Page 21 of Storm Caller

Never wondered.

The Tiera Frais.

An entire world right outside our door.

Why did I never really wonder?

How did The Shield so thoroughly convince me and everyone else that New Manhattan was the only thing left?

More importantly, why did we all believe it?

And if they lied about this, what other secrets are they keeping?

“Rook, what’s the matter?” I ask, sensing tension radiating off him in waves.

“I’ll be punished for killing the Whisper,” he says, soft enough for only me to hear.

“He was about to kill me,” I say. “You had no choice.”

“It doesn’t matter. I deserve to be punished.”

“What will they do to you?” I ask, suddenly terrified that I’ll be left out here all on my own.

He takes so long to reply that my heart races, all sense of fatigue vanishing.

“Whatever they do to me, Poet—”

He pauses. Inhales deeply.

“Rook, what—”

He shakes his head. “Let’s not talk about this now. I’ll be fine. You need to sleep. Tomorrow will be bad enough.”

6

The next morning, the sun warms our tent, light beating against the canvas. It might feel nice if I’d gotten an ounce of sleep. They called an all-clear sometime in the night, and we headed back to our beds, where I stared up at the canvas until dawn.

I hear the soft chatter of people in the distance, soothing some lonely place inside of me.

This is a community. A place for people to belong.

I think of Rook’s whispered words in the hallway last night. The Veil is battling a war with The Shield and New Manhattan. What exactly did he mean by that? Is this why everyone here seems to hate me so much? He called himself a Storm Caller—called us Storm Callers. He knows what we are, and he withheld that from me, too.

A noise has me flipping over to find Rook sitting on the edge of his mattress, his feet on the floor, his hands clasped and elbows resting on his knees, his eyes on me. He’s wearing his jeans and a fresh long-sleeved shirt that stretches very nicely over his chest and shoulders.

“Were you just watching me sleep?” I joke.

He smirks. “No. Of course not.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to wake up.”

“While you were watching me sleep.”

“There isn’t much to look at in here,” he answers, spreading out his arms.

“Weirdo,” I say, and he laughs. It’s a bright, sparkling sound that makes my heart feel way too big for my chest. Then I remember that I’m supposed to be mad at him. I look away, annoyed at myself because it’s too easy to be happy around him. I have no idea how to get rid of this feeling. Maybe I don’t want to.