that way, but he suspected the latter. “Anyway, come on,” Colin tugged him toward a stairwell door. “I know a shortcut.”

“To where?”

“To English, obviously. We could take the hall but there are
too many damned freshmen
!” he bellowed. Several smaller students glanced wide-eyed at him, and the teacher in the skirt shot Colin a dark look. “Get to class, Mr. Stevenson.”

Colin only winked at her and stepped into the
stairwell, holding the door for August, who wasn't sure if he was being helped or abducted. But he didn't want to be late for the first class of his life, so he followed anyway. Just before the door banged shut, he thought he saw Katherine Harker walk past, the students around her parting like a sea.

When people talked about the first day of school, they used terms like “fresh start,” and “new beginning,” and always made a point of saying it was a chance to define—or redefine—yourself.

In Kate's eyes, the first day was an opportunity, one she'd taken advantage of it at each of her previous institutions, and those first days felt like an education unto themselves, leading up to this. Her first day at Colton was a chance to set the tone. A chance to make an
impression
. She had the added advantage of being on home turf; people here might not know her, but they all knew
of
her, and that was better. It was a foundation, something to be built upon. By the end of the week, Colton would be hers. After all, if she couldn't rule a school, she didn't deserve to run a city.

Kate didn't actually care that much about running a school
or
a city. She just didn't want Harker to look at her
and see weak, see helpless, see a girl who shared nothing but a few lines of his face, a shade of blond. She wanted him to look at her and see someone who deserved to be there. Because she'd be damned if she'd let him send her away, not this time.

She'd fought her way here, and she'd fight to stay.

I am my father's daughter
, she thought as she walked down the hall, arms at her side and head up, medallion and metallic nails glinting beneath the lights (she thought of the monstrous teeth shining in the footage, and it gave her strength). Eyes followed her through the halls. Lips moved behind cupped fingers. To every side, the students swarmed and parted, rushed forward and drew back like a wave, a flock of starlings. All together. All apart.

“You have to break them early,” her father once said. Of course, he'd been talking about monsters, not teenagers, but they had a lot in common. Both had hive minds; they thought—and acted—in groups. Cities and schools were both microcosms of life, and
small
schools came with their own delicate ecosystem.

St. Agnes had been the smallest of the bunch, with only a hundred girls, while Fischer, her first private school, weighed in at a considerable six hundred and fifty. Colton Academy was four hundred strong, which was small enough to feel intimate but large enough to
guarantee at least a modicum of resistance.

It was natural—there were always those who wanted to challenge the ruling power, to stake their own claim to authority or popularity or whatever it was they were after, and Kate could usually pick them out within the first few days. They were a disruption to the hive mind, those few, and she knew she'd have to deal with them as soon as possible.

All she needed was an opportunity to establish herself.

And to her surprise, one presented itself almost immediately.

She'd known there would be whispers about her. Rumors. They weren't inherently bad. In fact, some of them were practically propagandistic. As she moved through the halls between classes, she cocked her head, catching the loudest ones.

“I heard she burned her last school down.”

“I heard she's been to jail.”

“I heard she drinks blood like a Malchai.”

“Did you know she axed a student?”

“Psychopath.”

“Killer.”

And then, as she stepped into her next class, she heard it.

“I heard her mother went crazy.”

Kate's steps slowed.

“Yeah,” continued the girl, loud enough for her to hear. “She went crazy, tried to drive them off a bridge.” Kate set her bag down on a desk, and ruffled through it absently, turning her good ear toward the girl. “I heard Harker sent her away because he couldn't stand to look at her. She reminded him of his dead wife.”

“Charlotte,” whispered another girl. “Shut up.”

Yes, Charlotte
, thought Kate.
Shut up
.

But Charlotte didn't. “Maybe he sent her away because she was crazy, too.”

Not crazy
, Kate wanted to say. No, he thought she was young, thought she was weak like her mother. But he was
wrong
.

She dug her nails savagely into her palms, and took her seat, eyes on the board. She sat like that all through class, head high, but she wasn't listening, wasn't taking notes. She didn't hear a word the teacher said, didn't care. She sat still and waited for the bell to ring, and when it did, she followed Charlotte out, and down the hall. Whatever class she had next wasn't as important as this.

