“It was right after the chaos started,” he said. “Not even weeks, days. Days of confusion and terror. They didn’t even know yet what was going on, but something got inside that place, and the people who managed to get away all went to the basement. They huddled down, just trying to stay alive. Barricaded the doors. But someone decided that if they were going out, it wasn’t going to be at a monster’s hand. That someone brought a homemade bomb into that basement with them and lit the fuse.” August shook his head. “No wonder my sister broke apart.”
“And you?” asked Kate. “Your brother is righteous, your sister is scattered. What does that make you?”
When August answered, the word was small, almost too quiet to hear. “Lost.” He exhaled, and it seemed to take more than air out of him. “I’m what happens when a kid is so afraid of the world he lives in that he escapes the only way he knows how. Violently.”
Silence, so heavy it hurt.
August leaned his head against the window, and the glass began to fog with steam. A bead of sweat ran down his cheek, and Kate reached to turn on the air, when the car made a sound.
It wasn’t the kind of sound a car should make.
August straightened.
The engine stuttered.
“What was that?” he asked.
The car began to rapidly lose speed.
“Oh no,” she said.
And then it died.
A light on the dash was blinking. The high beams were still on.
The rest of the car was dead.
“Shit,” muttered Kate.
“Kate,” ground August through his teeth. “What’s wrong with the car?”
“It’s out of gas,” she said, already swinging open the door. She was digging in the trunk by the time he got out and joined her.
The night was cool but it wasn’t enough to dampen the fever. “You couldn’t have picked one with a full tank?”
“I’m sorry, I was a little busy trying not to die.” Something like a groan escaped his throat. “It’s fine,” she said, producing an HUV flashlight.
“How is this fine?” he growled, anger burning through his chest, flaring with every breath.
“We’ll find a ride,” said Kate, keeping her voice even, as if the calm would help.
August wheeled on her. “Do you see a ride?”
“What the hell’s gotten into you?” she shot back.
August opened his mouth to say “nothing” but he couldn’t, and the urge to shout was fighting with the urge to hit something, so he turned and walked away, trying with every step to steady his breathing, calm his heart, knowing that panic would only spread the sickness faster.
His feet carried him down the line of light at the edge of the road. He wasn’t going anywhere really, just moving.
Mind over body.
He knotted his fingers in his hair and stared out into the dark. They were in the middle of nowhere. The light from V-City was nothing but a ghost against the distant clouds, and the night around them black as pitch. They’d passed some kind of fortress a few miles back. It hadn’t looked welcoming. In the distance somewhere, gunfire echoed like far-off thunder, and he didn’t know if it was real or just the phantoms in his head.
Hunger plucked at his muscles and sang through his bones, and it felt like something was trying to claw its way out.
He should have eaten the man back in the garage—would have, if he’d had the chance—but to his dismay, the human hadn’t been a killer. Of all Harker’s men, what were the odds of Sloan sending an innocent? Did the Malchai know Sunai could only feed on sinners? Or was it just bad luck?
After several deep breaths, August had the anger under control. He turned back to the car and saw Kate leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed carefully over her ribs, clearly fighting back the cold. August couldn’t feel it, not through the fever.
“Here,” said August, setting the violin case on the ground and shrugging off his jacket.
“Keep it,” she said, but he was already settling it around her shoulders. He could see her relax beneath the added warmth.
His hand lingered a moment on her good shoulder. Something about the contact—simple, solid—made him feel steadier. He started to pull away, but Kate caught his fingers. Her eyes were dark, and the way her lips were parted, he could tell she wanted to say something, but when she spoke, all she said was, “Your hand is hot.”
August swallowed, and pulled free as gently as possible as something flickered across the sky above Kate’s head. He looked up, and the air caught in his throat. It was a clear night, and the sky was filled with dots of light.
Kate followed his gaze. “What?” she drawled. “You’ve never seen stars before?”
“No,” he said softly. “Not like this.” The sky was on fire. He wondered if Ilsa had ever seen stars—not the black icons across her skin, but the real things, which were so strange and perfect. One streaked across the sky, trailing light.
“I read somewhere,” said Kate, “that people are made of stardust.”
He dragged his eyes from the sky. “Really?”
“Maybe that’s what you’re made of. Just like us.”
And despite everything, August smiled.
It was such a hard-won smile, but it was worth it.
And then, all of a sudden, it was gone, and August shuddered, bracing himself against the car. Something like a chill went through him, a tremor that seemed to run from his limbs to his core.
Her hands hovered in the air around him, helpless. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ll . . . I’ll be okay,” he said.