“Mr. Osinger?” he called now, stepping into the cluttered apartment. His violin case caught on a teetering stack of papers, and sent them sprawling in his wake. Across the room, Albert Osinger was fighting his way up a narrow set of stairs so crammed with junk he almost couldn’t pass. August didn’t bother trying to follow. Instead he shrugged the case from his shoulder, and clicked it open. He withdrew the violin with practiced ease, and nestled it under his chin, his fingers finding their positions.

He exhaled, brought the bow to the strings, and drew the first note.

The moment August began to play, everything eased. The headache loosened and the fever calmed, the tension went out of his limbs and the sound of gunshots in his head—which had become a constant static—finally ceased as the melody slid out and twined through the room. The music wasn’t loud, but August knew it would reach its target. Beyond the chords he could hear Osinger’s footsteps overhead drag to a stop, and then reverse, no longer frantic but slow and even. August played on as Osinger descended the stairs in measured steps, the music reeling him in.

The song dipped and rose and spiraled away, and he could picture the people scattered through the building, their bodies dragging to a halt as they heard, their souls rising to the surface, most of them bright but untouchable. August’s eyes were still closed, but he could feel Osinger in the room with him now; he didn’t want to stop playing just yet, wanted to finish the song—he never got a chance to finish—but the sickness was still rolling through him, so he let the melody trail off, the sound dying on the bow as he raised his head. Albert Osinger stood in front of him. His shadow had gone still, and his soul shone like a light beneath his skin.

It was stained red.

August lowered the violin. He set it on a chair as Osinger looked at him, eyes wide and empty. And then the man spoke.

“The first time it happened, I was broke,” he confessed quietly. “I was high. I’d never held a gun before.” The words spilled out, unhindered, and August let them. “I just wanted the cash. I don’t even remember shooting them. Now the second time . . . ,” the man smiled grimly. “Well, I knew what I was doing, down to the number of bullets. I kept my eyes open when I pulled the trigger, but I still shook like a baby after.” The smile spread, sickening in the red light. “The third time—that was the charm. You know what they say: It gets easier. Living doesn’t, but killing does. I’d do it again. Maybe I will.”

When he was done, he fell silent. Waiting.

Leo probably made some speech, but August never said anything. He simply closed the gap between them, stepping over and around the clutter, and pressed his hand to Osinger’s collar, where his half-buttoned shirt split open, giving way to weathered flesh. The instant August’s fingers met the man’s bright skin, the red light flooded forward. Osinger’s mouth opened and August gasped, catching the man’s breath as the energy surged into him, cooling his body and feeding his starved veins. It was blood and air, water and life. August drank it in, and for a moment, all he felt was relief.

Peace.

A glorious, enveloping sense of calm. Of balance.

And then the light was gone.

August’s arm fell back to his side, and Albert Osinger’s body crumpled, lifeless, to the floor. A shell. A husk with no light, no shadow, its eyes burned to black.

August stood very still as the man’s energy rolled through him. It didn’t feel electric, didn’t leave him high with power. If anything, it simply made him feel . . . real. The anger and the sickness and the strain were gone, washed away, and August simply felt whole.

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.