When the girl detoured into the nearest bathroom, Kate followed, throwing the bolt behind her.

Charlotte, pretty in such a boring way, was standing at the sink, retouching her makeup. Kate came up beside
her, and began rinsing the crescents of blood from her palms. Then she tucked her hair behind her ear, showing the scar that traced her face from temple to jaw. The other girl looked up, found Kate's gaze in the mirror, and had the audacity to smirk. “Can I help you?”

“What's your name?” asked Kate.

The girl raised a bleached brow, and dried her hands. “Charlotte,” she said, already turning to go.

“No,” said Kate slowly. “Your full name.”

Charlotte stopped, suspicious. “Charlotte Chapel.”

Kate gave a small, silent laugh.

“What's so funny?” snapped the girl.

Kate shrugged. “I burned down a chapel once.”

Charlotte's face crinkled with disgust. “Freak,” she muttered, walking away.

She didn't make it very far.

In an instant, Kate had her up against the wall, five metal-tipped fingers wrapped around her throat. With her free hand, Kate drew the lighter from her pocket. She pressed a notch on the side, and a silver switchblade slid out with a muted
snick
.

Charlotte's eyes went wide. “You're even crazier than I thought,” she gasped.

For a moment, Kate thought about hurting her. Seriously hurting her. Not because it would serve some purpose, just because it would feel really, really good.
But getting expelled would negate everything she'd done to get here.

He'll ship you out of Verity. One way. For good.

“When the headmaster hears about this—”

“He won't,” said Kate, resting the knife against Charlotte's cheek. “Because you're not going to tell him.” She said it in the same way she said everything: with a quiet, even voice.

She'd seen a documentary once, on cult leaders, and the traits that made them so effective. One of the most important features was a commanding presence. Too many people thought that meant being loud, but in truth, it meant someone who didn't
need
to be loud. Someone who could command an audience without ever raising their voice. Kate's father was like that. She'd studied him, in the slivers of time they'd had together, and Callum Harker never shouted.

So neither did Kate.

She loosened her fingers on Charlotte's throat, just a little, and brought the knife to the medallion hanging against the girl's uniform shirt, tapping the engraved
V
casually with her blade. “I want you to remember something, Charlotte Chapel.” She leaned in. “That pendant may protect you from the monsters, but it won't protect you from me.”

The bell rang, and Kate pulled back, flashing her best
smile. The knife disappeared into the lighter and her hand fell away from the girl's throat. “Run along now,” she said icily. “You wouldn't want to be late.”

Charlotte clutched her bruised throat and scrambled out of the bathroom.

Kate didn't follow. She went to the sink, washed her hands again, and smoothed her hair. For an instant, she met her reflection's gaze, and saw another version of herself behind the stormy blue, one who belonged to a different life, a softer world. But that Kate had no place here.

She took a long breath, rolled her neck, and went to class, confident she'd made a solid first impression.

August was supposed to be in gym.

Or at least, every other junior was supposed to be in gym, and probably was, but thanks to a health condition—asthma, according to his file—he'd been granted a study hall instead.

August did not have asthma. What he
did
have were four hundred and eighteen uniform lines running the length of one arm and starting to wrap around his back and chest, and Henry was worried that they would draw attention.

So instead, August was in study hall. Or at least, he had been. He imagined a study hall might come in handy, but it being the first day of school, he had nothing to study, so he'd asked the monitor if he could go to the bathroom, and never came back.

Now he was standing outside the ID office.

On the way there, he'd tried to think up an excuse
for not wanting his photo taken—he'd read once about a tribe that believed being photographed would steal their soul—but in the end he didn't need an out.

The office was empty. The lights were on, and when he tried the handle, the door was unlocked. August looked around nervously, then stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him. The ID form was still up on the computer screen, and he typed in his details: Frederick Gallagher, 16, junior, 5' 10”, black hair, gray eyes.

An empty rectangle sat waiting to the right of the information. August knew what it was for. He swallowed and hit the delayed action photo button, then stepped in front of the pale backdrop, just like he'd seen the other students do. He looked straight into the camera lens and the flash went off. August blinked the light from his eyes and held his breath as he rounded the counter, but his heart sank when he saw the photo on the screen. His expression was a little too vacant, but his face had almost all the right components—jawline, mouth, nose, cheekbones, hair. An ordinary boy . . . except his eyes. Where August's eyes should be, there was only a smudge of black. As if someone had drawn his face in charcoal and then smeared it.

