Is this what it was like to be human?
And then he looked down at the man’s corpse, and a quiet sadness crept through him like a chill. Suddenly normal felt so far away. It was a cruel trick of the universe, thought August, that he felt human only after doing something monstrous. Which made him wonder if that brief glimpse of humanity was really just an illusion, an echo of the life he’d taken. An impostor sensation.
Leo’s voice came to him, simple and steady.
This is what you do. What you are.
Ilsa’s rose to meet it.
Find the good in it.
August took a deep breath, and returned the violin to its case. He might not be human, but he was alive. The hunger was gone. The fever had broken, his skin was cool, and his head was clear again. He’d bought himself a few more days. A few more tallies. And he’d delivered justice. He’d made the world a little better, or at least, prevented it from getting worse. That was his purpose. That was his point.
Someone would come for the body.
He was about to leave when he heard a quiet shuffle from the corner of the room. A box toppled sideways, a can rolled across the floor, and August glanced back but saw nothing. And then, from the shadow beneath an old chair, a pair of glowing eyes.
August tensed, but realized, as the thing crept forward, that it wasn’t a monster.
It was a cat. All black, except for a tuft of white above a pair of bright green eyes. It navigated the cluttered room with feline grace, then came to a stop several feet away. August stared at the creature. The creature stared back. He glanced at the remains of the cat’s owner on the floor. The cat did the same.
“I’m sorry,” he said aloud.
He’d seen animals go primal against monsters (it usually didn’t end well for the animal) but the cat didn’t hiss or attack. It padded around the body and then brushed up against August’s leg. He shifted the violin case onto his shoulder and cautiously knelt to pet it, and to his surprise, the cat purred against his hand. He didn’t know what to do. He got to his feet and opened the far window onto the fire escape.
“Go on,” he said, but the cat only looked at him. It wasn’t a fool. There weren’t many animals running loose in the city. The Corsai made sure of that.
Reluctantly, August made his way to the front door. This time, the cat followed.
“Stay,” he whispered.
He squeezed out into the hall, shutting the door before the cat could follow. He started to walk away, but heard the cat crying on the other side, scratching to get free. August paused, hoping the sound would stop, but the plaintive meow continued, and after a long moment, he sighed and turned back.
Harris was standing on the curb, leaning against one of the half-working streetlights and humming faintly to himself.
Monsters, monsters, big and small.
He trailed off when he saw August coming. “Hey.”
“Hey,” echoed August.
“What’s with the cat?” asked Harris.
August had stashed the creature inside his FTF jacket; its head was sticking out the top. “I couldn’t just leave it,” he said. “Not after . . .” His gaze went back to the building.
Harris shrugged. “Suit yourself. But just so you know, that’s not what I meant when I said you should expand your parameters.”
August let out a tired laugh.
“Home?”
August nodded. “Home.” He looked up, wishing they could see stars, then heard the sound of Phillip’s boots jogging over.
“We good?”
“All done,” said Harris.
“Then we need to go,” said Phillip. “Just caught word on the comm of a flare-up near the Seam.”
“Should we go help?” asked August, straightening.
“No,” said Phillip, eyes flicking to the cat in August’s coat. He didn’t even ask. “We need to get you back.”
August started to protest, but it was no use. Phillip and Harris had their orders—they’d drag him back to the compound if they had to—so August zipped the jacket up over the cat and fell into step between them.
Henry was in the kitchen when August got home, a blueprint rolled out across the counter, a comm device buzzing in his hand. Leo’s voice crackled on the other end.
“Under control . . .”
Henry lifted the comm to his mouth. “Casualties?”
“Two . . . can’t ignore . . . signs . . .”
“Return home.”
“Henry—”
“Not now.” Henry flipped the switch and tossed the comm aside. He ran a hand through his hair, which was graying at the temples.
August scuffed his shoe, and Henry’s head snapped up. For an instant, his face was a tangle of surprise and anger, frustration and fear. But then his features went smooth, the shadows pushed back under the surface.
“Hey,” he said. “Feeling better?”
“Much,” said August, heading toward his room.
“Then why is your stomach moving?”
August dragged to a stop and looked down at his FTF jacket, which was indeed beginning to shift and twist. “Oh,” he said. “That.”