Like that, they hissed over and over, like that likethatlikethat . . .

Sloan let out a low, exasperated sigh. “What does it eat?” he demanded.

But the Corsai had lost interest.

beatbreakruinfleshbonebeatbreak Their voices rose louder and louder until the walls of the warehouse shook. Sloan turned to go, their violent chorus following him out.

VERSE 3

A MONSTER AT HEART

She is standing in her father’s office alone

the gun

in her hand when cold air kisses her neck and a voice whispers Katherine red eyes reflected in the window she turns lifts the gun but she is not fast enough the monster in the black suit forces her back

against the glass the gun is gone her hands are empty she tears at him but her fingers go right through as the window cracks

splinters breaks

and she begins to fall.

Kate jolted forward, fingers knotted in her shirt. Her heart was pounding, but she couldn’t remember why. The nightmare was already gone, leaving only a sick feeling and a racing pulse in its wake.

The room was empty, the world beyond August’s window still dark, save for the muted glow of the light strip at the Compound’s base and the first touches of dawn. She got up, padding barefoot to the door, turning the handle before she remembered it was locked.

Kate sighed and dug around in her bag until she found a couple of hairpins. She knelt before the lock, then paused, running her fingers over the plate that held the doorknob to the door. She fetched her silver lighter instead, thumbing the hidden catch. The switchblade snicked out, and she fit the narrow tip into the first screw and began to turn.

When she was done, the door whispered open.

A faint noise issued from the room to her right. August’s violin case was propped against the wall, and when she pressed her ear to the wood, she heard the steady hum of a shower.

The smell of coffee wafted from the kitchen. The lights were on, but the room was empty, and she poured herself a cup, stifling a yawn. Sleep had come quick, but it had been thin, restless.

And the dream . . .

Her gaze drifted absently across the kitchen and landed on a knife block. Five wooden handles jutted from the block, while a sixth knife lay on the counter, blade shining. There was something lovely about knives—the gleam of light on polished metal, the satin smoothness of the handle, the razor-sharp edge. Her fingers drifted toward it, a strange ache in her palm at the thought of— Something brushed against Kate’s leg, and she recoiled, jarred from the pull of the shadow in her head. It had stolen over her so smoothly, and she swore at herself as a dark shape vanished around the corner of the island.

She frowned and peered over, but the other side was empty. And then, out of nowhere, a small black-and-white thing leaped onto the counter.

The Flynns had a cat.

It stared at Kate and she stared back. She had never owned a pet—the closest she’d come was walking the school mascot at her third prep school—but she’d always liked animals more than people. Then again, that might have been a reflection on people more than on her.

She wiggled her fingers, watching the cat paw absently at her hand.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“Allegro.”

Kate spun, a kitchen knife in her hand before she even thought to reach for it.

A man was standing in the doorway, tall and slim, his graying hair cut short. She recognized him at once as the founder of the FTF, the man who had held half the city against Callum Harker and his monsters. Her father’s greatest rival.

And he was wearing a bathrobe.

“Miss Harker,” said Henry Flynn in a steady voice. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But you are standing in my kitchen. And that is my favorite knife.”

“Sorry,” she said, lowering the weapon. “Old habit.”

He flashed a wan smile and drew his hand from the pocket of his robe, revealing a small gun. “New habit.”

He held the gun by the barrel with only two fingers, as if he hated touching it—then put it back in his pocket. Kate slotted the knife into the block, trying to ignore the way her fingers resisted letting go. She took a step back from the counter, to be safe, as Henry rounded the island and poured himself a mug of coffee. “Did you sleep?”

He didn’t ask if she’d slept well.

“Yes.” She gave him a once-over, saw the slight stoop, as if it hurt to straighten, the shadows under his eyes and cheekbones. Flynn laughed at the scrutiny, a soft, empty sound. “No rest for the wicked.” He looked around the apartment. “Are you enjoying our small piece of home? It’s no penthouse”—his gaze returned to her—“but it’s no prison, either.”

His voice was pleasant enough, but his message was clear. Her presence here was predicated on her cooperation.

“Since we’re both awake,” he went on, “perhaps we could talk about this new monster, this—”

“Chaos Eater,” she offered. “What about it?”

“Two days ago, one of my squads turned their weapons on one another without cause or warning, for no apparent reason.”

The air caught in Kate’s throat—it wasn’t shock, or horror, but a strange and unsettling relief. She’d seen the creature, of course, but it was one thing to have visions and another to have facts. She wasn’t losing her mind—at least, not entirely.