Sunai, Sunai, eyes like coal
, sang a voice in his head. His stomach twisted.

Retake?
prompted the computer.

He clicked
yes
. This time he didn't look straight at the camera, but just above it. No luck. The same dark smudge still obscured his gaze. August tried again and again and again, each time cheating his eyes a fraction to the left or the right, high or low, the smudge of black shifting, sometimes thinning, but always there. His vision filled with dots of light, a dozen flashes every time he blinked. The last take stared back at him from the screen, his eyes obscured by the same black streak, but a small, frustrated crease visible in his brow. He shouldn't have bothered, should have known it wouldn't work, but he'd hoped . . .
for what?

A chance to play at being human?
chided his brother's voice.

Sing you a song and steal your soul.

He shook his head.

Bang
.

Too many voices.

Retake?
prompted the computer.

August's finger hovered over
no
, but after a moment, he clicked
yes
. One more time. He stepped in front of the screen, took a deep breath, and readied himself for the inevitable flash, the disappointment of a final failed attempt. But the flash never came. He heard the digital click of the camera, but the light must have
glitched. He crossed to the screen, heart thumping, and looked.

His breath caught.

The boy on the screen was standing there, hands shoved in his pockets. He wasn't looking at the camera. His eyes were half-lidded, his head turned away, the faintest blur to his edges, a picture snapped midmotion. But it was him. No black streak. No empty gaze.

August exhaled a shuddering breath, and clicked
print
, and a minute later the machine spat out his ID. He stared at the image for several long seconds, transfixed, then pocketed the card, and slipped out of the office just as the bell rang for lunch. He was halfway to his locker when a voice called his name. Well,
Freddie's
name.

He turned to find Colin, flanked by a boy on one side and a girl on the other. “Alex and Sam, this is Freddie,” he said by way of introduction. “Freddie, Alex and Sam.”

August wasn't sure which one was Alex and which was Sam.

“Hey,” said one of them.

“Hey,” echoed the other.

“Hello,” said August.

Colin swung an arm around his shoulder, which was hard to do considering he was a full six inches shorter. August tensed at the sudden contact, but didn't pull away. “You look lost.”

August started to shake his head, when Colin cut him off.

“You hungry?” he asked cheerfully. “I'm starving, let's get some lunch.”

“. . . gives me the creeps.”

“. . . party this weekend . . .”

“. . . such an asshole.”

“. . . Jack and Charlotte an item?”

August stared down at his half-eaten food.

The cafeteria was loud—much louder than he'd expected—the constant clatter of trays and laughter and shouts as staccato as gunfire, but he tried not to think about that and instead focused on the green apple he was rolling between his hands. Apples were his favorite food, not because of the way they tasted, but because of how they felt. The cool, smooth skin, the solid weight. But he could feel Sam—that was the girl, it turned out—watching him, so he brought the apple to his mouth and bit down, fighting back a grimace.

August
could
eat, but he didn't enjoy it. The act wasn't repulsive. It was just . . . people talked about the decadence of chocolate cake, the sweetness of peaches, the groan-inducing pleasure of a good steak. To them, every food was an
experience
.

To August, it all tasted the same. And it all tasted like nothing.

“That's because it's
people
food,” Leo would say.

“I'm a person,” he'd say, tensing.

“No.” His brother would shake his head. “You're not.”

August knew that he meant,
You're more
. But it didn't make him feel like more. It made him feel like an impostor.

Now, the way other people felt about food, that's how August felt about music. He could savor each note, taste the melody. The thought made his tallies prickle, his fingers ache for the violin. Across the table, Colin was telling a story. August wasn't listening, but he was
watching
. As Colin talked, his face went through an acrobatic procession of expressions, one folding into the next.

August took a second bite, chewed, swallowed, and set the apple down.

Sam leaned forward. “Not hungry?”

Before August could show her the half-eaten contents of his bag, Colin cut in.

“I'm always hungry,” he said with his mouth full. “Like, always.”

Sam rolled her eyes. “I've noticed.”

The boy, Alex, speared a piece of fruit. “So,
Frederick
,” he said, emphasizing every syllable in the name. “Colton
doesn't get a lot of new blood. You get thrown out of one of the other academies?”

