The Fiery Heart by Richelle Mead

beside me. With a shaking breath, I closed my eyes and willed the image away. She wasn’t here. Shadow-kissed people could actually see the dead. Crazy people only imagined them.
    I ate my pizza standing at the counter, telling myself over and over that this mood would pass. I knew it would. It always did. But oh, how the waiting sucked.
    When I finished, I returned to the living room and stared at the paintings. What had seemed wonderful and inspired now seemed shallow and stupid. They embarrassed me. I gathered them all up and tossed them into a corner on top of one another, not caring about the torn canvas or wet paint.
    Then I hit the liquor cabinet.
    I’d made good progress on a bottle of tequila, sprawled on my bed and listening to Pink Floyd, when the bedroom door opened a couple hours later. I smiled when I saw Sydney. I was adrift on the buzz of tequila, which had effectively muted spirit and taken the edge off that terrible, terrible low. That wasn’t to say I was bright and peppy either, but I no longer wanted to crawl into a hole. I’d defeated spirit, and seeing Sydney’s beautiful face lifted me up even more.
    She smiled back and then, in one sharp glance, assessed the situation. The smile vanished. “Oh, Adrian” was all she said.
    I held up the bottle. “It’s Cinco de Mayo somewhere, Sage.”
    Her eyes made a quick sweep of the room. “Is Hopper celebrating with you?”
    â€œHopper? Why would—” My mouth snapped shut for a few moments. “Oh. I, uh, kind of forgot about him.”
    â€œI know. Maude sent a message by way of Ms. Terwilliger asking if someone was going to come for him.”
    â€œCrap.” After everything that had happened with Rowena, my dragon fosterling had been the last thing on my mind. “I’m sorry, Sage. Totally slipped my mind. I’m sure he’s fine, though. It’s not like he’s a real kid. And like I said, he’s probably loving it.”
    But her expression didn’t change, except to grow graver. She walked over and took the tequila from me, then carried it to the window. Too late, I realized what she was doing. She opened the window and dumped the rest of the bottle outside. I sat up with a jolt.
    â€œThat’s expensive stuff!”
    She shut the window and turned to face me. That look drew me up short. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t sad. It was . . . disappointed.
    â€œYou promised me, Adrian. A social drink isn’t a problem. Self-medicating is.”
    â€œHow do you know it was self-medicating?” I asked, though I didn’t contradict her.
    â€œBecause I know you, and I know the signs. Also, I sometimes check up on your bottles. You made a big dent in this one tonight—much more than a social drink.” I nearly pointed out that technically, she was the one who’d made a big dent in it.
    â€œI couldn’t help it,” I said, knowing how lame that sounded. It was as bad as Angeline’s “it’s not my fault” mantra. “Not after what happened.”
    Sydney put the empty bottle on the dresser and then sat beside me on the bed. “Tell me.”
    I explained about Rowena and her hand and how the rest of the day’s events had unfolded. It was difficult staying on track with the story because I kept wanting to meander and make excuses. I left out the part about despairing over birthday gifts. When I finally finished, Sydney gently rested her hand on my cheek.
    â€œOh, Adrian,” she said again, and this time, her voice was sad.
    I rested my hand over hers. “What was I supposed to do?” I whispered. “It was like Jill all over again. Well—not quite as bad. But there she was. She needed me, and I could help—then when she noticed, I had to make sure she forgot. What else was I supposed to do? Should I have let her break her hand?”
    Sydney drew me into her arms and was silent for a long