Our Dark Duet

  August started. Squad Six. He looked at Henry, but Henry had already taken up his comm, issuing a low and steady stream of orders.

  On the screen, Soro continued their interrogation.

  “Describe this monster.”

  “I can’t,” she snapped, shaking her head. “It’s a shadow. An outline of something you can’t see. It doesn’t feel—real. It’s a nothing, an absence—”

  “You are not making sense,” said Soro.

  “You’d understand if you saw it.”

  “And you have?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know it’s here?”

  “I tracked it from Prosperity.”

  Soro’s eyes narrowed. “There are no monsters in Prosperity.”

  “There are now.”

  “How does it hunt?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Kate, “but it seems drawn to violence. It amplifies it.”

  Soro crossed their arms. “How did you track it?”

  Kate’s poise faltered. “What?”

  “You said this monster ‘doesn’t have a real body,’ so how did you track it?”

  August watched Kate take a breath—buying seconds to bend the truth?—before she answered. “It left a trail.”

  On the feed, Soro sounded skeptical. “And you followed it all the way back to Verity. How valiant.”

  Kate’s expression darkened. “I guess I have a vested interest. Or maybe I was homesick. Or maybe I could tell, from a territory away, that things were going to absolute shit.” Her temper was rising. “This thing, whatever it is, I’ve seen what it can do. It gets into people’s heads, and it brings out something dark. Something violent. It turns them into the monster. And then it spreads. Like a virus.” She rose to her feet, leaning forward across the table. “So yes, I came back, to help you kill it. But by all means, leave me chained up here instead.” She sat back down. “Happy hunting.”

  Kate’s chest was rising and falling, as if the words had left her winded. Soro’s poise didn’t waver. They said nothing, and August knew they were waiting to see if their influence would draw out anything else. At August’s back, people were talking, comms were buzzing, the rise and fall of voices and feeds. But his attention was leveled on the screen, on Kate’s face.

  Which was the only reason he saw it.

  She tipped her head back, and the blond hair tumbled out of her eyes and for an instant, they met the camera, and there was a single flare, like light reflected back, a streak obscuring her face. The lens couldn’t seem to focus. It blurred, steadied, blurred again—the way it did with monsters.

  It could have been a glitch, he told himself. An instant later her head was back down, the flare gone. It could have been a glitch—

  But Ilsa had seen it, too. Her breath caught, a small but audible sound, and her fingers splayed across the table, her pale gaze darting toward him. Henry’s back was still turned, and they stared at each other in silence, each wondering what the other would do.

  It gets into people’s heads, Kate had said.

  I’ve seen what it can do.

  August wasn’t sure what he’d just seen, or what it meant, but he knew it was only a matter of time before someone else noticed it, too, and when they did—

  You owe her nothing, chided Leo.

  She is a sinner, echoed Soro.

  What will you do, brother? said Ilsa with a look.

  “Henry,” he said, turning his back to the screen. The head of the FTF was talking rapidly into a comm. He raised a hand and August held his breath, forcing himself to wait patiently, as if nothing was wrong.

  At last, Henry lowered the comm. “What is it?”

  This is wrong. Something’s wrong. Everything’s wrong.

  “Kate isn’t our enemy,” he said, “but you’re treating her like one. If you leave her in there with Soro, she’ll tell us the truth, but nothing more. She’ll give you only what she has to, and it probably won’t be enough.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Let me talk to her. No cuffs. No cameras.”

  Henry was already shaking his head. “August—”

  “She saved my life.”

  “And you spared hers. I’m sorry to tell you that good deeds don’t prevent bad ones, and until we know exactly—”

  “If Kate Harker poses a threat to any of our soldiers, to any of our missions, I will reap her soul myself.”

  August was surprised to hear himself say it. Apparently, so was Henry. His eyes widened, but he didn’t look comforted by the truth in the words.

  “Please,” added August. “I’m the only one here she’ll trust.”

