"You're right," he said at last, throat dry. "About us being different ... But I'd rather be able to see the truth than live a lie."

"Which makes you the only bearable person at that school." Her smile widened when she said it, shifting into that genuine, contagious grin. Watching her, it was like watching a flickering image, two versions that shifted back and forth depending on how you turned your head. He waited for her confession to spill out, but it didn't.

"I was wondering," she said, tapping a metal nail against the pendant, "about your marks."

August swallowed, rubbed his wrist. "What about them?"

"You said they were for sobriety, but they're permanent."

"Yeah. So?"

She cocked her head, revealing the silvery edge of her scar. "So what if you relapse?"

He looked at her, unblinking. "Well, that would suck."

She laughed, but her attention was still fixed on him-she wasn't going to settle for a brush-off-so he swallowed, trying to find a way to tell the truth. "If I could just wipe them off at the end of the day," he said, "they wouldn't mean anything. They wouldn't matter. And they do. I was in a dark place, once, and I don't ever want to go back. I'd rather die than start over." She stared at him, a slight furrow between her brows, and he could imagine her thinking, So this is what it looks like when he tells the truth, and he thought, So this is what it looks like when she believes you.

Which was almost funny, seeing as he'd never lied, but it also scared him, because it was the first time he'd seen her make that face, and the others now looked empty by comparison.

Do you know? Do you know? Do you know?

He could ask her. Force her to answer. But the question was damning, and the car was too small, and he didn't know what he was supposed to do if she said yes.

The violin case sat on the floor between his feet, and Leo was right-if he tried, he could smell the blood on the driver's hands, but not on Kate, and she didn't have a restless shadow, and- "Freddie?"

He blinked. She was looking at him expectantly. The car was idling in front of Colton.

"Sorry," he said. He climbed out first, and held the door open for Kate. At the last moment he offered his hand to help her from the car, and to his surprise, she actually took it. He fought back a shiver when her nails brushed his skin.

"Hey, Marcus." She leaned her head back into the sedan. "I have a counseling session, so I might be a little late."

The man in the driver's seat only nodded, and drove away.

Kate set off toward the front gate, glancing back when he didn't follow. "You coming?"

"I'll catch you around," he said, nodding at a random cluster of juniors as if they were his friends.

Again, the edge of a smirk, the raise of a brow, the careful composure that he now realized went with disbelief. "I'm glad we talked, Freddie," she said, her voice sliding smoothly over the name.

"Me, too," he said, pulling his cell from his pocket the moment she turned away.

He dialed Henry, but it was Leo who answered.

"Where's Dad?" he asked.

"Flynn is stitching someone up. What is it?"

"She knows."

"Knows what?" pressed Leo.

"Something. Everything. I don't know. But she knows, Leo."

His brother's voice was stiff, impatient. "What changed?"

"I don't know, but yesterday she threw me against a locker, and today she wants to be my friend. It's off, something's off, and the way she said my name-not my name, I mean, Freddie's name, it's wrong, and I look at her and I see two people and I can't tell which is real and-"

"Stay put, August."

"But-"

"Stay. Put."

August dug his nails into his palms. "I forgot my medal."

A sigh. "Well," he said slowly, "try to stay away from monsters. In the meantime-"

"Leo-"

"You're letting your head get away from you. If Kate Harker knew what you were, she would have felt compelled to tell you."

"I know, but ..." August closed his eyes. But she did tell him. Didn't she? What was she trying to say? "I have a bad feeling. Could you just have Henry call me when he's done? I need to talk to him."

"Fine," said Leo. "But in the meantime, little brother, take a deep breath, and try not to lose your head."

"Okay, I'll-" he started, but Leo had already hung up.

Kate slammed her hand into the bathroom counter.

She glared at her reflection. "What the hell is your problem?"

A girl behind her jumped. "Um, nothing!" she whimpered before scurrying off.

Kate exhaled as the bathroom door swung shut, and slumped into a crouch, resting her forehead against the cold counter. "Dammit, dammit, dammit...."

She hadn't done it.

He'd been right there in front of her, but every time she thought of crossing to his seat, of reaching for the copper ties in her pocket, she couldn't do it. She tried to picture black-eyed Leo torturing that man until his life welled up like blood, but all she saw was Freddie sitting there folded in on himself like she was the monster.

The images didn't line up.

But she'd seen the photo on her phone, she knew what he was, knew the thing sitting across from her was just a trick of the light, a facade.

Freddie might look innocent, but he wasn't.

He was a Sunai.

But he didn't know that she knew. She still had the upper hand, the element of surprise. But for how long?

It was okay. She'd prepared for this, given herself another chance. Kate would just offer him a ride home. She didn't really have a meeting after school, but she'd seen his name on the practice room sheet, in smooth cursive. Frederick Gallagher. 4 p.m.

"What are you doing?" came a voice, the words like a whine. Rachel. The girl who'd cornered her on the way to the gym.

Kate forced her grip to loosen on the counter. "Praying," she said, straightening slowly, composing her features.

Rachel arched a brow. "For what?"

"Forgiveness," said Kate. "For the things I'm about to do if you don't get out of my way." Rachel had the good sense to back up and let her pass without another word.

XI.

By the end of the day, August was beginning to think he'd overreacted about Kate. She'd sat beside him in History, doodling monsters in the margins of her own work instead of his. They'd passed in the hall, exchanged a nod and an awkward smile, a murmured hey there, and that was it. He'd waited on the bleachers during study hall-found himself wanting her to show-but she didn't come. At lunch, August sent Leo a text that simply said, Feeling better, and got back a single word: good.

