This Savage Song Read Online Free

not sending him behind enemy lines.”
    â€œYou’ve been given an opportunity. I simply suggest you use it. . . .”
    â€œThe risk—”
    â€œIs not that great, as long as he’s careful. And the advantage—”
    August was sick of being talked about as if he weren’t there, as if he couldn’t hear , so he shoved to his feet, upsetting a tower of books on his way past. He was too late—the conversation was over by the time he opened his door. Leo was gone, and his father was reaching out, as if about to knock.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” he asked.
    Henry didn’t try to hold back the truth. “You were right,” he said. “You deserve the chance to help. And I think I’ve found a way.”
    August broke into a smile.
    â€œWhatever it is,” he said, “I’m in.”

This was not what August had in mind.
    The schoolbag sagged open on the bed, spilling supplies—and the uniform was way too tight. Emily claimed that was the style, but August felt like the clothes were trying to strangle him. The Flynn Task Force outfits were flexible, designed for combat, but the Colton Academy uniform was stiff, suffocating. His shirtsleeves came to rest just above his wrist bones, and the lowest of the black tallies on his forearm—now four hundred and eighteen—showed every time he crooked his elbow. August growled and tugged the fabric down again. He ran a comb through his hair, which didn’t really stop the black curls from falling into his pale eyes, but at least he tried.
    He straightened and found his gaze in the mirror, but his expression stared back with a vacancy that made him shudder. On Leo, the expressionless planes of his face registered as confidence. On Ilsa, the evenness read asserenity. But August just looked lost . He’d studied Henry and Emily and everyone else he came across, from the FTF cadets to the sinners, tried to memorize the way their features lit up with excitement, twisted with anger or guilt. He spent hours in front of the mirror, trying to master the nuances and re-create those faces, while Leo looked on with his flat black stare.
    â€œYou’re wasting your time,” his brother would say.
    But Leo was wrong; those hours were going to pay off. August blinked—another natural act that felt unnatural, affected—managed a tiny, thoughtful crease between his brows, and recited the words he’d practiced.
    â€œMy name is—Freddie Gallagher.” There was a slight hitch before the F , as the words scratched his throat. It wasn’t a lie, not really—it was a borrowed name, just like August . He didn’t have one of his own. Henry had chosen the name August and now August chose the name Freddie, and they both belonged to him, just as neither did. That’s what he told himself, over and over and over until he believed it, because truth wasn’t the same thing as fact. It was personal. He swallowed, tried the second line, the one meant only for him. “I am not a . . .”
    But his throat closed up. The words got stuck.
    I am not a monster , that’s what he wanted to say, but he couldn’t. He hadn’t found a way to make it true.
    â€œDon’t you look handsome,” came a voice from the door.
    August’s gaze traveled up a fraction in the mirror to see his sister, Ilsa, leaning in the doorway, wearing the barest hint of a smile. She was older than August, but she looked like a doll, her long, strawberry-blond hair pulled up in its usual messy nest, and her large blue eyes feverish, as if she hadn’t slept (she rarely did).
    â€œHandsome,” she said, pushing off the door, “but not happy.” Ilsa padded forward into the room, her bare feet moving effortlessly around the books, though she never looked down. “You should be happy, little brother. Isn’t this what you wanted?”
    Was it? August had always imagined himself in FTF