  Henry looked at the screen, where Kate had her fists clenched on the table and her head up in a posture of defiance. August could feel himself striking the same pose.

  But it was Ilsa who decided it. She rose up onto her toes and wrapped her arms around August’s chest, resting her chin on his shoulder. He couldn’t see the look she gave Henry, the silent message that passed between them, but a moment later, Henry told Soro to terminate the interview.

  The girl staggered down the hallway, barefoot and bleeding.

  Her wrists were bound in front of her and she fought with the rope as she stumbled toward the elevator. Sloan let her get there before he caught up. Fear—delicious, defiant fear—dusted the air like sugar as he pinned her to the wall beside the stainless-steel doors and wrenched her head back.

  “Katherine,” he whispered, teeth skimming the pulse at her throat and—

  The elevator doors chimed and slid open.

  Sloan hesitated, fangs poised against the girl’s skin. The tower’s penthouse was invitation-only. It belonged to Sloan, and Sloan alone—the engineers chained to the table and the hateful little thing perched on his kitchen counter were there because he allowed it. No one came here without being summoned.

  Which was why he bristled at the sight of the Malchai hurrying forward into his home. His red eyes were wide with panic, blood speckled his face, and gore leaked down one arm. At the sight of Sloan and the human girl trembling against the wall, the Malchai lurched to a stop, but didn’t retreat.

  “This had better be important,” snarled Sloan.

  “Apologies, sir, but it is.”

  “Speak.”

  The Malchai hesitated, and in Sloan’s moment of distraction, the girl almost slipped free.

  Almost.

  “Hold on,” he muttered, pulling her back and sinking his fangs into her throat. Blood spilled over his tongue and he could feel the other Malchai’s nerves, feel his hunger, too, and just for that, he took his time, drinking every drop.

  When he was done, Sloan let the body slide to the floor and drew a fresh black square from his pocket. He wiped his mouth and started into the main room, hooking one finger for the Malchai to follow. “You’ve intruded on my hospitality and interrupted my meal. This better be worth it.”

  The engineers’ eyes were trained on their work, as if they hadn’t heard the girl’s screams. But the color was high in the woman’s face, while the man had gone pale. Alice meanwhile was sitting on the counter, skimming a chemistry book.

  “Forgive me,” said the Malchai. “I thought you would want to know”—he glanced at Alice—“in private.”

  Alice waved her fingers. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said cheerfully. “Sloan and I are family.”

  Sloan’s teeth clicked together. “Yes. Go on.”

  The Malchai bowed his head. “More Fangs are dead.”

  Sloan shot Alice a look. “This is the third time in two nights.”

  Alice shrugged. “Wasn’t me.”

  “I was there,” said the Malchai. “There was a monster. Wasn’t Corsai. Wasn’t one of us either.”

  Sloan frowned. “A Sunai? On our side of the city?”

  Alice glanced up, curiosity piqued, but the Malchai was already shaking his head. “No. Something else.”

  “Something else,” echoed Sloan. “And how did it kill them???
?

  The Malchai’s eyes burned with a frantic light. “That’s the thing, it didn’t kill them. The Fangs took one look at it and just started killing each other.”

  Alice snorted. “Sounds like humans being humans.”

  Sloan held up a hand. “And what did you do?”

  “I tried to stop the Fangs, and one actually went for me.” He sounded indignant. “I killed that one, but the rest killed each other, I swear.”

  “And the something else?”

  “It just watched.”

  Sloan unfastened his cuffs, and began to roll up his sleeves. “Where did this happen?”

  “That old warehouse on Tenth.”

  “And who else was there?”

  “Only me,” said the Malchai, gesturing to his stained self.

  Sloan nodded thoughtfully. “I appreciate your discretion. Thank you for coming to me.”

  The Malchai’s eyes brightened. “You’re welcome, s—”

  He never finished: Sloan tore out his heart.

