In the darkened lobby, Malchai lounged on every surface, leaning on stairs and draping themselves over railings. A dozen Fangs dotted the dark stone floor, steel collars glinting as they knelt beside their masters.

Blood leaked from bite marks on their skin, but Sloan’s hunger barely rose at the sight of it, of them. He’d never had a taste for willing prey.

At the sound of his steps, the Malchai stirred, red eyes going to the floor as he passed.

Inside the elevator, Sloan let his eyes slide closed. He dreamed of many things, of blood and power and a broken city, of Henry Flynn brought low and the task force on its knees, of August’s burning heart in his hand and Katherine’s neck beneath his teeth.

But as the elevator rose, Sloan longed only for sleep. A few quiet hours before the frenzy of the night.

He stepped out of the elevator and into the penthouse, and stopped.

Alice had set the place on fire.

That was his first thought. Heat radiated off the steel coffee table where she had dumped what looked like a bucket of hot coals. A variety of tools and kitchen utensils protruded from the burning mess, and four Malchai crouched on the floor in front of her, feasting on a young man.

“Before you ask,” said Alice, “It wasn’t like the Falstead. I didn’t have anything to do with it this time. I’ve moved on.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Sloan.

Alice gave an impatient flick of her fingers. “Oh, a handful of Fangs—they must have snapped—who knows why. Went and killed each other—so it seems. The Corsai didn’t leave much behind. A petty squabble, if I had to guess. Humans are so”—she blew on the coals—“temperamental.”

“And what about them?” asked Sloan, nodding toward the Malchai.

“Oh, they volunteered.”

“For what?”

Alice didn’t answer. Instead she took one of the Malchai by the chin, raising his red eyes to hers. Her voice, when she spoke, was different, lower, smoother, almost hypnotic.

“Do you want to make me proud?”

“Yes,” whispered the Malchai.

She drew a thin metal bar from the fire, its end a burning red tip.

“Alice,” pressed Sloan.

“Here’s a riddle,” she said, her voice threading with manic cheer. “You can banish a Corsai with light, defang a Malchai’s bite, but how do you do stop a Sunai’s song?”

Sloan thought of Ilsa, the last sound she made before he tore out her throat.

“You don’t have to,” said Alice with a smile. “You just stop listening.”

With that she drove the burning spike into the Malchai’s ear.

It didn’t feel real until Kate hit the Waste.

Until she saw the open land, the sprawling nothing, and remembered dragging August’s fevered body through the fields to the house, remembered her mother’s room, the man at the door, and the gun in her hand. A single bang, the division between before and after. Innocence and guilt. Human and monster.

She didn’t like to think about that.

Didn’t like to remember that somewhere, out there, was the monster she’d made.

With any luck it had starved to death in the Waste.

With any luck—

The car shuddered, spluttered, and began to smoke. She swore and guided the dying vehicle onto the empty shoulder.

She was eight miles from the outskirts of V-City.

Eight miles, and less than two hours until dark.

Kate got out, and rounded the car. The gun sat on the passenger-side floor where she’d dropped it as soon as the barricade was out of sight. She took it up, savoring the weight in her hand, remembering the sweet recoil and—

She ejected the clip from the gun and put both pieces in her bag, hitched it up on her shoulder, and began to run. Her own shadow stretched out in front of her, cast by the sinking sun at her back, and her shoes beat out a steady rhythm on the asphalt.

Track had been a mandatory activity back at Leighton, and Kate had quickly discovered two things:

She loved running.

And she hated running in circles.

She tried to remember that love now, with nothing but an open road, a straight line ahead, but two miles in, she was pretty sure she’d made it all up.

Four miles in, she wished she had a cigarette.

Five miles in, she regretted ever smoking.

Seven miles in, she staggered to a jog and then a walk, a limp and then a stop, retching on the side of the road. Her head had started aching again, and she wanted to lie down, to close her eyes, but the sun was hovering over the horizon, and the last thing she needed was to be caught out in the Waste after dark.

She had to keep moving, so she did.

Funny, how simple things became when you didn’t have a choice.

Her legs and lungs were on fire by the time she finally reached the green zone.

Once upon a time it had been the richest section of the capital, a place reserved for those who could afford not only to purchase Harker’s protection but to carry on with their lives as if nothing was wrong. Once upon a time—but now it was empty.

It would have been easy to assume that everyone in the green had up and left, some kind of mass exodus.

It would have been . . . except for the number of cars in the driveways. And the blood.

Long-dry brown stains worn thin by weather and sun. But it was everywhere. Splashed like rust against car doors and curbs, garages and steps. An echo of violence.