“If you’re going back out,” added Jackson, “we’ll go with you.”

“That’s not necessary,” said August. He was already turning to go when Harris caught him by the arm.

“No solo missions, sir,” said Harris. That was the Night Squad’s first and most important rule. If you had to work the dark, you did it in teams.

That rule is for them.

Leo was right. August didn’t need a team.

“Let go of me,” he warned, and when Harris didn’t, he shoved the soldier back into Ani, hard enough to send both of them stumbling. Something crossed their faces, but August turned away without trying to read it.

“Take the Fang to the cells,” he said. “That’s an order.”

And this time, when he walked away, no one tried to stop him.

It was a strange thing, to walk alone.

He had grown so used to the echo of other footfalls, the need to think about other bodies, other lives. Without them, he was free.

The lights of South City faded with every step, and August kept his violin out and ready, the neck in one hand and the bow in the other, as he followed the whisper of shadows.

But something was off. The night was too still, the streets too empty, and he could feel the monsters drawing back into the dark.

His comm crackled. “August,” said Henry sternly. “What are you doing?”

“My job,” he said simply, switching off the device just before the streetlights to every side flickered and went out, plunging him into darkness.

A moment later, a sound cut the night—not a scream, but a laugh, high and gritty and full of venom.

“Sunai, Sunai, eyes like coal, play me a song and steal my soul.”

Alice. He turned in a slow circle, trying to find her, but the voice echoed off buildings, and eyes began to dot the dark, red and white against the curtain of black.

He lifted the violin, bow resting on the strings as her voice drifted forward.

“What are you waiting for?” she taunted.

The darkness stirred, and four Malchai stepped out of shadow.

“Won’t you play us a song?”

As if on cue, they attacked.

The Malchai were fast, but for once, August was faster.

He drew the first note, the sound crisp and clear enough to cut the night. It should have cut the monsters, too, stopped them in their tracks.

But it didn’t.

They kept coming, and August retreated one step, two, his bow slicing over the strings, song pouring into the space between them, taking shape, drawing ribbons of light, but the monsters didn’t slow, didn’t stop, didn’t even seem to hear— Too late, he saw their mutilated ears, and realized they couldn’t hear him.

August swore, dropping the violin and twisting the bow in his hand to reveal the razored edge of its spine as the Malchai fell on him. He slashed a throat, black blood misting the air, noxious as death, as nails dug into his arms, and a hand snarled in his hair.

But they were no match for him, no match at all. For once, August didn’t have to worry about humans, didn’t have to hold any lives but his own. The freedom was so shocking that he lost himself in the violence.

He became an instrument of ending, a piece of music, the notes drawing out as darkness wrapped up around his hands, and smoke swallowed his fingers and climbed his wrists, that other self peeling him away, shedding him inch by inch. The Malchai screamed and thrashed, and heat flared in his chest, his pulse rising, urging him to let go, let go, let go.

But it was already over. His violin lay several feet away, the bow in his hand slick with gore, and August stood, panting from the fight, the broken bodies of the monsters strewn at his feet.

Well done, little brother.

He looked down at his hands, the skin still engulfed in shadow and smoke. The darkness lapped at the tallies on his forearms, threatening to erase the writing on his skin, to erase him, but there was no need, the fight was done, and as he watched, the shadows receded.

August flexed his hands and tipped his head back to the night.

“You’ll have to try harder than that,” he called to Alice, his voice echoing through the dark.

Henry was waiting at the Compound doors. At the sight of August, he marched forward onto the light strip. “What were you thinking?”

He doesn’t understand.

“How could you be so reckless?”

He can’t.

“You could have been taken.”

He’s only human.

But August had never seen Henry so visibly distraught. The light made him pale and gaunt, and he was breathing hard enough for August to hear the hitch in the man’s chest. Concern rose up, but he forced it down.

“What’s gotten into you?” demanded Henry.

“Nothing,” said August. “I’m fulfilling my purpose. And it feels right,” he added, even though the high had already faded, and the blood had gone tacky on his skin, the sick scent of it hitting the back of his throat.

Henry’s face filled with dismay, and August was left clawing for the calm that had surrounded him so easily during the fight, grasping at the dregs of the freedom he’d felt in the dark.

“You abandoned your team.”

“I sent them home. I didn’t need them anymore.”

Henry rubbed at his brow. “I know you’re upset about Rez—”