This Savage Song by Victoria Schwab Page B

all, or none—and somehow, Harker had bent them to his will. Apparently he’d lured them down into the underground, and cut the lights, but what happened next was storymade legend. Some said it was his fearlessness that had cowed them. Some said he’d rigged the sprinklers with liquid metal, and when the Corsai had finally recovered days—weeks—later, they bowed to him.
    Harker’s Malchai stood closer to the action, skeletal arms crossed over their dark clothes and eyes burning like embers in their gaunt faces. Most looked male, a few vaguely female, but none of them remotely human. They seemed to radiate cold, leeching all the heat from the air (Kate shivered, remembering Sloan’s icy grip), and each and every one of them bore the same brand—an H on their left cheekbone. Nearby, a Corsai got too close to one and it hissed, flashing row after row of jagged teeth. Men and women dotted the crowd, thugs with hardened bodies and scarred cheeks, their very presence a show of strength—but next to them, the Malchai looked far more monster than human.
    The only things missing from Harker’s collection were Sunai. Those rare creatures—the darkest things to crawl out of the Phenomenon—had aligned themselves with Flynn down in South City. Some said the Sunai refused to be controlled; while others said they refused only to be controlled by Harker . Either way, Harker’s were many and Flynn’s were few, and their absence didn’t make a dent. Everywhere Kate looked, the basement was brimming with monsters, every setof eyes—white, red, or ordinary—focused on the platform, and the pool of light, and the man standing at its center.
    Callum Harker had the kind of face that cast shadows.
    His eyes were deep-set and blue—not light blue or sky blue or gray blue, but dark, cobalt blue, the kind that looked black at night—paired with an aquiline nose and a severe jaw. Tattoos—bold tribal patterns—snaked out from under his collar and cuffs, black ink trailing onto the backs of his hands and tracing up his neck, the sweep and curl ending just below his hairline. Harker’s hair was the only part of him that didn’t fit. It was fair, a warm, sun-kissed blond, like Kate’s, that swept across his forehead and trailed along his cheeks. That one feature made him look like a “Cal.” But only Kate’s mother, Alice, had called him that. To everyone else, he was Sir. Governor. Boss. Even Kate thought of him as Harker, though she made an effort to call him Dad. The way his face twisted—discomfort? disdain? dismay?—was its own kind of victory.
    Harker wasn’t alone up on the platform; a man was on his hands and knees before him, begging for his life.
    â€œPlease, please,” he said in a shuddering voice. “I’ll find the money. I swear.”
    Two Malchai hovered at the man’s back, and when Harker motioned, they wrenched the man to his feet.Their nails sunk into his skin and he let out a stifled cry as Harker reached forward, and took hold of the metal pendant that hung from the man’s neck.
    â€œYou can’t,” he pleaded. “I’ll find the money.”
    â€œToo late.” Harker tore the pendant free.
    â€œNo!” cried the man as one of the Malchai holding him yawned wide, revealing rows of jagged teeth. He was about to sink those teeth into the man’s throat when Harker shook his head.
    â€œWait.”
    The man let out a sob of relief, but Kate held her breath. She knew her father, watched as he considered the medal and then the man.
    â€œGive him a head start,” he said, tossing the medal aside. “Five minutes.”
    The monsters let go, and the man crumpled to the floor, clutched at Harker’s legs. “Please,” he cried. “Please. You can’t do this! ”
    Harker looked down coldly. “You’d better start running, Peter.”
    The man