“I don’t . . . want . . . to be this.”
She let out an exasperated sound. Why couldn’t he have eaten? Why couldn’t he have told her? Her fingers found the key and she straightened, shoved it into the lock, and turned. It was such a small gesture, but the muscle memory was overpowering. The door swung open. She knew the place would look abandoned, but the sight still caught her off guard. The stale air, the surfaces covered in dust, the tendrils of weed creeping up through the wooden floorboards. She almost called out for her mom—the urge was sudden and painful—but caught herself, and helped August inside.
Her feet carried her through the front room. She found the generator box in the kitchen, flipped the switches the way she had a hundred times, the gestures simple, automatic. She didn’t wait for the lights to hum on but went straight for the bathroom with its warm blue-and-white tiles, its porcelain tub.
She snapped the shower on, praying the rain tanks still worked. There was a groaning sound in the pipes, and moments later, water began to rain down, rust red at first, but then cold and crystal clear.
August was there behind her, swaying on his feet. He set the violin case down, managed to get off his jacket and shoes before stumbling forward, catching himself on the lip of the tub. Kate went to steady him, but he threw out a hand in warning. The tallies were burning up his arm and back, singeing through his shirt. He dragged it off, and she saw four hundred and twenty-three white-hot lines blazing across his skin.
She didn’t know what to do.
“Go.” The word was a whisper, a plea.
“I’m not leav—”
“Please.” His voice was shaking, heat rippling his hair like a breeze, and when he looked over his shoulder at her, the bones of his face were glowing white hot, while his eyes were turning darker, black pressing in on the flames. She took a step back, and August climbed into the shower half dressed, gasping as the cold water struck his skin and turned to steam.
She turned toward the bathroom door and heard a voice through the hiss and crackle of the shower, little more than a breath, but still somehow audible. “Thank you.”
Kate’s hand was throbbing as she ran it under the kitchen tap. It looked like she’d put it on a stove. It felt that way, too. All she’d done was take August’s hand and not let go.
Anger, madness, joy . . . I don’t want to keep going.
That’s what he’d said in the woods.
Whatever he was going through now wasn’t joy. How long had he been suffering? She’d noticed the temper, when the car broke down, but he’d managed to keep most of the madness to himself. The joy he couldn’t. And now . . . the sound of his pained voice clawed inside her head.
I don’t want to disappear.
She set the bloodstained spikes in the sink, cut the tap, and wove back through the house. The bathroom was clouded with steam, but August was no longer standing in the shower, and she panicked until she noticed his mop of dark hair cresting the wall of the tub.
I can’t keep going toward the edge.
His eyes were closed, his head tipped back, his body dangerously still beneath the shower’s stream as the water rose over his hips.
Don’t let me fall.
“August?” she said quietly.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Kate forced herself forward, holding her breath until August gave a small shudder. She exhaled, relieved by the subtle motion. His teeth were clenched, his eyes squeezed shut against the fire.
She watched as he took a breath, and went under.
He didn’t come back up.
His bones had stopped glowing, easing the skeletal effect that made her think of Malchai, of monsters. Beneath the water, August looked so . . . human. A teenage boy, his long limbs folded up and his black curls floating around his face. She counted the seconds, watching the last of the breath leave his lips, wondering if she’d need to pull him out.
And then, at last, he surfaced.
He gripped the rim of the tub and dragged himself up, water streaming into his eyes. They were no longer on fire, but they hadn’t returned to pale gray, either. They were darker, the color of charcoal, set too deep in his hollowing face.
Kate knelt and curled her fingers over his. His hand tensed beneath hers, but his skin had cooled enough to touch, and he didn’t pull away. “Kate,” he murmured, his vision sliding in and out of focus.
“I’m here,” she said. “Where are you?”
August closed his eyes, took a long breath. “Lying on my bed,” he whispered. “Listening to music while my cat chews on the corner of a book.”
Kate almost laughed. It was such an ordinary answer. His hand was getting hot again, so she let her fingers slide from his and sank back against the tub wall. Behind her, the shower almost sounded like rain, and she dug the silver medallion from beneath her collar, rubbing a thumb absently over the surface.
“Your house,” said August tiredly, and she couldn’t tell if it was a question.