Our Dark Duet (Monsters of Verity, #2)

by Victoria Schwab

Because she knew a secret: there were two kinds of monsters, the kind that hunted the streets and the kind that lived in your head. She could fight the first, but the second was more dangerous. It was always, always, always a step ahead. It didn’t have teeth or claws, didn’t feed on flesh or blood or hearts. It simply reminded you of what happened when you let people in.

“Sight is an important thing, August. Without it, our minds invent, and the things they invent are almost always worse than the truth. It’s important that they see us. See you. It’s important that they know you’re on their side.”

Soro comes for the bad, but Ilsa comes for the sorry.” They ran a full lap before Kate spoke again. “What about August?” Colin panted. “What about him?” “Well, if Soro reaps the bad and Ilsa reaps the sorry, who does August reap?” Mony snorted. “Everyone else.”

“I know it hurts,” she said. “So make it worth the pain.” “How?” “By not letting go,” she said softly. “By holding on, to anger, or hope, or whatever it is that keeps you fighting.” You, he thought. And for once, a word felt simple, because Kate was the one who kept him fighting, who looked at him and saw him, and saw through him at the same time, and who never let go.

Our sister has two sides, Leo had said. They never meet. August had always imagined Ilsa’s true form as the opposite of her human one, cruel where she was kind, but as he stared into the Sunai’s black eyes, all he saw was his sister.

And as he watched, the smoke withdrew and her wings burned away, horns returning to red curls. But her skin, which should have been smooth and starless, was cracking. Dark lines like deep fissures started on her hands and spread, up her arms and over her shoulders and across her face. Ilsa looked up at August, and he saw the sadness in his sister’s eyes right before she broke apart and shattered on the floor.

People were messy. They were defined not only by what they’d done, but by what they would have done, under different circumstances, molded as much by their regrets as their actions, choices they stood by and those they wished they could undo. Of course, there was no going back—time only moved forward—but people could change. For worse. And for better.

It wasn’t easy. The world was complicated. Life was hard. And so often, living hurt. So make it worth the pain.