But Charlotte didn’t. “Maybe he sent her away because she was crazy, too.”

Not crazy, Kate wanted to say. No, he thought she was young, thought she was weak like her mother. But he was wrong.

She dug her nails savagely into her palms, and took her seat, eyes on the board. She sat like that all through class, head high, but she wasn’t listening, wasn’t taking notes. She didn’t hear a word the teacher said, didn’t care. She sat still and waited for the bell to ring, and when it did, she followed Charlotte out, and down the hall. Whatever class she had next wasn’t as important as this.

When the girl detoured into the nearest bathroom, Kate followed, throwing the bolt behind her.

Charlotte, pretty in such a boring way, was standing at the sink, retouching her makeup. Kate came up beside her, and began rinsing the crescents of blood from her palms. Then she tucked her hair behind her ear, showing the scar that traced her face from temple to jaw. The other girl looked up, found Kate’s gaze in the mirror, and had the audacity to smirk. “Can I help you?”

“What’s your name?” asked Kate.

The girl raised a bleached brow, and dried her hands. “Charlotte,” she said, already turning to go.

“No,” said Kate slowly. “Your full name.”

Charlotte stopped, suspicious. “Charlotte Chapel.”

Kate gave a small, silent laugh.

“What’s so funny?” snapped the girl.

Kate shrugged. “I burned down a chapel once.”

Charlotte’s face crinkled with disgust. “Freak,” she muttered, walking away.

She didn’t make it very far.

In an instant, Kate had her up against the wall, five metal-tipped fingers wrapped around her throat. With her free hand, Kate drew the lighter from her pocket. She pressed a notch on the side, and a silver switchblade slid out with a muted snick.

Charlotte’s eyes went wide. “You’re even crazier than I thought,” she gasped.

For a moment, Kate thought about hurting her. Seriously hurting her. Not because it would serve some purpose, just because it would feel really, really good. But getting expelled would negate everything she’d done to get here.

He’ll ship you out of Verity. One way. For good.

“When the headmaster hears about this—”

“He won’t,” said Kate, resting the knife against Charlotte’s cheek. “Because you’re not going to tell him.” She said it in the same way she said everything: with a quiet, even voice.

She’d seen a documentary once, on cult leaders, and the traits that made them so effective. One of the most important features was a commanding presence. Too many people thought that meant being loud, but in truth, it meant someone who didn’t need to be loud. Someone who could command an audience without ever raising their voice. Kate’s father was like that. She’d studied him, in the slivers of time they’d had together, and Callum Harker never shouted.

So neither did Kate.

She loosened her fingers on Charlotte’s throat, just a little, and brought the knife to the medallion hanging against the girl’s uniform shirt, tapping the engraved V casually with her blade. “I want you to remember something, Charlotte Chapel.” She leaned in. “That pendant may protect you from the monsters, but it won’t protect you from me.”

The bell rang, and Kate pulled back, flashing her best smile. The knife disappeared into the lighter and her hand fell away from the girl’s throat. “Run along now,” she said icily. “You wouldn’t want to be late.”

Charlotte clutched her bruised throat and scrambled out of the bathroom.

Kate didn’t follow. She went to the sink, washed her hands again, and smoothed her hair. For an instant, she met her reflection’s gaze, and saw another version of herself behind the stormy blue, one who belonged to a different life, a softer world. But that Kate had no place here.

She took a long breath, rolled her neck, and went to class, confident she’d made a solid first impression.

August was supposed to be in gym.

Or at least, every other junior was supposed to be in gym, and probably was, but thanks to a health condition—asthma, according to his file—he’d been granted a study hall instead.

August did not have asthma. What he did have were four hundred and eighteen uniform lines running the length of one arm and starting to wrap around his back and chest, and Henry was worried that they would draw attention.

So instead, August was in study hall. Or at least, he had been. He imagined a study hall might come in handy, but it being the first day of school, he had nothing to study, so he’d asked the monitor if he could go to the bathroom, and never came back.

Now he was standing outside the ID office.

On the way there, he’d tried to think up an excuse for not wanting his photo taken—he’d read once about a tribe that believed being photographed would steal their soul—but in the end he didn’t need an out.

The office was empty. The lights were on, and when he tried the handle, the door was unlocked. August looked around nervously, then stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him. The ID form was still up on the computer screen, and he typed in his details: Frederick Gallagher, 16, junior, 5’ 10”, black hair, gray eyes.

An empty rectangle sat waiting to the right of the information. August knew what it was for. He swallowed and hit the delayed action photo button, then stepped in front of the pale backdrop, just like he’d seen the other students do. He looked straight into the camera lens and the flash went off. August blinked the light from his eyes and held his breath as he rounded the counter, but his heart sank when he saw the photo on the screen. His expression was a little too vacant, but his face had almost all the right components—jawline, mouth, nose, cheekbones, hair. An ordinary boy . . . except his eyes. Where August’s eyes should be, there was only a smudge of black. As if someone had drawn his face in charcoal and then smeared it.