“Miss Harker,” he said smoothly, half raising one hand, the other still behind his back. “I’m not here to kill you.”
She cocked the gun. “Hands. Up.”
“There’s no need for this,” said the man, but his eyes were hard, calculating. “Your father sent me.”
Her eyes flicked from the hat on the floor to the scar on his forehead. “Bullshit.”
“It was just a disguise,” he said evenly. “In case the monster came to the door.” An almost arrogant smile. “How else would I know your location, Miss Harker?”
“Why would he send you?”
“He was worried.”
“And the scar?”
He tilted his head, hair falling aside to reveal the mark. “Quick, aren’t you? Now put that down and—”
“Show me your other hand.”
Slowly, smoothly, his hand emerged, holding a cell phone. “See?” he said smoothly.
“Put it on the—”
More tires on gravel. Kate glanced away for an instant, but that was all it took. The man lunged for her weapon, and she swung back toward him as his fingers brushed the barrel, and she fired.
The blast recoiled up her arms, and the sound tore through the room, turning the sound in her good ear to static. It wasn’t a clean shot—the bullet took the man in the neck, burrowed a hole straight through into the wall behind him. The cell phone tumbled from his fingers, skidding across the floor as he clutched his throat, but blood was already spilling between his fingers and down his front, dripping to the wood.
Red.
Not the black blood of monsters, but the vivid red of human life.
His lips moved, but Kate couldn’t hear, and by the time she could, it was too late. He took a single, staggering step back into the wall, and then the life went out of his eyes and he fell, a body before he hit the floor.
Kate couldn’t tear her eyes from the spreading pool of blood.
It should have been like killing a monster.
It wasn’t.
A shiver went through her, and then she heard a ragged breath, and looked up to see August standing at the mouth of the hall, soaking wet and doubled over in pain.
No, not pain.
Hunger.
“Kate,” he gasped. When he dragged his head up, the light was gone. His eyes were wide and black. “What have you done?”
August’s vision tunneled.
The shadows in the room were bending, peeling away from the walls and the floor and tangling together around Kate. Her own shadow writhed around her as she moved toward him.
“I didn’t—he came at me—I thought—”
She reached for his arm, soul pulsing like red light beneath her skin, and he staggered back. Away, away, away.
He tried to make the words but they were stuck in his throat.
It felt like the gravity in the room was tipping, like any second the wall behind Kate would become the ground and he’d fall forward into her. But she just stood there, waiting, and all he had to do was reach out and grab her, dig his nails into her wounded shoulder and drag her soul to the surface and the pain would stop everything would stop and—
“Run,” he pleaded as his flesh burned and his bones sang.
“August, I—”
“Run.”
This time she listened. She staggered backward into the door and sprinted out into the dusk just as a second car pulled up.
Kate skidded to a stop on the gravel drive as a black sedan blocked her way.
A Malchai she didn’t know climbed out of one side.
And Sloan stepped out of the other.
His gaze tracked over her, his mouth drawing into a smile. “Hello, Kate.”
The crashing car. That rictus grin. Those bloodred eyes.
She raised the gun. “What are you doing here?”
He spread his arms, as thin as wire. “I’ve come to take you home.”
“My father didn’t send you.”
“But he did, Kate. Despite all the bad things you’ve been whispering in his ear.”
Her fingers tightened on the gun. “I’m not going anywhere with you. You sent those monsters to kill me, didn’t you?”
Sloan considered her. “And?”
“You said you didn’t do it—”
His smile was vicious. “I never said that.”
Her father’s words. I questioned him myself. We both know he cannot lie.
It hit her like a blow. Sloan couldn’t lie, but Harker could.
“Oslo,” said Sloan, addressing the other monster. “Go get the Sunai. I’ll handle this.”
The Malchai started toward the house, and Kate swung the gun and fired. The silver-tipped bullet buried itself in the monster’s shoulder, and he snarled as black blood stained his shirt. Kate turned the gun back on Sloan, but he was already there, cold fingers vising around her wrist and wrenching the barrel up. “This game again?” he said dryly. “Did you really think you could turn my master against me?” An edge of disdain on the word master. He pulled her toward him, and her free hand went for the lighter in her pocket just before his fingers closed around her throat.
The moment they did, she drove the switchblade up into his wrist. Sloan recoiled at the silver, and she drew the knife free and tried to slash at his throat, but he was too fast, and before she could get in another shot, his fist connected with her jaw, and she went down hard, spitting blood into the gravel.
The lighter skidded out of reach, and cold fingers curled around her wounded shoulder as he forced her onto her back and wrapped both hands around her throat.
“Our little Katherine, all grown up.”
She clawed at his wrist, but it was like fighting stone.
“You think you deserve a chance to rule the city? It doesn’t belong to you, or Callum Harker—not anymore. Soon the monsters will rise, and when they do . . .” he leaned close, “the city will be mine.”
He knelt on her wounded ribs and she tried to cry out, but there was no air. Her lungs screamed.
“You’ve made a mess of things,” he went on. “Can’t even die when you’re supposed to. Even your mother could do that much.”
