My gaze goes immediately to the bed when a reply doesn’t come. The sheets are disturbed, but no Slipstream. I scan the rest of the space and spot him sitting at the desk with his back to me.
With relief leaving my lungs, I continue speaking. “I know I’m the last person you want to see right now, but we really need to talk. They just airlifted Viper out of the camp. He’s been stabbed. If the struggle hadn’t woken me, I don’t think he would have made it.” I bow my head and scratch the back despite my bloody fingers. “Please hear me out. The killer is still out there, and you’re next on the list. Will you not fight me on this and just leave the race? I know participating this year is important to you, but it’s not worth it if you die at the hands of some psycho. So please, for your sake, leave. I won’t be able to take it if something happened to you.”
I pause for the coming tirade. For the words of hate. For the disgust at my insane request. None of the top five would voluntarily leave right in the middle of the Impulse Cup. I’d take the head off anyone who had the balls to suggest to me what I’m asking Slipstream to do. But nothing comes. Not even an exasperated sigh.
I look up to find Slip hasn’t moved from his position on the chair. “Slip?” I take a step closer. My brain must be full of cotton because I don’t process what’s happening. All I know is I keep moving forward. “Slip, did you hear me?”
When I’m close enough, I touch his shoulder, and his body slumps to the side at the weight of my hand. His arm slips from his lap to dangle to the ground. I catch him before he falls over completely. But there’s no use.
“Slip?” My voice shakes as badly as my legs did earlier. “Slipstream?” I move around. Facing him fully, I’m greeted by his glazed eyes, blue lips, ashen pallor, and emaciated body. He’s naked. A deep gash runs from one side of his throat to the other. Like my shirt, blood covers his front. Across his stomach is the word Hunger.
“Slip?” I’m shaking all over as tears flood my eyes. “No…. No, no, no…. No!” Hugging his expressionless face to my chest, I throw my head back and scream.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I FIND myself in a semicatatonic state, staring at nothing while sitting on a chair in the far corner of the command central tent. My screams attracted just about everyone in camp, but the one who managed to pry Slipstream from my grasp was Ace. He talked me down from my hysteria. Everything is a blur after that. I don’t even know how I got to the tent where the last of the drivers in the top ten and some of the organizers gathered. They’re all on a video call with Brody. He can’t fly out here because he’s waiting for Viper to regain consciousness. The guy landed in the ICU, still in critical condition but stable.
The Impulse Cup is officially on hold. I have no strength to fight the decision. If I’d listened the morning I woke up with Chicane’s body in my bed, maybe things wouldn’t have escalated the way they did. Maybe Slipstream would still be alive. Instead I had to be selfish and insist the IC push through, that I had to race despite the danger the killer posed. I didn’t care about the threat to me. I wasn’t thinking about the threat to the people I cared about. Now Slipstream is gone, and it’s my fault.
Something in me breaks. Like physically tears apart. Broken to pieces without hope of putting back together. A hollowness so deep forms. To fall in means never getting out. At one point, I see Bedlam kneel in front of me. Despite the bandages covering his face obscuring his expression, the concern in his eye is obvious. He speaks. The ringing in my ears doesn’t allow me to hear him properly. My clothes cling to my skin, saturated with blood from two people—one I considered my brother. I failed him.
I don’t realize I’ve spoken this thought aloud until Bedlam takes my face in his hands and leans in until his forehead touches mine. He whispers something about the situation not being my fault. I’d scoff if I was mentally capable. All this is precisely because some psycho out there wants to punish me for something by killing those around me. My competition. People I respect. Carving sick words on their bodies.
You ever get so pissed you retreat into yourself? That’s what I’m going through. All I want is to lash out. Find the bastard and make him pay. Instead I’m stuck inside myself. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe I’m less destructive in my retreat.
Someone behind Bedlam says something. He pulls back and looks over his shoulder. A discussion without my participation is held. Then Bedlam pushes to his feet and moves out of the way for Star to take his place. She bends until her hands are on her knees and her face is inches from mine. It’s like she’s looking into a mirror when she tilts her head to the side. She runs her hand over my matted hair, stroking the sticky strands. Her magenta lips move. She’s saying something. I don’t hear her either. I’m too out of it. Maybe one of the site doctors gave me something. A sedative maybe. I don’t know.
Then Star takes my hand and tugs. As if of their own will, my legs unfold and I’m on my feet. I wobble from side to side a moment before my instincts kick in and I regain my
