Page 94 of The SnowFang Storm

“You are very shaken,” Sterling said, standing close.

I stared at the floor. “What are the symptoms of City Sickness?”

Just had to get it out before I lost my nerve.

He paused, then said, “The first symptom is you look up and see the buildings swaying like tree branches, which is very odd, because they do sway a bit in high winds. But then they start to bend down, and perhaps like they’re going to fall. Then you feel the ground tilting. Then the walls are too close, and you need to run. You just want to run, and run, and run. It gets worse from there, I’m told.”

“Have you had it?”

“I got as far as running my feet bloody before my parents realized it wasn’t just me being a rowdy boy who had never been in a big city before.”

I still hadn’t let go of the doorknob. I held tight to it for some dumb reason. City Sickness. A disease that rotted the minds of ferals who couldn’t cope with living in the city. I’d been having symptoms since the day I’d gotten here.

Now I couldn’t even trust my own mind.

I couldn’t trust my own skin.

I closed my eyes.

“Winter, is there something else going on?”

Fuck, why did he have to sound so damn kind? Sterling’s voice wasn’t one that did kindness, and to hear him being kind cracked my soul.

“I…” I had to choke out the words. I had to do it because it was the responsible thing to do. Tears squeezed out of my eyes, and my bruised one pulsed painfully, and my aching jaw trembled and my cracked hand hurt so much holding onto that stupid doorknob.

Everything. He didn’t let you have anything he couldn’t take away from you. Sterling’s voice rattled around in my empty soul. And now I didn’t even have myself.

“Winter.” He tried to touch me.

I flinched. I had to get this out. “I almost shifted during sparring. I need MoonDark.”

I almost threw up.

Words I never thought I’d ever have to say.

I broke down into sobs.

And I hated myself even more for that.

And here I was, assuming Sterling even knew where to get some. Nobody here was taking it. But his mother took it, so she probably had a supplier. Unless she made it herself. I knew how to make it. It’d be a crude formulation that would come with all sorts of side effects, but it’d work until I could get something less… awful.

He didn’t say anything at first. Then he reached behind me and pried my hands—gently—off the door knob and held me—also gently—against him. He smelled of things I couldn’t identify. Tenderness, maybe. Fear. Anger.

“You’re angry,” I said.

“Yes.”

That was better than his pity.

He breathed out and released me, gently pushed me aside, and opened the door.

I followed him to the kitchen.

Cye was kneading some sourdough for a slow overnight rise.

“Go grouse at Jun about those cookies for ten minutes,” Sterling told him.

Cye glanced at me, then at Sterling, and nodded, leaving his dough behind.

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