She kicked and squirmed, trying to gain purchase, to get a leg up as her vision swam, tunneled. “I should kill you now,” he said wistfully. “It would be a kindness. But—”
He slammed her head back into the ground, and everything went dark.
August stumbled into the bathroom. He fell to his knees on the tile, and pulled the violin case onto the floor in front of him, fumbling with the clasps as a shadow appeared in the doorway, its red eyes reflected in the mirror.
August wasn’t fast enough—his fingers barely brushed the strings of the violin before a boot connected with his ribs and sent him hard into the base of the sink.
Porcelain cracked against his spine, knocked the air from his lungs.
“Well, well,” came the Malchai’s wet rasp, “not so scary now, are you?”
August struggled up onto his hands and knees, and crawled back toward the case, but the creature’s boot came down on his wrist, grinding it into the tile floor. Pain flared through him, too bright, too human. Sharp nails hauled him up, and then he was flying backward into the wall so hard the tiles cracked, and rained down around him when he fell.
August tasted blood, staggering upright as the Malchai’s hand closed around the neck of his violin.
No.
“Sunai, Sunai, eyes like coal,” sang the monster, running a nail along the string. “Sing you a song and steal your soul.”
August lunged forward, but at the same moment the Malchai wound up and swung the violin at August’s head.
He tried to get his hand up to stop the blow, or at least save the instrument, but he was too late, and the violin shattered against his skull, turning the world to splintered wood and broken strings and silence.
The world came back in pieces.
Concrete beneath his knees.
Iron around his wris
ts.
A shifting pool of light.
A metallic tap tap tap.
The echo of large, empty spaces.
The world came back in pieces, and so did August. For a moment he was terrified that he’d lost himself, but the pain in his head, the ache in his wrists, and the searing heat across his skin told him that he hadn’t gone dark. Not yet.
He was kneeling on the floor of a warehouse, surrounded by glass and dust and a single harsh light, the edges so sharp that the space beyond registered as a wall of black. His arms had been wrenched up over his head. Pain flared around his wrists, and August could feel the metal chains cutting into the base of his hands, rubbing the flesh raw in a way they shouldn’t be able to.
Where was he?
Where was Kate?
The tapping continued from somewhere beyond the pool of light, and when August squinted, the first thing he saw wasn’t the glint of metal or the smudge of skin but the blazing red of the Malchai’s eyes.
August fought to get his feet under him as the creature in the black suit stepped forward, a long metal bar dangling from one hand, its edge sharp, jagged, as if broken off from some large machine. The torn end dragged along the concrete with a screech, and August winced as the sound knifed through his head.
There was something strange about the monster. He was all bone, of course, but the lines of his face, the width of his shoulders, the way he carried himself, was almost human.
Almost.
August got one foot beneath himself before an electric droning started up and the chains overhead drew taut, dragging him the rest of the way to his feet and then onto his toes. He fought for purchase, his shoulders straining in their sockets. Since when did he feel the subtle tests of muscle and bone? His whole body felt fragile, breakable, and some distant part of his mind wondered if this was what it truly felt like to be human.
“August Flynn,” said the Malchai, rolling the name off his tongue. “My name is Sloan.”
Of course. Harker’s pet.
“You know,” continued Sloan, examining his fingers, which tapered into pointed nails, “you don’t look very well.” He leaned forward. “How long has it been since you fed?”
August tried to say something and realized that he couldn’t. His teeth were jammed together, his mouth sealed shut with tape.
“Oh, yes, that,” said the Malchai. “I know the power of a Sunai’s voice. Especially if they turn. Leo and I have a bit of a history.” A thoughtful pause. “You know, between your brother and your sister, I’m learning so much about your kind. But I’m getting ahead of myself.”
A second pair of red eyes floated in the darkness behind him, but Sloan’s attention was on the metal pole in his hands. He brought the bar to rest against August’s ribs, where the bullet wound from the truck stop was leaking a single line of black.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, tone twisted into a sick pantomime of worry. “Isn’t that strange?” The bar fell away. “You know, they say that Sunai are invincible, but we both know that isn’t true.”
Sloan wound up and swung the bar into August’s ribs. The pain was shattering, and he could feel the bones threaten to crack, his consciousness fracturing around the blow. A groan escaped the gag. It felt like the tape was melting, fusing to his skin, the fumes choking his senses as he fought for air. His head swam.
“No, the hungrier you get, the closer you are to human. But close is not enough.” The jagged edge of the bar came up beneath his chin, forcing his head up. “You can hurt, you can even bleed, but you just won’t die.”
The bar connected with August’s collarbone, and pain exploded through his chest. He choked back a sob.
“You may be wondering,” continued Sloan, taking the bar between both hands, “what I want from you right now, August.”
He glared, trying to steady his breathing.
“It’s really very simple.” His red eyes danced like flames in his skull. “I want you to go dark.”
The other Malchai, who’d edged forward to the rim of the light, shot Sloan a nervous look, but August felt ill.
Sloan’s smile sharpened. “I think you know why.”