  He had to reach through the Malchai’s stomach to get it, up around the bone plating on his chest, and by the time he pulled the offending organ free, his arm was slick with gore.

  Sloan grimaced at the rot of death, the black blood dripping to the floor.

  Alice rolled her eyes. “And you say I’m the messy one.”

  Sloan unbuttoned the soiled shirt as a sound came from the table.

  The female engineer had her hands over her mouth.

  “Something to say?” asked Sloan lightly. “Have you found an answer to my problem yet?”

  The woman shook her head.

  The man’s voice was barely a whisper. “Not yet.”

  Sloan sighed, turning to Alice. “Keep an eye on these two,” he said, shrugging out of the ruined shirt. He dropped it onto the body. “And clean this up.”

  The Malchai’s corpse was already beginning to dissolve on the floor. Alice wrinkled her nose. “Where are you going?”

  Sloan stepped over the mess and went to change his clothes.

  “You heard our dear, departed friend,” he said. “We seem to have a pest problem.”

  The hood went on again, and for several long minutes Kate’s world was plunged back into black. The door was opened, her cuffs freed from the table, and then she was hoisted up from her chair and onto unsteady feet.

  She was shaking.

  She hated that she was shaking.

  This was why she’d started smoking.

  A single strong hand—Soro’s, she could tell by the viselike grip—led her from the room, and down a hall. She could feel the knife holstered at Soro’s side.

  “You know,” said Kate, “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

  The Sunai scoffed.

  “You don’t know me,” pressed Kate.

  “I know who you are,” said Soro, “and I know what you are, and that is enough.”

  “You monsters,” muttered Kate, “you think everything is black and white.” Her shoes skimmed a gap, the narrow line between floor and elevator. “Maybe it is, for you, but for the rest of us—”

  The hood came off, and Kate blinked. Soro loomed before her, long as a shadow, their silver hair like metal in the artificial light.

  The Sunai was blocking Kate’s view of the control panel. “Where are we going?”

  Soro’s gaze was cold, their voice even. “Up.”

  Her heart fluttered. She’d gotten through the interrogation, white-knuckled it, and for the most part managed to keep a grip on the words coming out of her mouth. She’d told the truth, if not all of it.

  Maybe she was being released.

  Maybe . . . but the absence of the hood worried her—wherever she was being taken next, it didn’t matter if she could see, and with every passing second, her nerves tightened, the desire to do something wearing away at the knowledge of its uselessness. Don’t, don’t, don’t, became the echo in her head.

  Soro broke the silence. “Humans have free will,” they said, picking up the thread of the earlier argument. “You chose to err. You chose to sin.”

  If only you knew, thought Kate, fighting her own muscles, her own mind.

  “People make mistakes,” said Kate. “Not everyone deserves to die.”

  A ghost of amusement crossed the Sunai’s lips. “You died the day you took another life. I am simply here to clear your corpse.”

  A cold chill ran through her at Soro’s words, at their hand drifting toward the flute-knife, at the echo of pain in her wrist.

  But the elevator stopped and Soro didn’t draw the weapon. The doors slid open and Kate braced herself for whatever was beyond, for prison cells, or a firing squad, or a plank at the edge of a roof.

  But there was only August.

  No troops, no cells, nothing but August Flynn, looking so staggeringly normal, hands in his pockets, the tallies peaking out from his sleeves, that for a second, Kate felt her composure slip. The exhaustion and the fear laid bare. The swell of relief.

  But something was off. He didn’t look at Kate, only at Soro. “I’ll take it from here.”

  Kate tried to step toward him, but Soro caught her arm. “Explain to me, August, why she is—”

  “No,” he cut in, an edge in his voice. It was the same edge Kate had heard in her father’s tone a dozen times, one she herself had mimicked, an edge meant to silence, to quell. It sounded wrong coming from him. “We both have orders. Follow yours, and let me follow mine.”

