“I’ve considered it,” she said, but she didn’t fire, and then she felt a weight on the gun, and looked down to see Sloan’s hand resting casually on the weapon’s barrel. She hadn’t even seen him move. That was the way with Malchai, slow until they struck.

Sloan clicked his tongue against his sharp teeth. “My dear Kate,” he said. “I’m not your enemy.”

His fingers slid forward, brushing hers, cold and slick, almost reptilian, and she jerked away, surrendering the gun. He set it on the counter between them. “No problems today, I assume.”

Kate gestured to herself. “Home in one piece.”

“And the school?” As if he cared.

“Still standing.” The temperature in the kitchen was falling, as if Sloan were sucking all the heat out of the room. Kate crossed her arms. “You’re up early.”

“A vampire joke. How original.” He never cracked a smile, but Sloan had her father’s dry humor. Only the Corsai were truly nocturnal, allergic to the light of day. The Malchai drank blood and drew their strength from the night, but they weren’t vampires, didn’t shrink away from crosses, wouldn’t catch fire in the sun. A piece of pure metal through the heart, though, that would still take them down.

Kate watched Sloan eye the stack of medallions on the counter and recoil ever so slightly before he turned toward the floor-to-ceiling windows and the thinning light.

She had a theory about Sloan, that he wasn’t just Harker’s servant, but his Malchai. The product of some awful crime, an aftermath, just like those Corsai in the clip she’d watched. Something that slithered out of Harker’s wake. But who had he killed to gain a creature like Sloan? And how long had the Malchai been there, at her father’s side when Kate wasn’t? The question made her want to put a silver bullet through the monster’s eye.

Her gaze flicked to the brand on the Malchai’s cheek. “Tell me something, Sloan.”

“Hmm?”

“What did you do to become my father’s favorite pet?” The Malchai’s face stiffened, as if freezing into place. “Have you learned any tricks since I left? Can you sit? Lie down? Play fetch?”

“I only have one trick,” he said, lifting a bony hand to the air beside her head. “I know how to listen.”

He snapped his fingers next to her bad ear. Kate went for the gun, but Sloan got there first. “Uh-uh,” he warned, waving it side to side. “Play nice.”

Kate held up her hands, and took a step back. “Who knows,” said Sloan, twirling the weapon. “If you behave, maybe Harker will finally claim you, too.”

August felt like hell.

Every one of his four hundred and eighteen tally marks was humming faintly by the time he slumped into the subway seat and closed his eyes. His pulse pounded in his head along with the steady, distant sound of gunshots. He tried not to think about it, but it was like trying not to scratch an itch.

“How could you?” snapped a woman across the aisle. She was standing over a man reading a tablet. When he didn’t look up she slammed her hand down on the screen. “Look at me.”

“Dammit, Leslie.”

“I work with her!”

“Do you really want to do this right now?” he growled. “Fine, let’s make a scorecard.”

“You are such an ass.”

“There was Eric, and Harry, and Joe, but are we counting the ones who didn’t want you—”

She slapped him, hard—the sound was a crack in the subway car, a bang in August’s skull. Heads turned toward the fight. He swallowed hard. His influence was spreading, radiating off of him like heat. Two seats down, a man began to sob. “It’s all my fault, all my fault, I never meant to do it. . . .”

“You really are a bitch.”

“It wasn’t worth it.”

“I should have left.”

“It’s all my fault.”

The noise in the subway car grew louder, and August gripped the seat, knuckles white, and counted the stops until the Seam.

“You okay?” asked Paris when he reached her apartment. She had that extra sense, the one that knew when things weren’t right.

“I’m alive,” he said, swapping the blazer back for his FTF jacket.

She reached out, brought a hand to his cheek. “You’re warm.”

His bones were heating up, his skin stretched too tight over them. “I know.”

The cellar downstairs felt blissfully cool and dark, and part of him just wanted to lie down on the damp floor and close his eyes, but he kept going, through the tunnel and into the building on the other side, up, and out, and four blocks south through the broken streets to home. In the elevator he found his reflection, and did his best to smooth his hair, compose his features. He looked peaked, but otherwise, the sickness wasn’t showing yet.

Henry was waiting for him in the Tower. “August?” he chided. “You were supposed to text when you left school.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Are you okay?”

God, he hated that question.

“I’ll be fine,” he managed. It wasn’t a lie. He would be fine, eventually.

“You don’t look fine,” challenged Henry.

“Long day,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

Henry sighed. “Well, perk up. Emily’s making a nice dinner tonight to celebrate your first day.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Three of us don’t even eat.”

“Humor her.”

August rubbed his eyes. “I’m going to take a shower.”

He left the lights off in the bathroom, peeling the uniform away in the dark. The water came on cold, but he didn’t turn it up. He stepped in, and gasped as it hit his bare skin, shivering under the icy stream. He stayed until his bones stopped hurting, until the cold loosened the fire in his chest and he didn’t feel like he was swallowing smoke with every breath. He leaned his forehead against the shower wall. You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.

By the time he got out of the shower, the sun had gone down.

Everyone was waiting for him in the kitchen.

“There he is,” said Emily, wrapping him in a hug. “We were starting to worry.” His skin was still cool from the shower, so she didn’t notice the fever. Still, he pulled free and made his way to the table.