She tried to turn a screw free, but it didn’t budge. She pried until her fingers ached, twisted until her nails cracked.

Nothing.

She closed her eyes, and tried to think, her fingers drifting to the pendant against her sternum. Her eyes flashed open. She pressed herself against the bar until she could reach the medal’s chain and dig it out from under the sweater’s collar. It wasn’t a very elegant gesture, but soon she got the pendant up over her head and wedged the medal’s edge into the screw’s groove, praying it was the right size. It fit. She twisted, as hard as she could. Twice her fingers slipped, skinning her knuckles raw.

But then, at last, the first screw began to turn.

And several curse-filled moments later, it came free.

One down, she thought. Three to go.

Sloan’s voice rose and fell beyond the door.

She jammed the silver disc in the next screw.

A horrible thud, like metal against flesh, bar against bone.

She twisted, slipped, twisted again.

A stifled sob.

“Hold on, August,” she pleaded as the second screw began to turn. “Hold on.”

A drop of blood hit the concrete, viscous and black.

“There’s only one way this ends,” said Sloan, running a nail along the bar’s jagged edge.

August tried to drag in air. The Malchai had struck him across the face, and blood was running from his nose and over the tape across his mouth. He was choking—on blood, on terror—and every time his vision slipped, he thought of Ilsa.

Ilsa standing in front of the window, fingers cracking the glass.

“So many stars.”

Ilsa’s reflection in the mirror, chin resting on his shoulder.

“I watched them all go out.”

Ilsa lying on the floor of the traitor’s cell, singing him to sleep.

“Right before I cut her throat.”

His lungs ached. His vision swam.

Hold on, he begged his body.

And then an electric buzz filled the air, and whatever was holding August up disappeared. The chains went slack, and he crumpled, hitting the ground hard, his wrists still raw and wrapped in chains.

“Sloan,” warned the other Malchai.

August tried to get to his feet, and failed. The warehouse twisted and blurred until it was a bedroom, an alley, a school. Someone was calling a name, his name, and then he was standing in the forest brushing his fingers against the trees and he could hear music, humming, and Kate looked back with a frown and then— Pain exploded against his side, and he crumpled. He tried to roll onto his back, but the concrete was cold and rising over him like water and he was in the bath his fingers curled around the edge and Kate’s over his while the water fell like rain and he was burning burning burning from the inside and the darkness was waiting waiting waiting just beyond the light.

Sloan was towering over him, all shadow save for those vivid red eyes. He raised the bar to strike, but as he brought it down, August’s hands flew up and caught the metal.

Darkness curled up around his fingers like steam.

“Let go, August,” said Sloan, putting his weight behind the bar. Cold wicked along the metal, meeting the heat of August’s touch. His grip tightened, his vision fixed on his fingers, wishing he had the control to slide between the forms like his brother.

Leo could turn a part of himself without losing the whole.

Because there was no whole left.

Nothing human.

Nothing real.

Somewhere beyond the pool of light, metal scraped across the concrete. August squinted and saw that the darkness wasn’t solid after all. Massive objects loomed in the shadows, and a corridor branched off toward the noise, a pair of doors at the very end giving way to the paler dark of night.

“Oslo,” said Sloan, still leaning on the bar above him. “Go see to Kate.”

August’s pulse pounded in his broken chest. Run, he willed her, even now.

The other Malchai turned to go.

“And don’t kill her,” added Sloan.

“Don’t worry,” smirked the monster, “I’ll leave you some of—”

“You’ll leave me all of her,” warned Sloan. His tone was icy and slick, his dead lips tight over his teeth. Heat flared through August’s skin.

“You can end this,” said the monster, his attention back on the bar. And August knew he could, but he also knew that the moment he did, the Malchai would drive the metal down into his chest, and it would tear past what had been flesh, and what would be smoke and shadow, and into his burning heart.

And he would be gone.

Whatever he was made of—stardust or ash or life or death—would be gone.

Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

In with gunfire and out with smoke.

And August wasn’t ready to die.

Even if surviving wasn’t simple, or easy, or fair.

Even if he could never be human.

He wanted the chance to matter.

He wanted to live.

By the time Kate got the last screw free, her hands were shaking, and sweat was running down her face.

She yanked the screw out, grabbed the metal frame, and pulled.

It didn’t move. She swore and wrenched, putting all her weight behind it, but the bar was still stuck. Exhausted, Kate leaned her head against the metal, and felt it slip forward off the base. Her breath caught in surprise, then relief, as she gripped the metal and shoved. The bar ground forward, scraping over the concrete with a screech, and Kate cringed—so much for stealth. She managed to torque the bar enough to get the cuffs beneath, and scrambled to her feet.