  A shadow crossed Soro’s face, but the Sunai complied and Kate was shoved forward into the apartment. August caught her elbow, steadying her as the elevator doors slid closed.

  “I don’t think that one likes me,” she muttered.

  August said nothing, releasing the handcuffs with brisk, sure movements. The metal clicked free and fell away, and she rubbed her wrists, wincing slightly. “Where are we?”

  “The Flynn apartment.”

  Kate’s eyes widened. She’d known South City didn’t enjoy the same kind of luxury as the North, hadn’t expected Henry Flynn’s place to look like Callum Harker’s, but she was still struck by the difference, the utter normalcy of it. The penthouse at Harker Hall was a thing of steel and wood and glass, all edges, but this place looked . . . well, it looked like a home. Something lived in.

  August led her down an entry hall and into the main room, a kitchen opening onto a sitting area, a blanket thrown over the couch. Down a short hall she saw an open door, a violin case leaning against the edge of a bed.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “I pleaded your case,” said August. “Convinced Henry to release you into my custody, at least for the night, so try not to do anything rash.”

  “But it suits me so well.”

  She was trying to defuse the tension, but August didn’t smile. Everything about him was stiff, as if they’d never met.

  “What’s with the act?”

  The slightest furrow formed between his eyes. “What act?”

  “The steely, dark-eyed soldier act.” She crossed her arms. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice look—I just don’t know why you’re still wearing it.”

  August straightened. “I’m the captain of the task force.”

  “Okay, so that explains the clothing. What about the rest?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.” What had he once said about going dark? That every time he did, he lost a piece of what made him human. Kate refused to believe he’d lost this much. “What happened to you?”

  “Things change,” he said. “I’ve changed with them. And so have you.” He took a sudden step toward her, and the hairs on her arms stood on end. His gray eyes tracked across her face, his intensity uncomfortable. “Why did you come back?”

  “Gee thanks, I missed you, too.”

  “Stop deflecting.”

  “I already told Soro—”

  “I watched the feed,” he cut in. “I heard your answers. But I also saw . . .”
He hesitated, as if looking for the words.

  Kate’s chest tightened. The camera. There had been a moment—a fraction of a breath—when she’d forgotten about the camera and looked up, desperate to escape Soro’s gaze. She thought she’d caught herself in time.

  “What happened to you in Prosperity, Kate?”

  She fought to keep the words down. “Look, it’s been a hell of a day and—”

  “This is important.”

  “Just give me a minute—”

  “So you can think of another way to bend the truth, to tell me something that’s not entirely a lie? No. What happened to you?”

  Kate fought for air, for thought, the words rising in her throat.

  August caught her by the shoulders. “Answer me.”

  The order was like a blow against a breaking dam. The last of her resolve faltered, failed. She tried to clench her teeth, but it was no use—the truth came pouring out. She heard the words leave her lips, felt them slide across her tongue, traitorous and smooth. A confession.

  “It was like falling . . . ,” she began.

  She told him about the shadow in the dark, the monster she’d faced and fought, the one she was still fighting, the truth of how she’d tracked the thing here to Verity.

  And then it was out, filling the air between them like smoke.

  Kate drew in a shaky breath as his hands fell away, shock scrawled across his face.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have—”

  Her fist cracked against his jaw.

  It was like hitting a brick wall, but she had the satisfaction of watching his head snap sideways before the pain tore up her hand. She recoiled, clutching her fist as August touched his face, obviously more surprised than hurt.

  “No,” she snarled. “You shouldn’t have.”

  But the blow had done something, dislodged some small fragment of the August she knew—he looked wounded.

  Kate took a step back and then another, and another, until her shoulders met the wall. Blood wept between her knuckles, and the silence between them was so thick that she could hear it.

  August probably could, too. He went to the sink, picking up a towel and filling it with ice before holding it out, like an offering. Kate took it and held the cloth to her throbbing hand.