“Stupid cough,” he muttered, as if it were nothing, a nuisance, the relic of some protracted cold. But they both knew better, even if Henry couldn’t bring himself to say it, and August couldn’t bring himself to ask.

Denial—that’s what it was called.

The idea that if a thing went unsaid, it didn’t really exist, because words had power, words gave weight and shape and force, and the withholding of them could keep a thing from being real, could . . .

He watched Henry watch the training hall.

“FTF,” he mused when the coughing fit had passed. “I’ve always hated that name.”

“Really?”

“Names are powerful,” he said. “But a movement shouldn’t be built on, around, or for a single person. What happens when that person is gone? Does the movement stop existing? A legacy shouldn’t be a limitation.”

August could feel Henry’s mind bending toward him, the way a flower bent toward the sun, the way mass bent toward a planet. He didn’t feel like a sun or a planet, but the fact was that he exerted more force on the things around him than they did on him. In his presence, people bent.

“Why did you bring me here with you, Henry?”

The man sighed, waving a hand at the new recruits. “Sight is an important thing, August. Without it, our minds invent, and the things they invent are almost always worse than the truth. It’s important that they see us. See you. It’s important that they know you’re on their side.”

August frowned. “The first thing they see me do is kill.”

Henry nodded. “That’s why the next thing you do matters so much. And the next, and the next. You’re not human, August, and you never will be. But you’re not a monster, either. Why do you think I chose you to lead the FTF?”

“Because I killed Leo?” he ventured darkly.

A shadow crossed Henry’s face. “Because it haunts you.” He tapped August’s chest, right over the heart. “Because you care.”

August had nothing to say to that. He was relieved when Henry finally freed him from the track, from the prying eyes, the fearful looks. He slipped back into the hallway, and headed for the elevator.

“Hey, Freddie!”

August turned and saw Colin Stevenson in FTF fatigues. He was struck by a split second of memory—an ill-fitting uniform, a cafeteria table, an arm around his shoulders. The brief illusion of a normal life.

“That’s not my real name,” he said.

Colin gaped at him. “Are you serious?” He clutched his chest. “I feel so betrayed.”

It took August an instant to catch on: sarcasm. “How’s training?”

Colin gestured down at himself. “As you can see, it’s doing wonders for my physique.”

August actually smiled. The last six months had stretched him into a new shape, but Colin hadn’t grown an inch.

The boy’s family had been found on a rescue mission in the yellow zone during those first weeks. They’d been cornered by a pair of Malchai content to wear them down or starve them out. August himself had been on the extraction team, which was quite a shock to Colin, who’d known him only as Frederick Gallagher, quiet sophomore transfer student, but in Colin’s words, “I guess the whole saving thing kind of clears the slate.”

The weird thing was, Colin didn’t treat him differently, now that he knew. He didn’t cower or startle whenever August entered a room, didn’t look at him as if he were anyone—anything—but who—what—he’d been.

But Colin hadn’t seen him fight a Malchai or reap a sinner’s soul, hadn’t seen him do anything monstrous.

Then again, knowing Colin, he’d probably say it looked “badass” or “cool.” Humans were strange and unpredictable.

“Mr. Stevenson,” called one of the squad leaders. “Back to your training circle.”

Colin gave an exaggerated groan. “They make us do sit-ups, Freddie. I hate sit-ups. Hated them at Colton, hate them here.” He started walking backward. “Hey, some of us are meeting in the lobby for cards. You in?”

You in? Two small words that shook something loose in August, that almost made him forget—

But then his comm buzzed, and he remembered who he was.

What he was.

Alpha.

“I can’t,” he said. “I work Night Squad.”

“Cool, cool.”

“Mr. Stevenson,” called the captain. “I’m adding sit-ups for every second you’re late.”

Colin started jogging off. “Once they give me the all clear, I’m signing up. Maybe we’ll end up on the same team.”

August’s spirits fell. He tried to imagine Colin—kind, short, bright Colin—hunting monsters beside him in the dark, but instead he saw the boy lying on the pavement, warm eyes open, his throat torn out.

August had never belonged in Colin’s world, and Colin didn’t belong in his, and he would do whatever it took to keep him out.

Corsai.

Kate’s pen scratched across the paper.

Malchai.

Letter by letter, square by square.

Sunai.

She ignored the puzzle’s clues—six down, “a spicy pepper,” four across, “the largest supercity”—just killing time. Now and then her attention flicked up from the crossword and through the bookstore windows to the crime scene across the street, the alley roped off with yellow tape.