“Stay. Put.”

August dug his nails into his palms. “I forgot my medal.”

A sigh. “Well,” he said slowly, “try to stay away from monsters. In the meantime—”

“Leo—”

“You’re letting your head get away from you. If Kate Harker knew what you were, she would have felt compelled to tell you.”

“I know, but . . .” August closed his eyes. But she did tell him. Didn’t she? What was she trying to say? “I have a bad feeling. Could you just have Henry call me when he’s done? I need to talk to him.”

“Fine,” said Leo. “But in the meantime, little brother, take a deep breath, and try not to lose your head.”

“Okay, I’ll—” he started, but Leo had already hung up.

Kate slammed her hand into the bathroom counter.

She glared at her reflection. “What the hell is your problem?”

A girl behind her jumped. “Um, nothing!” she whimpered before scurrying off.

Kate exhaled as the bathroom door swung shut, and slumped into a crouch, resting her forehead against the cold counter. “Dammit, dammit, dammit. . . .”

She hadn’t done it.

He’d been right there in front of her, but every time she thought of crossing to his seat, of reaching for the copper ties in her pocket, she couldn’t do it. She tried to picture black-eyed Leo torturing that man until his life welled up like blood, but all she saw was Freddie sitting there folded in on himself like she was the monster.

The images didn’t line up.

But she’d seen the photo on her phone, she knew what he was, knew the thing sitting across from her was just a trick of the light, a fa?ade.

Freddie might look innocent, but he wasn’t.

He was a Sunai.

But he didn’t know that she knew. She still had the upper hand, the element of surprise. But for how long?

It was okay. She’d prepared for this, given herself another chance. Kate would just offer him a ride home. She didn’t really have a meeting after school, but she’d seen his name on the practice room sheet, in smooth cursive. Frederick Gallagher. 4 p.m.

“What are you doing?” came a voice, the words like a whine. Rachel. The girl who’d cornered her on the way to the gym.

Kate forced her grip to loosen on the counter. “Praying,” she said, straightening slowly, composing her features.

Rachel arched a brow. “For what?”

“Forgiveness,” said Kate. “For the things I’m about to do if you don’t get out of my way.” Rachel had the good sense to back up and let her pass without another word.

By the end of the day, August was beginning to think he’d overreacted about Kate. She’d sat beside him in History, doodling monsters in the margins of her own work instead of his. They’d passed in the hall, exchanged a nod and an awkward smile, a murmured hey there, and that was it. He’d waited on the bleachers during study hall—found himself wanting her to show—but she didn’t come. At lunch, August sent Leo a text that simply said, Feeling better, and got back a single word: good.

By the last class, he was glad he hadn’t left—it was finally his turn in the practice studio. As soon as the bell rang, he grabbed his violin from the locker and headed straight for the room. He was breathless by the time he reached it, heart tight with the panic that it would be locked, or taken, but it wasn’t; the only name left at the bottom of the page was his own.

He knew he should go home, talk to Henry, and he would, but Leo was probably right, he was overreacting, and the chance to play—really play—was too tempting. Besides, the longer he stayed, the less likely he was to run into Kate on the way out. A win-win, that’s what he told himself. And he believed it.

August swiped his ID, and the door gave a small beep of approval before letting him in. The studio itself was a cube so white it swallowed the corners and made him feel like he was standing in a void, the emptiness interrupted only by a black stool, a music stand, a bench. When the door closed behind him, it sealed, and he felt as much as heard the soundproofing kick in—a subtle vibration followed by sudden, absolute quiet.

Of course, it was never quiet in his head. Within a heartbeat or two, the gunshots started up, distant but relentless, and August couldn’t wait to drown them out. He laid the case on the piano bench and took out his phone, setting the timer for forty-five minutes—he’d still have plenty of time to get home before dark. The violin case clicked open at his touch, the sounds short, staccato in the silence. He drew the instrument and bow free, then lowered himself onto the stool.

With a deep breath, August brought the violin beneath his chin, the bow to the strings and . . . hesitated. He’d never done this before. There were so many days when he ached to pick up the violin and just play. But he never could. Music wasn’t idle in the hands of a Sunai. It was a weapon, paralyzing everyone it touched.

He would have loved a place like this at the compound, but resources were always stretched, every inch of space was given over to the FTF—housing, training, supplies—and Leo said he didn’t need practice; if he wanted more chances to play, all he had to do was hunt more often. Once or twice, August had fantasized about stealing a car, driving past the red and the yellow and the green, out into the Waste, with its empty stretches of field, its open space. He’d park on the side of the road and start walking out, go until he was sure no one could hear his song.