“I heard
she
got kicked out,” whispered Colin. He didn't have to say who.

“That's not the only reason people change schools,” said Sam, turning to Alex. “Just because
you
got tossed—”

“It was a voluntary transfer!” said Alex, turning his attention back to August. “Well? Expulsion? Transfer? Bang a teacher?”

“No,” he answered automatically, and then, slower, “I was homeschooled.”

“Ah, no wonder you're so quiet.”

“
Alex
,” said Sam, angling a kick under the table, “that's rude.”

“What? I could have said ‘weird.'”

Another kick.

“It's okay,” said August, managing a smile. “I'm just not used to so many people.”

“Where do you live?” asked Colin around a mouthful of pasta.

August took another bite of apple, using it to force down the words rising in his throat. In those stolen seconds, he sorted through his lines, trying find the right truth. “Near the Seam,” he answered.

“Damn,” said Alex, whistling. “In the red?”

“Yeah,” said August slowly, “but it's North City, so . . .”

“It's only scary if you don't have a medal,” added Colin, tapping the embossed pendant around his neck.

Sam was shaking her head. “I don't know. I've heard bad things happen in the red. Even to those with Harker's protection.”

Alex shot a look across the cafeteria. “Don't let
her
hear you say that. She'll tell her dad.”

Colin shrugged, and started talking about a concert—the boy's mind seemed to jump around even more than his—but August followed Alex's gaze. Katherine was sitting alone at a table, but she didn't look lonely. In fact, there was a small, defiant smile on her lips. As if she
wanted
to be alone. As if the fact people avoided her was a badge. August didn't get it.

“You want to come, Freddie?”

He watched as she picked at her food in a slow disinterested way, as she drew a metallic nail around the edge of her pendant, as she got to her feet.

“Freddie?”

The current of the cafeteria shifted with the movement, eyes drifting her way. But she didn't seem to mind. She kept her head up as she dumped the tray and walked out.

“He's not even listening.”

August's attention snapped back. “Sorry, what?”

“Concert, Saturday, you want to come?”

“
None of us
are going,” Sam cut in, sparing August from having to answer. “Because there's a
curfew
, Colin. And it's practically in the
Waste
!”

“And we don't want to
die
,” added Alex in a gross exaggeration of Sam's tone. He flailed his arms as he said it.

“My mom would skin me,” said Sam, ignoring the impersonation.

“Not if a Corsai did it first,” teased Alex. Sam gave him a horrified look and punched him in the shoulder.

“Ow!”

“I just think,” said Colin, leaning across the table, “that life is short, you know?” His tone was soft, conspiratorial. He had a way of making August feel like he wasn't new, like he'd been there all along. “You can't spend it afraid.”

August found himself nodding, even though he spent
most
of his time afraid. Afraid of what he was, afraid of what he wasn't, afraid of unraveling, becoming something else, becoming nothing.

“Yeah,” cut in Alex, “life is short, and it will be a hell of a lot shorter if you go wandering at night . . .”

Colin's mouth quirked. “Freddie's not afraid of monsters, are you?”

August didn't know how to answer that. He didn't have to.

“I totally saw one once,” added Colin.

“You are so full of it . . .”

“What did you do?”

“I obviously ran like hell.”

August laughed. It felt good.

And then, between one bite of apple and the next, the hunger started.

It began as nothing.

Or
almost
nothing, like the moment before a cold starts, that split second of wooziness that warns you a fever is coming. Dwelling on it—Is that a tickle? Is my throat getting scratchy? How long have I been sniffling?—only made it worse faster, and he tried to smother the spike of panic even as it shot through him.

Ignore it
, he told himself.
Mind over body—
which would work right up until the hunger spread from body to mind, and then he'd be in trouble. He focused on his breathing, forced air down his throat and through his lungs.

“Hey, Freddie, you okay?” asked Colin, and August realized he was gripping the table. “You look a little sick.”

“Yeah,” he said, pushing to his feet, nearly tripping as
his legs tangled in the chair. “I just . . . I'm going to grab some fresh air.”

August swung his bag onto his shoulder, trashed what was left of his lunch, and pushed through the cafeteria doors, not caring where they led, so long as they led
out
.