August cringed; the overhead lights were too bright, the scraping of chairs too sharp. Everything was heightened, like the volume on his life was turned up but not in an exciting way. Noises were too loud and smells too strong and pain—which he did feel—too sharp. But worse than the senses were the emotions. Agitation and anger burned under his skin and in his head. Every comment and every thought felt like a spark on dry wood.

The table was set. Two plates had food on them; the other three were garnished only by napkins. This was ridiculous. It was a waste of time. Why were they even trying to pretend like—

“Sit by me,” said Ilsa, patting the seat to her left.

August sank into the chair, fists clenched. He could feel Leo’s gaze on him, heavy as stone, but it was Henry who spoke.

“So, did you see her?”

“Of course I saw her,” said August.

“And?” pressed Emily.

“And she looks like a girl. She doesn’t exactly exude murderous kingpin.” Sure, she tried to, but there was something about the performance that rang false. Like it was a piece of clothing. His own clothing felt too tight. August closed his eyes, a bead of sweat sliding down his back. He felt like he was made of embers, someone blowing faintly on the—

“Anything else?”

They were both looking at him so expectantly. August tried to focus. “Well, I think I might have . . . accidentally . . . made a friend.”

Ilsa smiled. Leo raised a brow. Henry and Emily exchanged glances. “August,” said Henry slowly. “That’s great. Just be careful.”

“I am being careful,” he snapped. He could hear the annoyance in his voice, but he couldn’t calm down any more than he could cool off. “You wanted me to blend in. Wouldn’t I stand out more for not making friends?”

“I’m all for you making acquaintances, August,” said Henry evenly, “but don’t get too close.”

“You think I don’t know that?” The anger rose in him, too fast. “Do you really think I’m that stupid? Just because you’ve kept me cooped up in this place for four years, you think I don’t have any common sense? What am I going to do, Dad? Invite them over for dinner?” He shoved up from the table.

“August,” pleaded Ilsa.

He heard his parents push up from their chairs as he fled the room, but it was Leo who followed him into the hallway.

“When’s the last time you ate?” he demanded.

When August hesitated, Leo came at him. He cringed back, away, but his brother was too large, too fast, and he only made it half a step before Leo pinned him against the wall. He took August’s chin in his hand and wrenched his face up, black eyes boring down into his. “When?”

Leo’s influence bled through his voice and his touch at the same time, and the answer forced its way out. “A few days ago.”

“Dammit, August,” said Leo, stepping back.

“What?” he challenged, rubbing his jaw. “You go a week, sometimes more. And Ilsa doesn’t even seem to need it. Why should I—”

“Because you do. This is a foolish, futile pursuit. You have a fire in you, little brother. You should embrace its heat instead of trying to dampen it.”

“I don’t want—”

“This isn’t about what you want,” cut in Leo. “You cannot build up resistance by starving yourself. You know what will happen if you don’t eat. All those precious little tallies will go away and you’ll have to start again.” But that wasn’t what August was afraid of, and Leo knew it. It wasn’t about losing the marks. It was about what he’d lose with them. What Leo had already lost. “How many are you up to now, little brother?”

August swallowed. “Four hundred and eighteen.”

“Four hundred and eighteen days,” echoed Leo. “That’s impressive. But you can’t have it both ways. You feed or you go dark. How many died last time you fell? Eight?”

The number clawed its way up August’s throat. “Nine,” he whispered.

“Nine,” repeated his brother. “Nine innocent lives. All because you refused to eat.” August wrapped his arms around his ribs. “What do you want?” chided Leo. “To be ordinary? To be human?” He said the word as if it stained his tongue.

“Better human than a monster,” he muttered.

Leo’s jaw tightened. “Take heed, little brother,” he said. “Do not lump us in with those base creatures. We are not Corsai, swarming like insects. We are not Malchai, feeding like beasts. Sunai are justice. Sunai are balance. Sunai are—”

“Self-righteous and prone to speaking in third person?” cut in August before he could stop himself.

Leo’s black eyes narrowed, but his calm did not waver. It never wavered. He pulled out his cell and dialed. Someone answered. “Tell Harris and Phillip to take a walk,” he said, then hung up. He drew a folded piece of paper from his pocket and pressed it into August’s hand. “Go eat before you lose more than your temper.” Leo wrapped his fingers around the base of August’s neck and pulled him close. “Pretend it’s chicken,” he said softly. “Pretend you’re normal. Pretend whatever you like, little brother. It does not change what you are.”

And with that Leo let go and returned to his place at the table.

August didn’t follow. He stayed in the hall until his heart settled, and then he went to find his violin.

By the time Harker’s office door finally opened, the sun had gone down, the last echoes of light streaked violently across the sky. Kate was still sitting at the kitchen counter, less out of academic diligence—her homework was done—than a stubborn determination to be there when her father emerged. He’d been avoiding her all week, ever since the black transport had deposited her in the hours before dawn.

That first good-bye—when she was five and the city was tearing itself apart, and Harker was bundling them into a car, and she was sobbing because she didn’t want to go—he’d taken her chin in his hand and said, “My daughter does not cry.”

And she’d stopped, right then and there. But when she came back after the truce, the first words he said to her were, “Make me proud,” and somehow, then, she’d let him down. Now Kate was here again, and this time she wouldn’t fail.