She only laughed. Everyone laughed so easily here. “You still need to get your identification card,” she said. “Go next door, and hand them the top page in your folder. They’ll take care of you.” She hesitated, looked like she was about to say something more, something personal. He backed away before she could.
Next door, a short line spilled out of a door marked ID REGISTRATION. August watched as a student at the front of the line handed the man behind the counter his paper, then stepped in front of a pale green backdrop. He grinned, and an instant later a flash went off. August cringed. Another student repeated the process. And another. He backed away.
The rest of the students seemed to be heading for a large pair of doors at the other end of the lobby, so he followed them, and found himself at the mouth of an auditorium. There was some unspoken system, a natural order that everyone else seemed to understand. They filed toward their seats, and August hung back, trying not to interrupt the flow of traffic.
“What year?” asked a woman’s voice. He turned to find a teacher in a skirt holding a stack of folders.
“Junior,” he said.
She nodded. “You’re sitting down front, on the left.”
The auditorium was filling with bodies and noise as he found a seat, and the sheer quantity of both left him dizzy, dazed. All around him, hundreds of voices talked over and under and through one another, layering like music, but the cadence was all wrong, less like classical than jazz, and when he tried to pick the threads apart he wasn’t left with chords, just syllables and laughter and sounds that made no sense. And then, mercifully, it quieted, and he looked up to see a man in a crisp blue suit striding across the stage.
“Hello,” he said, tapping the mic on the podium. “I’m Mr. Dean, and I’m the Head of School here at Colton. I want to welcome our freshmen to a new school, and our returning students to a fresh year. You might not have noticed that we have several new students joining our ranks. And because Colton is a community, I’m going to ask them to stand when I call their names, so that you can make a point of making them feel welcome here.”
August’s stomach dropped.
“We have two new sophomores. Marjorie Tan . . .” A girl got to her feet a dozen rows behind him, blushing deeply under the collective gaze. She immediately started to sit down again but the headmaster waved his hand. “Please stay standing,” he insisted. “Now, Ellis Casterfeld?”
A lanky boy got to his feet, and waved at the room.
“Juniors, we have one student joining your ranks.” August’s heart pounded. “Mr. Frederick Gallagher.” August exhaled, relieved not to hear his name. And then he remembered that Frederick was his name. He swallowed, and stood. The juniors to every side shifted in their seats to get a better look at him. His face went hot, and for the first time August wished he could be less real. Maybe even disappear.
And then the headmaster said her name, and in a way he did.
“And finally, a new senior, Miss Katherine Harker.”
The auditorium went silent, everyone else was forgotten as, near the front, a girl rose to her feet. Every head in the room turned toward her.
Katherine Harker.
The only child of Callum Harker, the “governor” of North City, a man known for collecting monsters like weapons, and the reason August had been sent to Colton.
He thought back to the conversation he’d had with Henry and Leo.
“I don’t understand. You want me to . . . go to school? With her?” His nose crinkled at the thought. Harker was the enemy. A murderer. Katherine was a mystery, but if she was anything like her father . . . “And do what exactly?”
“Follow her,” said Leo.
“Colton’s too small. She’ll notice me.”
“You won’t be you,” said Leo. “And we want her to notice. We want you to get close.”
“Not too close,” cut in Henry. “We just want you to keep an eye on her. In case we need leverage. . . .”
“It’s the same reason her people are looking for you,” explained Leo. “When this truce breaks—”
“If the truce breaks—” said Henry.
“She might come in handy.”
“We don’t know anything about her,” said August.
“She’s Harker’s daughter. If he cares about anyone, it’s her.”
August stared at the girl in the front row. Katherine looked like her father: slim and sharp and full of angles. Her hair was different from the photo he’d seen. Still blond, but shoulder length, stock-straight, and parted so it covered half her face. Most of the Colton girls had opted for skirts with their polos, but she was wearing slim-cut slacks, her hands hooked casually in her pockets. All around August, people began to whisper. And then Katherine, who had been looking forward with a cool, empty gaze, turned and looked over her shoulder.
At him.