So she nodded and let him lead her down the hall to the room with the open door.
Unlike her bedroom at Harker Hall, the sterile surfaces she tried to make hers, this place was August to a T, from the precarious stacks of philosophy and astronomy books, to the music player discarded among the tangled sheets, and the violin case propped against the footboard.
Standing in this place, the August in front of her made even less sense. Kate had spent enough time hiding behind her own walls to know a barricade when she saw one.
His sleeves were rolled up, and she gestured to the marks circling his forearm.
“How many days?”
He looked down, hesitating, as if he wasn’t sure. That uncertainty, at least, seemed to bother him. Instead of answering, he reached for the instrument case and turned to leave. “You can have the bed.”
“Where will you sleep?”
“There’s a couch in the living room.”
“So why don’t I sleep there?”
It was a challenge. She knew the answer—she just wanted to see if he would say it. Her eyes went to the doorknob under his hand, the locking mechanism on the other side.
August didn’t take the bait. “Get some rest, Kate.”
She still had a dozen questions—about the FTF, about him, about her own uncertain future—but fatigue was wrapping itself around her, dragging her down. She sank onto the bed. It was softer than she’d expected and smelled of cool linen. August started to close the door.
“One hundred and eighty-four,” she said.
He paused. “What?”
“That’s how many days since I left Verity. The same number since you fell. In case you couldn’t remember.”
August didn’t say anything, only pulled the door shut behind him.
And Kate was left wondering if she was wrong, if August had gone dark since she left.
It would explain the coldness.
But the August she’d known had fought so hard to hold on.
Kate heard the lock click and rolled her eyes but didn’t get up. If she’d traded one cell for another, at least this one had a bed. There were no mirrors, and for that small mercy, she was thankful.
Her bag was sitting at the foot of the bed, and Kate rummaged through it, turning out its contents on the bed. She knew what she would find—her weapons were gone. Confiscated. So was her tablet.
Frustration prickled through her—but it wasn’t like she would get a signal, and even if she could write to the Wardens, to Riley, what would she say?
Alive for now. Hope you are, too?
Kate fell back on the bed and tried to find calm, surrounded by the familiar scent of August and the unfamiliar room, by the strange bed and the light beneath the door and the thoughts spinning through her head.
Where are you? she asked herself, and the answer came rushing up: She was on Riley’s couch, splitting a pizza, while the TV droned on and she told him about the shadow in her head, about Rick and the green, about the Fangs, and Soro, the race through the red, and the concrete room, and Riley listened and nodded; but before he could answer, he dissolved, giving way to August, his cold gaze and his voice echoing through her head: You should never have come back.
And Kate lay there in the dark, wondering, for the first time, if maybe he was right.
August stared down at the tallies on his skin.
One hundred and eighty-four.
All this time, Kate had been counting.
When had he stopped?
Things change.
He returned to the kitchen, trying to clear his head.
I’ve changed with them.
He tapped his comm. “Command, this is Alpha.”
Three short beats of silence. “Alpha.” Phillip’s voice was uncertain. “Logs show you’re off tonight.”
“Since when do monsters take nights off?” said August. “Find me a job.”
“I can’t do that.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been grounded.”
Henry.
The tension in his chest grew. “Let me speak to him.”
“He’s overseeing a convoy from the southern Waste.”
“Patch me through.”
There was a short sequence of beeps, and then Henry’s voice. “August?”
“Since when am I grounded?”
“You already have a task. When I get back, you can tell me what you learned. In the meantime, Kate Harker is in your custody.”
“Kate is asleep,” countered August, temper rising.
“And when is the last time you slept?”
August took a deep breath. “I’m not—”
“Consider it an order.”
“Henry—”
But he could tell by the static, the man was gone.
August slammed his fist on the counter, igniting a brief spark of pain, there and then gone. He slid his hands through his hair. Maybe Henry was right. He was tired, in a bone-deep way. He shoved off the counter and crossed into the living room, leaving the lights off as he sank onto the couch. If he listened, he could hear Kate moving beyond the bedroom door, rolling over on his bed. Six months, and she was still made of restless limbs and shallow breaths.
Why did you come back?
He tried to focus instead on the patter of Allegro’s steps somewhere in Ilsa’s room, the distant sound of movement from the floors below. He closed his eyes and felt his body sinking deeper into the cushions, but the quieter the room became, the louder Kate’s voice in his head.
What happened to you?
The look on her face when he forced the truth from her, that horrible mixture of betrayal and disgust.
That isn’t me, he wanted to say.
Yes it is, insisted Leo.
What happened to you? demanded Kate.
You were weak, said his brother.
What happened to you?
Now you are strong.
What happened to you?
He forced himself up, slinging the violin case over his shoulder. He didn’t need a mission. There was plenty of trouble waiting in the dark.
The doors to the private elevator stood open, and he stepped in, punching the button for the lobby. The doors slid shut, and he was met with a rippling reflection, distorted steel twisting his features, erasing everything but the broadest planes of his face.
He waited for the feeling of slow descent, but the elevator didn’t move. He punched the lobby again. Still nothing. He hit the button to make the doors open. They didn’t.
August sighed and looked up, straight into the surveillance lens mounted in the corner, even though he knew looking straight at it would blur the feed.
“Ilsa,” he said evenly. “Let me go.”
The elevator didn’t move.
“I have a job to do.”
Nothing.
He’d never thought of himself as claustrophobic, but the elevator walls were starting to feel close.
“Please,” he said tightly. “Let me go. I won’t stay out long but I need . . .” He faltered. What was the truth? What did he need? To move? To think? To hunt? To reap? To kill? How was he supposed to find the words to tell his sister that he couldn’t stand to sit still, to be alone with the voices in his head, with himself.
“I need this,” he said at last, voice tight with frustration.
Nothing.
“Ilsa?”
After a few long seconds, the elevator started down.