By the last class, he was glad he hadn't left-it was finally his turn in the practice studio. As soon as the bell rang, he grabbed his violin from the locker and headed straight for the room. He was breathless by the time he reached it, heart tight with the panic that it would be locked, or taken, but it wasn't; the only name left at the bottom of the page was his own.

He knew he should go home, talk to Henry, and he would, but Leo was probably right, he was overreacting, and the chance to play-really play-was too tempting. Besides, the longer he stayed, the less likely he was to run into Kate on the way out. A win-win, that's what he told himself. And he believed it.

August swiped his ID, and the door gave a small beep of approval before letting him in. The studio itself was a cube so white it swallowed the corners and made him feel like he was standing in a void, the emptiness interrupted only by a black stool, a music stand, a bench. When the door closed behind him, it sealed, and he felt as much as heard the soundproofing kick in-a subtle vibration followed by sudden, absolute quiet.

Of course, it was never quiet in his head. Within a heartbeat or two, the gunshots started up, distant but relentless, and August couldn't wait to drown them out. He laid the case on the piano bench and took out his phone, setting the timer for forty-five minutes-he'd still have plenty of time to get home before dark. The violin case clicked open at his touch, the sounds short, staccato in the silence. He drew the instrument and bow free, then lowered himself onto the stool.

With a deep breath, August brought the violin beneath his chin, the bow to the strings and ... hesitated. He'd never done this before. There were so many days when he ached to pick up the violin and just play. But he never could. Music wasn't idle in the hands of a Sunai. It was a weapon, paralyzing everyone it touched.

He would have loved a place like this at the compound, but resources were always stretched, every inch of space was given over to the FTF-housing, training, supplies-and Leo said he didn't need practice; if he wanted more chances to play, all he had to do was hunt more often. Once or twice, August had fantasized about stealing a car, driving past the red and the yellow and the green, out into the Waste, with its empty stretches of field, its open space. He'd park on the side of the road and start walking out, go until he was sure no one could hear his song.

But that fantasy came with its own dangers. No people meant no souls, and he'd calculated how long it would take to get that far out, and back, and knew it was too risky.

"Pack a meal," Leo had said dismissively.

August had wanted to say several things back, none of them kind.

But now ...

Now it was just him and the white walls and the violin, and August closed his eyes and began to play.

Kate lingered after school, watching the campus empty. The students left in a wave, heading for the subway or peeling out of the lot as if they were racing against the darkness, which she supposed they were. Curfew was technically sundown-7:23 today, according to a helpful chart outside the main office-but nobody ever cut it that close, not even the teachers. As long as they had a medallion, they would be safe-that was the idea-but no one seemed eager to test the theory, and twenty minutes after the 4 p.m. bell, the only people still on campus were a handful of sophomores retaking a quiz, a pair of seniors loitering in the parking lot, and the monster in the music room.

Kate perched on a bench inside the gate, waiting for the black sedan to show. The copper-lined zip ties jabbed at her through her back pocket, a nagging reminder of what she needed to do. She glanced back at the school-the car needed to get here before Freddie.

Thirty minutes after the bell, there was still no sign of either.

Kate rapped her nails on the bench. She'd told Marcus she'd be late, and she tried to still the nervous prickle in her chest, but fifteen minutes later, with Colton going quiet around her and no sedan in sight, she broke down and phoned the driver.

He didn't answer.

Fear flashed through her, sudden and sharp.

It was almost five.

The light was already starting to weaken. Kate got to her feet, began to pace. She thought of calling her father, but couldn't bring herself to do it. She wasn't a child. But Freddie was still inside, and without the car she had no way of getting him to go with her anyway. Abandoning the mission, she shifted the backpack on her shoulder and headed for the subway entrance across from campus.

But when she got there, it was locked.

Kate's pulse quickened as she wrapped her fingers around the metal bars.

This wasn't right. The subway lines were supposed to run until sundown, but the gate had already been pulled across the entrance and padlocked shut. Her bad ear started ringing, the way it did when her heart was going too fast. She closed her eyes for a moment, tried to slow it down, but it was telling her, over and over, to run.

No. Kate closed her eyes, took a breath. Think, think. She let go of the bars and turned back toward the school, dragging her phone from her pocket and phoning a cab.

The guy didn't want to dispatch, and she didn't blame him, but it was after five and the sun was getting lower, and she had no intention of being trapped alone on campus with a monster after dark.

"My name is Kate Harker," she snapped. "Name your price. Just get here fast." She hung up, and dug the iron spikes out of her backpack, the sound of metal on metal a reminder of how quiet Colton had become. She shoved one spike into her sock and gripped the other near the blunted top, knifelike point away.

She headed for the front doors, but they were locked; tried to swipe in, but nothing happened. She rattled the handles, just to make sure, and then, through the glass, she saw the body.

He was lying twisted on the floor, his head craned back so she could see his face.

It was Mr. Brody, the history teacher, his neck broken and his eyes burned black.

For the first time in ages, August finished his song.

And then he played it again.

And again.

The melody-this strange, incredible thing that had come to him that first day in the alley and never left, never let go, sang in his head beneath the gunfire, always waiting to be set free-poured from him now through skin and bow and string. It thrummed through muscle and bone, wove through heart and vein, and made him feel human, and whole, and filled with life.

Maybe it wasn't the soul he fed on.

Maybe it was this.

Each chord hung in the air, shimmering like dust caught in beams of sun, and as the song ended a third time and the melody trailed off, he stood there savoring the perfect moment.

The timer chirped, a shrill sound that shattered the last lingering notes and dragged August back to the world and all the troubles waiting in it. He sighed and took up the phone, silencing the alarm, then frowned. He'd sent Henry a text to say he'd be home a little late, but there was no reply. Not even from Leo.