This Savage Song by Victoria Schwab Page B

trick,” he said, lifting a bony hand to the air beside her head. “I know how to listen.”
    He snapped his fingers next to her bad ear. Kate went for the gun, but Sloan got there first. “Uh-uh,” he warned, waving it side to side. “Play nice.”
    Kate held up her hands, and took a step back. “Who knows,” said Sloan, twirling the weapon. “If you behave, maybe Harker will finally claim you, too.”

August felt like hell.
    Every one of his four hundred and eighteen tally marks was humming faintly by the time he slumped into the subway seat and closed his eyes. His pulse pounded in his head along with the steady, distant sound of gunshots. He tried not to think about it, but it was like trying not to scratch an itch.
    â€œHow could you?” snapped a woman across the aisle. She was standing over a man reading a tablet. When he didn’t look up she slammed her hand down on the screen. “ Look at me .”
    â€œDammit, Leslie.”
    â€œI work with her!”
    â€œDo you really want to do this right now?” he growled. “Fine, let’s make a scorecard.”
    â€œYou are such an ass.”
    â€œThere was Eric, and Harry, and Joe, but are wecounting the ones who didn’t want you—”
    She slapped him, hard—the sound was a crack in the subway car, a bang in August’s skull. Heads turned toward the fight. He swallowed hard. His influence was spreading, radiating off of him like heat. Two seats down, a man began to sob. “It’s all my fault, all my fault, I never meant to do it. . . .”
    â€œYou really are a bitch .”
    â€œIt wasn’t worth it.”
    â€œI should have left.”
    â€œIt’s all my fault.”
    The noise in the subway car grew louder, and August gripped the seat, knuckles white, and counted the stops until the Seam.
    â€œYou okay?” asked Paris when he reached her apartment. She had that extra sense, the one that knew when things weren’t right.
    â€œI’m alive,” he said, swapping the blazer back for his FTF jacket.
    She reached out, brought a hand to his cheek. “You’re warm.”
    His bones were heating up, his skin stretched too tight over them. “I know.”
    The cellar downstairs felt blissfully cool and dark, and part of him just wanted to lie down on the damp floor and close his eyes, but he kept going, through thetunnel and into the building on the other side, up, and out, and four blocks south through the broken streets to home. In the elevator he found his reflection, and did his best to smooth his hair, compose his features. He looked peaked, but otherwise, the sickness wasn’t showing yet.
    Henry was waiting for him in the Tower. “August?” he chided. “You were supposed to text when you left school.”
    â€œSorry,” he mumbled.
    â€œAre you okay?”
    God, he hated that question.
    â€œI’ll be fine,” he managed. It wasn’t a lie. He would be fine, eventually.
    â€œYou don’t look fine,” challenged Henry.
    â€œLong day,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
    Henry sighed. “Well, perk up. Emily’s making a nice dinner tonight to celebrate your first day.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous,” he said. “Three of us don’t even eat.”
    â€œHumor her.”
    August rubbed his eyes. “I’m going to take a shower.”
    He left the lights off in the bathroom, peeling the uniform away in the dark. The water came on cold, but he didn’t turn it up. He stepped in, and gasped as it hit his bare skin, shivering under the icy stream. He stayed until his bones stopped hurting, until the cold loosened the fire in his chest and he didn’t feel like hewas swallowing smoke with every breath. He leaned his forehead against the shower wall. You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.
    By the time he got out of the shower, the sun had gone