“Dammit, August,” said Leo, stepping back.

“What?” he challenged, rubbing his jaw. “You go a week, sometimes more. And Ilsa doesn’t even seem to need it. Why should I—”

“Because you do. This is a foolish, futile pursuit. You have a fire in you, little brother. You should embrace its heat instead of trying to dampen it.”

“I don’t want—”

“This isn’t about what you want,” cut in Leo. “You cannot build up resistance by starving yourself. You know what will happen if you don’t eat. All those precious little tallies will go away and you’ll have to start again.” But that wasn’t what August was afraid of, and Leo knew it. It wasn’t about losing the marks. It was about what he’d lose with them. What Leo had already lost. “How many are you up to now, little brother?”

August swallowed. “Four hundred and eighteen.”

“Four hundred and eighteen days,” echoed Leo. “That’s impressive. But you can’t have it both ways. You feed or you go dark. How many died last time you fell? Eight?”

The number clawed its way up August’s throat. “Nine,” he whispered.

“Nine,” repeated his brother. “Nine innocent lives. All because you refused to eat.” August wrapped his arms around his ribs. “What do you want?” chided Leo. “To be ordinary? To be human?” He said the word as if it stained his tongue.

“Better human than a monster,” he muttered.

Leo’s jaw tightened. “Take heed, little brother,” he said. “Do not lump us in with those base creatures. We are not Corsai, swarming like insects. We are not Malchai, feeding like beasts. Sunai are justice. Sunai are balance. Sunai are—”

“Self-righteous and prone to speaking in third person?” cut in August before he could stop himself.

Leo’s black eyes narrowed, but his calm did not waver. It never wavered. He pulled out his cell and dialed. Someone answered. “Tell Harris and Phillip to take a walk,” he said, then hung up. He drew a folded piece of paper from his pocket and pressed it into August’s hand. “Go eat before you lose more than your temper.” Leo wrapped his fingers around the base of August’s neck and pulled him close. “Pretend it’s chicken,” he said softly. “Pretend you’re normal. Pretend whatever you like, little brother. It does not change what you are.”

And with that Leo let go and returned to his place at the table.

August didn’t follow. He stayed in the hall until his heart settled, and then he went to find his violin.

By the time Harker’s office door finally opened, the sun had gone down, the last echoes of light streaked violently across the sky. Kate was still sitting at the kitchen counter, less out of academic diligence—her homework was done—than a stubborn determination to be there when her father emerged. He’d been avoiding her all week, ever since the black transport had deposited her in the hours before dawn.

That first good-bye—when she was five and the city was tearing itself apart, and Harker was bundling them into a car, and she was sobbing because she didn’t want to go—he’d taken her chin in his hand and said, “My daughter does not cry.”

And she’d stopped, right then and there. But when she came back after the truce, the first words he said to her were, “Make me proud,” and somehow, then, she’d let him down. Now Kate was here again, and this time she wouldn’t fail.

Charlotte’s words rang in her ears.

He can’t stand to look at her.

But it wasn’t true. He just didn’t understand yet—she wasn’t the little girl he’d sent away twelve years ago, the one who set bugs free instead of killing them and was afraid of the dark. She wasn’t the girl who’d come back six years later, the one who cried when she had bad dreams and got sick at the sight of blood. She wasn’t weak like her mother, wouldn’t break down and try to vanish in the middle of the night.

She was her father’s daughter.

Kate sat very still at the counter, her head turned so she could hear the sound of Harker’s heavy steps across the paneled floor. She waited, listened as the steps moved away instead of toward her. Listened to the sound of the elevator being called, the scrape of its arrival, the hush of its descent. When it was gone, Kate got to her feet, and turned to follow, only to find Sloan blocking the doorway.

It was dark out now, and Sloan seemed more real, solid in a way that put her on edge. His skeleton stood out like a bruise beneath his skin, and his teeth looked longer and sharper and silver as knifepoints. “Hungry?”

Kate shook her head. “Where did he go?”

“Who?” asked the Malchai, narrowing his red eyes. Surely he had better things to do than babysit her. His expression certainly said so.

“Is this how Harker has you spending your time?” she goaded.

“Let’s play a game,” he said amiably. “You can tell me to get out of your way. You can call me a monster and I can call you a sheltered little brat and we can have a quarrel. It will be entertaining. Maybe when it’s over you’ll even storm off to your room and slam the door like an ordinary teenager.”

Kate gave him a cold smile. “I’m not an ordinary teenager.”