Page 158 of Stormbreaker

He leans over me, studying my face.

“You should sleep,” he says. “You’re a little wasted.”

“I really am,” I agree. This time, he actually laughs. “I love it when you laugh,” I say, again touching his face. “It’s so rare. Like precious jewels or something. You have such a great smile.”

“So do you, Trouble.” He leans over and presses his lips to my forehead, and my eyes slide closed again. I’m so tired that I’m drifting away.

“I wanted to get drunk,” I mumble.

“Why?”

“Because of what they did. To the Hollows. I wanted to forget, but I can’t forget.”

“The simulation,” he says. My hair rustles against the pillow as I nod.

“Why do they do it? Why be so cruel? What’s the point? What does it prove?”

My words drift off, and Rook is silent for so long that I think he won’t answer.

Or maybe I’ve fallen asleep.

Then I feel his lips against my forehead. Softly, he says, “I think sometimes . . . the cruelty is the only point.”

57

The next day is rough.

I’m not sure how long I sleep before my crusted eyes peel open, and I immediately bolt for the toilet. When I return, I notice someone has left me a glass of water and a bottle of painkillers on the nightstand. My gaze travels to Rook sleeping peacefully in his bed, one arm thrown up over his head and the other resting on his bare stomach.

I attempt to piece together the events of last night, but I’m almost positive I’m still drunk. Skies, going out to party seemed like such a great idea twelve hours ago.

I take some pills and drink the entire glass of water before I disappear under my blanket. For the rest of the morning, I alternate between my bed and kneeling on the bathroom floor, wishing I could die.

Around midday, Rook arrives with some plain toast, fruit, and coffee. I sit up and accept the mug, taking a long sip. It instantly makes me feel more human.

“Thank you,” I moan. “Why are you so perky? You were drinking, too.”

“Clearly, I can handle it better,” he answers with a wink.

“Well, you’ve been way too good to me this morning.”

“Stop that,” he says somewhat tersely as he pulls up my desk chair and sits. “You needed to blow off some steam. We’ve all been there. You deserve to be cared for.”

His voice softens at the end, and his earnestness is so sincere that I almost believe him.

“I appreciate it,” I say.

He nods and rests his elbows on his knees. “Now that you’re feeling better, there’s something you need to see.”

“What?” He hands me his phone, open to a news bulletin.

“There were more murders last night.”

I scan the article. Two dozen people this time, found in the middle of a market square.

“They’re saying it was a Spark Keeper?” I ask. “I thought it was Solitudes?”

“Yeah.” He presses his mouth together. “But the bodies resemble those who died at the hands of Keepers. There’s no reason Solitudes would kill with such reckless violence. Only a tortured mind would be capable of such brutality.”