Salem tilted his head at me like a bird trying to puzzle out whether the crumb in front of it was bread or poison. His eyes narrowed, then widened, and then, suddenly, he burst into laughter so loud and sharp it melded into the air.
The sound was obscene in its joy, completely at odds with the pounding of fists and the hurling of spells just outside.
I stood still as stone, my arms crossed. My silence seemed to feed his hysteria rather than starve it. His laugh rolled like thunder, loud, proud, and maddening, until it finally sputtered out into little hiccups of disbelief. He wiped a tear from his eye, lips still twitching.
"Wait," he asked, his tone dripping disbelief, "you're serious?"
I nodded once. "Yes."
And saints, the look he gave me—oh, that look. A cocktail of incredulity, glee, and the faint suspicion that I had finally snapped completely. But for once, I refused to retreat beneath my usual veil of jokes.
