Page 38
The word drops into the middle of my skull. Dry. Clear. Not in my voice.
I flinch.
"What?" Gage says.
"Nothing." My pulse trips over itself. I stare at Sid. He yawns, pink and bored, and starts washing a paw.
Right. Thirty-one hours awake, haunted mirrors, a voice at my door. If my brain wants to hand me insults in a stranger's voice, that's the sleep deprivation. Talking cats are where I draw the line.
Probably.
"I need something stronger than pizza," I mutter.
"I brought beer."
"No getting me drunk."
His whole face changes. The dry amusement drops off it like a mask hitting the floor.
"I wouldn't."
Not clipped. Not teasing. Flat and certain and heavier than the joke deserves.
"I know," I say, quieter. "I was just kidding."
He nods once but doesn't loosen an inch. I file it with everything else about him I can't explain yet.
We take the beer to the couch. I put on a monster movie, since apparently my real life doesn't contain enough of them. Gage takes the far cushion and leaves a foot of space he clearly thinks is honorable.
Twenty minutes in, I catch it.
He's eating candy corn.
I pause the movie.
Gage stops chewing.
"No," I say.
"What?"
"You like candy corn."
He looks at the little pile in his enormous hand like it's turned on him. "So?"
"You look like you settle disputes with an axe."
"Don't own an axe."
"And your Halloween candy is the one candy every human being agrees is the worst?"
"Didn't say favorite."
"You're on your third handful, Corbett."
He sets it down with the wounded dignity of a man caught. "This doesn't leave the room."
"I'm telling the whole town."