August started to shake his head, and the bar connected with his ribs. An explosion of pain, and August bowed his head, trying to ground himself in it instead of being swept away. Nails dug into his jaw as Sloan dragged his head up.
“Think.” He tapped August’s forehead with a pointed nail, then drew it down through his left eyebrow.
The line of Leo’s scar. It had never made sense, because Sunai didn’t get scars. Not when they were flesh and blood. Which meant that when Leo got it, he hadn’t been.
“I think,” said Sloan in his slick wet voice, “that a Sunai’s most powerful form is also its most vulnerable. I think that if you go dark, I’ll be able to drive this bar right into your heart.” And then Sloan leaned in, close enough that August could feel the cold rot of the monster’s soul against his fevered skin. “In fact,” he whispered, “I know, because I put my theory to the test last night. With Ilsa.”
August’s heart stuttered.
Bile rose in his throat.
No.
The darkness welled up, threatening to surface, and the Malchai hummed with pleasure.
“So many stars,” said the monster.
Don’t worry, little brother.
“I watched them all go out.”
I’m not afraid of the dark.
“Right before I cut her throat.”
When Kate opened her eyes, the world was still dark.
No, not just dark.
Black.
The heavy black of interior spaces without external light.
Her head was pounding and her throat felt raw from where Sloan’s fingers had clamped around it. She drew a ragged breath and tasted the damp of abandoned places exposed to elements, the tang of metal and earth and stone.
A shiver went through her, and she realized she was sitting on a floor, slumped against a wall, both surfaces concrete, and cold was soaking into her back and legs. Metal pressed against her wrists, and when she tried to pull away, she heard the clink of steel on steel. Her hands were cuffed to something to her right. She turned until she was facing it and raised her hands, questing with her fingers, until she found a flat metal bar, like a piece of scaffolding. Kate pulled as hard as she could, but it didn’t give.
She curled her fingers around the metal and hoisted herself to her feet, slowly, in case the ceiling was low. Three feet up, her cuffs caught on a crossbar, forcing her to stop, so she sank back to her knees, and followed the vertical line of the pole to the concrete floor, where it was screwed down with some kind of metal plate. She wasn’t going anywhere with that. She twisted her head, straining to hear something—anything—over the sound of her pulse in her good ear. At first, there was nothing, but then, muffled by concrete and metal and whatever else stood between her and the outside world, she heard a voice.
Sweet, and smooth, and on the verge of laughter.
Sloan.
Kate gritted her teeth, torn between shouting his name until he showed up and staying silent until she had a way to kill him. As she listened, more sounds reached her, muffled by the walls between—a scrape of metal, a stifled groan of pain—and her stomach turned.
August.
August trembling in the hall, his black eyes wide with fear and hunger.
Get the Sunai.
Kate dragged in air, forced herself to focus. She had to get out of here. Her lighter was gone, lost during the fight, which meant no weapon, and no way to see what she doing. She didn’t have anything to pick the handcuff locks, and—
Another muffled scream beyond the walls.
She cringed, fought back the shudder of fear. Somewhere a different Kate could be terrified, but she didn’t have time, so she forced it down and felt her way back to the place where the pole was screwed into the floor. She felt four screws, all half rusted into place. The frame was solid enough, bu
t if she could get the base free she might be able to torque it and slide the cuffs beneath the frame. She’d worry about getting them off later. Being handcuffed wasn’t as bad as being handcuffed to something. Kate took a deep breath, and exhaled, her breath catching as another sob carried on the air.
She tried to turn a screw free, but it didn’t budge. She pried until her fingers ached, twisted until her nails cracked.
Nothing.
She closed her eyes, and tried to think, her fingers drifting to the pendant against her sternum. Her eyes flashed open. She pressed herself against the bar until she could reach the medal’s chain and dig it out from under the sweater’s collar. It wasn’t a very elegant gesture, but soon she got the pendant up over her head and wedged the medal’s edge into the screw’s groove, praying it was the right size. It fit. She twisted, as hard as she could. Twice her fingers slipped, skinning her knuckles raw.
But then, at last, the first screw began to turn.
And several curse-filled moments later, it came free.
One down, she thought. Three to go.
Sloan’s voice rose and fell beyond the door.
She jammed the silver disc in the next screw.
A horrible thud, like metal against flesh, bar against bone.
She twisted, slipped, twisted again.
A stifled sob.
“Hold on, August,” she pleaded as the second screw began to turn. “Hold on.”
A drop of blood hit the concrete, viscous and black.
“There’s only one way this ends,” said Sloan, running a nail along the bar’s jagged edge.
August tried to drag in air. The Malchai had struck him across the face, and blood was running from his nose and over the tape across his mouth. He was choking—on blood, on terror—and every time his vision slipped, he thought of Ilsa.
Ilsa standing in front of the window, fingers cracking the glass.
“So many stars.”
Ilsa’s reflection in the mirror, chin resting on his shoulder.
“I watched them all go out.”
Ilsa lying on the floor of the traitor’s cell, singing him to sleep.
“Right before I cut her throat.”
His lungs ached. His vision swam.