“Humanity.”

Alice laughed softly, a sound like steam escaping from a pot. “You know, I thought, if I used humans, you might try to spare them.” Her red eyes danced over his bloodstained front. “I guess I was wrong.”

“I don’t spare sinners.”

Alice’s gaze flicked up. “You spared Kate.” The name like a barb in the monster’s mouth. “You’re sparing me, right now, with your friend’s blood still on your hands. Must not have been a very good friend.”

He knew she was baiting him, but the anger still rose like heat on his skin.

As if on cue, red eyes began to flicker around him in the dark.

Alice hadn’t come alone, but there was a reason she kept her distance, lobbing taunts down from the rooftop. A Sunai’s music was as toxic to a Malchai as a Malchai’s soul was to a Sunai. If August started playing, the other monsters would die, but Alice would get away.

She flashed a smile, and there it was again, in the twist of her lips, the shadow of someone else.

“I’m not her,” sniped the Malchai, and August recoiled at the sudden venom. “You’ve got that look on your face, poor little lost monster. Do you miss her, our Kate?” Her eyes narrowed. “Do you know where she is?”

“I don’t,” he said. “But I hope it’s far away from here. Far away from you. And if she has any sense, she’ll never come back.”

Alice sneered and, with that, the illusion shattered—what little resemblance she bore to Kate was gone, and all that was left was monstrous. The sight of that true face freed August of any hesitation. He swung the violin up in a fluid arc, the tension collapsing as Alice lunged backward into shadow, and the other Malchai rushed at August in the light, and his bow sliced like a knife across his strings.

As he walked home, it started to rain. A steady curtain of water that soaked August through and left a dark trail, the blood of friends and enemies, of FTFs and Fangs and monsters, mingled in his wake.

Somewhere between slaughtering Alice’s Malchai and reaching the Seam, August realized something: it didn’t have to hurt this much.

For months he’d been playing a part, instead of becoming it, pretending to be strong while all the while harboring a shred of hope that there was still a world where he could feel human.

“Because you care.” That’s what Henry had said, but Henry was wrong. Henry was human; he didn’t understand that in trying to be both, August succeeded at neither. Leo had understood, had sacrificed humanity to be the monster the humans needed.

All August had to do was let go. It was time to let go.

“Stop!” ordered a pair of FTFs as he reached the Seam.

The violin should have been enough to ID him, but the bow was slick with gore, the instrument streaked red, and, in the rain-slicked night, he hardly passed for human.

When the soldiers saw his face, they staggered back, apologies caught in their throats as they opened the gate. He continued on, through South City and across the light strip and into the bright warmth of the Compound lobby.

The clash and thrum of conversation died, the steady thud of movement froze, and in the silence, a hundred pairs of eyes turned toward him.

August had avoided his reflection in every pane of glass, every dark puddle, every steel sheet, but he saw it now, not in a mirror, but in the faces of everyone who looked at him, and then quickly looked away.

Could they see the light of the souls he’d reaped, the monsters he’d slain? Could they feel the darkness in the lives he’d taken, the hate and violence wicking off his skin?

He started across the lobby, the heels of his boots leaving damp crescent moons of blood and ash in his wake. No one approached. No one followed.

Even Henry Flynn, surrounded by captains, took one look at him and stilled.

You wanted them to see me, thought August.

So let them see.

The head of the FTF started toward him, but August held up a hand—a command, a gesture of dismissal.

And then his eyes found Colin, and he had the grim satisfaction of seeing the boy inhale sharply, stricken by the sight of him. Some small part of August exhaled with relief. It had only been a matter of time before Colin saw the truth, the monster behind the mask. Until he realized August was not—would never be—like him.

He reached the elevators, the silence heavy on his shoulders. But he felt the shift inside it, the awe as well as the fear. These people looked at him and saw something not less than human, but more. Something strong enough to fight for them. Strong enough to win.

Stand straight, little brother.

And for the first time, August listened.

Sloan stood at the kitchen counter, flipping through a book on war.

Alice left them scattered all over the penthouse, a trail of crumbs marking her ceaseless movement and fickle attention. He let the book fall shut as she came in. “Where have you been?”

He didn’t trust it when she wandered off—she was the kind of pet one needed to keep on a leash.

Alice hopped up onto the island. “Hunting.”

Sloan’s eyes narrowed. She’d always relished making a mess when she fed, and tonight there was no blood on her hands or face.

“I take it you failed.”

A pile of FTF patches sat beside her hand, and she twisted and began absently building a tower, as if they were cards. “I prefer to think of success as a process,” she mused. “He’s not an easy catch.”