This Savage Song

I mean, most people want to escape. Get out of their heads. Out of their lives. Stories are the easiest way to do that.

The beautiful thing about books was that anyone could open them.

It was a cruel trick of the universe, thought August, that he only felt human after doing something monstrous.

Monsters, monsters, big and small, "They're gonna come and eat you all. Corsai, Corsai, tooth and claw, Shadow and bone will eat you raw. Malchai, Malchai, sharp and sly, Smile and bite and drink you dry. Sunai, Sunai, eyes like coal, Sing you a song and steal your soul. Monsters, monsters, big and small, They're gonna come and eat you all!

You wanted to feel alive, right? It doesn't matter if you're monster or human. Living hurts.

He wasn't made of flesh and bone, or starlight. He was made of darkness.

She cracked a smile. "So what's your poison?" He sighed dramatically, and let the truth tumble off his tongue. "Life." "Ah," she said ruefully. "That'll kill you.

We are the darkest acts made light.

Nobody gets to stay the same.

He could be the monster if it kept others human.

Why did everyone have to ruin the quiet by asking questions? The truth was a disastrous thing.

People are users. It’s a universal truth. Use them, or they’ll use you.

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.

But the teacher had been right about one thing: violence breeds. Someone pulls a trigger, sets off a bomb, drives a bus full of tourists off a bridge, and what's left in the wake isn't just she'll casings, wreckage, bodies. There's something else. Something bad. An aftermath. A recoil. A reaction to all that anger and pain and death.

Not with a bang, but with a whimper. In with gunfire and out with smoke.

It hurts,” he whispered. “What does?” asked Kate. “Being. Not being. Giving in. Holding out. No matter what I do, it hurts.” Kate tipped her head back against the tub. “That’s life, August,” she said. “You wanted to feel alive, right? It doesn’t matter if you’re monster or human. Living hurts.

Sing you a song and steal your soul.

Even if surviving wasn't simple, or easy, or fair. Even if he could never be human. He wanted the chance to matter. He wanted to live.

I'd rather be able to see the truth than live a lie.

It was a cycle of whimpers and bangs, gruesome beginnings and bloody ends.

Whatever he was made of — stardust or ash or life or death — would be gone. Not with a bang, but with a whimper. In with gunfire and out with smoke. And August wasn’t ready to die. Even if surviving wasn’t simple, or easy, or fair. Even if he could never be human. He wanted the chance to matter. He wanted to live.

Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights,” she said, shimmying along the edge. “Not heights,” he murmured. “Just falling.

Why are there so many shadows in the world, Kate? Shouldn’t there be just as much light?

There are no monsters in the dark.

Listen to me,” he said, pulling off his coat. “You need to stay awake.” She almost laughed, a shallow chuckle cut short by pain. He tore the lining from the Colton jacket. “What’s so funny?” “You’re a really shitty monster, August Flynn.

He shrugged, and for a second they stood there, sizing each other up, the moment stretching, the gaze growing uncomfortable until his gray eyes finally broke free, escaping to the ground. Kate smiled, victorious. She gestured to the patch of pavement, the border of grass. “What brings you to my office?” He looked around, confused, as if he’d actually intruded. Then he looked up and said, “The view.” Kate flashed a crooked grin. “Oh really?” His face went red. “I didn’t mean you,” he said quickly. “I was talking about the trees.” “Wow,” she said dryly. “Thanks. How am I supposed to compete with pine and oak?” “I don’t know,” said Freddie, cocking his head. Stray dog again. “They’re pretty great.

I am Sunai,” he said. “I am holy fire. And if I have to burn the world to cleanse it, so help me, I will.

The witching hour, people used to call it, that dark time when restless spirits reached for freedom.

There would be a time to call the music. Time to summon the souls.