She hesitated in the open door, one foot in the car, one still on the ground. August produced a slip of paper he’d taken from Harker’s desk, the corner tinged with blood. On it, he’d written the number for the FTF. The codes to access Henry’s private line, since he didn’t have his own. “If you ever need help,” he said. She said nothing, but took the paper and tucked it in her pocket.
“Be careful, Kate. Stay”—he was going to say safe, but he changed his mind—“alive.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Any advice on how to do that?”
August tried to smile. “The same way I stay human. One day at a time.”
“You’re not human,” she said. But the words had no venom. She started to climb in, but he reached out and folded his fingers over hers on the car door. She didn’t pull away. Neither did he. It was only a moment, but it mattered. He could tell, even through the haze.
August’s hand fell away, and Kate pulled the door shut, rapping her nails on the open window. He took a step back, put his hands in his pockets. “Good luck, Kate Harker.”
“Good-bye, August Flynn.”
He watched the car pull away. And then he walked out of the garage and onto the street, toward the Seam, and South City, and home.
They saw him coming.
Word must have gone up from the moment he stepped into the compound, or maybe Paris had even called when he came through, because Henry and Emily Flynn were waiting when the elevator doors opened. Before he could say anything, they were there, pulling him into something more desperate than a hug. August sank against their grip and told them everything.
About Kate.
About Sloan.
About Leo.
He told them about Colton.
About running.
About leaving Ilsa.
About the Malchai.
And his brother’s treason.
And his death.
He confessed, and when he was done, he sank to his knees, and Henry sank with him, and the two sat there on the hall floor, foreheads pressed together.
There’d been a fight, Henry told him, after August’s call, and Leo had left, abandoned the Flynns and their mission for his own. They couldn’t stop him.
August had.
“I thought I’d lost you,” said his father.
You did, he wanted to say, but there was more of him left than there was lost, so he said, “I’m here. And I’m so sorry about Leo. About Ilsa.”
“She’ll be all right,” said Emily, touching August’s shoulder.
His head snapped up. “What?”
August felt himself choking on the hope of the words, and then the fear that he’d misheard. “But Sloan—”
Henry nodded. “It was a close thing, August. She got away, but . . . well, she got away. That’s what matters.”
“Where?” But he was already on his feet and heading past them, toward her bedroom.
He pushed the door open, and there she was, standing at the window with her strawberry curls, watching the sun sink over the city, Allegro watching from the bed. She was wearing a thin-strapped shirt, and even from the doorway, he could see her skin was bare, the thousands of stars that had once turned her back into a sky now gone.
“Ilsa,” he said, breathless with relief.
And then she turned toward him, and August tensed—a vicious red line sliced across her throat. Sloan had told the truth, if not the whole truth.
He didn’t know how the Malchai had gotten away with his life, but he was glad Leo had put a pole through the monster’s back.
Despite the injury, Ilsa’s face lit up when she saw him. She didn’t speak, only held out a hand and he crossed the room and pulled her into a hug. She still smelled like mint.
“I thought you were gone,” he whispered. Still nothing. He pulled away to look her in the eyes. He didn’t know how to tell her about Leo. Ilsa had been the first Sunai and Leo the second, and Leo might not have loved her—or anyone—but she loved him.
“Our brother—” he started, but she brought her fingers to his lips.
Somehow, she already knew.
“I’m scared,” he whispered against her hand. “I lost myself.” And it was more than that, of course. He’d taken in the soul of another Sunai. Even now, it burned through him like a star. “I don’t think it all came back.”
She shook her head sadly, as if to say it never does.
Her lips parted, as if she wanted to speak. Nothing came out, but her eyes, those bright blue eyes, were full of words, and he knew what she would say.
Nobody gets to stay the same.
She turned back to the window, and looked out toward the city, and the Seam. Her fingers drifted to the still-cracked glass, and against the dark she drew a star, and then another, and another. August wrapped his arms around his sister’s shoulders and watched her fill the sky.
ELEGY
Kate drove west.
Through the red, and yellow, and green of the city, through the Waste and the towns beyond. The car reached the border before the sun, and she handed the man the papers, and waited while he looked from page to her and back again—she’d pried off the photo of a smiling child from the upper corner, glued one of her school pictures from Wild Prior or St. Agnes, she couldn’t remember which. Most of the details lined up, but according to the papers, she was Katherine Torrell. It was her mother’s maiden name.