“You said this monster ‘doesn’t have a real body,’ so how did you track it?”

August watched Kate take a breath—buying seconds to bend the truth?—before she answered. “It left a trail.”

On the feed, Soro sounded skeptical. “And you followed it all the way back to Verity. How valiant.”

Kate’s expression darkened. “I guess I have a vested interest. Or maybe I was homesick. Or maybe I could tell, from a territory away, that things were going to absolute shit.” Her temper was rising. “This thing, whatever it is, I’ve seen what it can do. It gets into people’s heads, and it brings out something dark. Something violent. It turns them into the monster. And then it spreads. Like a virus.” She rose to her feet, leaning forward across the table. “So yes, I came back, to help you kill it. But by all means, leave me chained up here instead.” She sat back down. “Happy hunting.”

Kate’s chest was rising and falling, as if the words had left her winded. Soro’s poise didn’t waver. They said nothing, and August knew they were waiting to see if their influence would draw out anything else. At August’s back, people were talking, comms were buzzing, the rise and fall of voices and feeds. But his attention was leveled on the screen, on Kate’s face.

Which was the only reason he saw it.

She tipped her head back, and the blond hair tumbled out of her eyes and for an instant, they met the camera, and there was a single flare, like light reflected back, a streak obscuring her face. The lens couldn’t seem to focus. It blurred, steadied, blurred again—the way it did with monsters.

It could have been a glitch, he told himself. An instant later her head was back down, the flare gone. It could have been a glitch— But Ilsa had seen it, too. Her breath caught, a small but audible sound, and her fingers splayed across the table, her pale gaze darting toward him. Henry’s back was still turned, and they stared at each other in silence, each wondering what the other would do.

It gets into people’s heads, Kate had said.

I’ve seen what it can do.

August wasn’t sure what he’d just seen, or what it meant, but he knew it was only a matter of time before someone else noticed it, too, and when they did— You owe her nothing, chided Leo.

She is a sinner, echoed Soro.

What will you do, brother? said Ilsa with a look.

“Henry,” he said, turning his back to the screen. The head of the FTF was talking rapidly into a comm. He raised a hand and August held his breath, forcing himself to wait patiently, as if nothing was wrong.

At last, Henry lowered the comm. “What is it?”

This is wrong. Something’s wrong. Everything’s wrong.

“Kate isn’t our enemy,” he said, “but you’re treating her like one. If you leave her in there with Soro, she’ll tell us the truth, but nothing more. She’ll give you only what she has to, and it probably won’t be enough.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Let me talk to her. No cuffs. No cameras.”

Henry was already shaking his head. “August—”

“She saved my life.”

“And you spared hers. I’m sorry to tell you that good deeds don’t prevent bad ones, and until we know exactly—”

“If Kate Harker poses a threat to any of our soldiers, to any of our missions, I will reap her soul myself.”

August was surprised to hear himself say it. Apparently, so was Henry. His eyes widened, but he didn’t look comforted by the truth in the words.

“Please,” added August. “I’m the only one here she’ll trust.”

Henry looked at the screen, where Kate had her fists clenched on the table and her head up in a posture of defiance. August could feel himself striking the same pose.

But it was Ilsa who decided it. She rose up onto her toes and wrapped her arms around August’s chest, resting her chin on his shoulder. He couldn’t see the look she gave Henry, the silent message that passed between them, but a moment later, Henry told Soro to terminate the interview.

The girl staggered down the hallway, barefoot and bleeding.

Her wrists were bound in front of her and she fought with the rope as she stumbled toward the elevator. Sloan let her get there before he caught up. Fear—delicious, defiant fear—dusted the air like sugar as he pinned her to the wall beside the stainless-steel doors and wrenched her head back.

“Katherine,” he whispered, teeth skimming the pulse at her throat and— The elevator doors chimed and slid open.

Sloan hesitated, fangs poised against the girl’s skin. The tower’s penthouse was invitation-only. It belonged to Sloan, and Sloan alone—the engineers chained to the table and the hateful little thing perched on his kitchen counter were there because he allowed it. No one came here without being summoned.

Which was why he bristled at the sight of the Malchai hurrying forward into his home. His red eyes were wide with panic, blood speckled his face, and gore leaked down one arm. At the sight of Sloan and the human girl trembling against the wall, the Malchai lurched to a stop, but didn’t retreat.

“This had better be important,” snarled Sloan.

“Apologies, sir, but it is.”

“Speak.”

The Malchai hesitated, and in Sloan’s moment of distraction, the girl almost slipped free.