Deathstalker 08 - Deathstalker Coda

shouldn’t have to live like this.”
    “It’s the Rookery,” said Stuart. “They do things differently here. They always have.”
    “Not like this. It’s never been as bad as this.”
    They watched as the growing crowd squabbled over the dead bodies’ few remaining possessions. By nightfall the bodies would be gone too, and it was wise not to ask where.
    “Like rats in a graveyard,” said Douglas.
    “Even rats have to eat,” said Stuart.
    Douglas sniffed loudly. Stuart looked at him. He’d been trying to help the disturbed, brooding Douglas ever since they’d come to the Rookery, but the man who had once been King, and lost everyone and everything he ever believed in, didn’t want to be helped. This was the most Stuart had heard Douglas speak in days—probably because he seemed to come alive only when he was fighting. And even then, the Campbell fought with precision rather than passion. Stuart kept trying to draw him out, but Douglas seemed unwilling or incapable of thinking about the future. As though just getting through each day was hard enough. The man who had once been King now seemed tired all the time, physically and spiritually. He was drawing further and further inside himself, despite everything Stuart or Nina could do to help.
    “Things shouldn’t have to be this way,” Douglas said again, and Stuart was surprised and pleased to hear some honest emotion in the Campbell’s voice. “We ought to be doing . . . something, to help these people. We took an oath as Paragons, to protect the people. Remember?”
    “Yes,” said Stuart. “I remember. I wasn’t sure you did.”

    Some hours later their relief arrived to take over, and Douglas and Stuart went inside for their only meal of the day. Their replacements were just ordinary muscle for hire from the local hiring house. No one special; the house just sent over whoever was available. The two bruisers nodded respectfully to Douglas and Stuart as they disappeared inside the hotel. The lobby wasn’t up to much—paint-peeling walls, sawdust on the floor, and no chairs. Nothing to encourage anyone to linger. Just a battered old reception desk, where the staff were protected from the customers by a heavy metal grille. There was an elevator at the back, but its operation was a sometime thing, and did not inspire confidence. Douglas and Stuart climbed the five flights of stairs to their single shared room. They didn’t disturb the handful of ragged forms who’d paid to be allowed to sleep in the stairwells.
    Nina Malapert was already there in their room, laying the food on the table, which was a bad sign. She was only ever back this early when her day’s work had gone really badly. The way she bashed the battered crockery about was confirmation enough without the frustration evident in her scowling face. She nodded briefly at the two men as they sat wearily down at the table. It wasn’t a big room, and with the table unfolded it took up most of the available space. Dinner was boiling on a hot plate set perilously close to the only bed. (Douglas and Stuart shared the bed. Nina had made a nest of blankets for herself in one corner.) There was only one window, smeared with the debris of years.
    Douglas and Stuart took off their leather masks and dropped them on the table beside their plates. Their faces felt hot and sweaty from the leather, despite the early evening chill that had worked its way into the room. Douglas Campbell was still a handsome man, with his noble brow and great mane of golden hair, but more than ever he looked like a wounded lion brought down by jackals; a great man brought low by too many losses and the unbearable weight of unrelinquished responsibilities. Stuart Lennox looked much older than his years warranted. A stern young man with a drawn, almost gaunt face, his gaze was always a little distracted, and he rarely smiled anymore. And even Nina Malapert was no longer the happy, bubbling, free spirit of old. The demon girl reporter who laughed at danger and would dare anything for a scoop wasn’t exactly gone, just suppressed by the weight of life in the Rookery, but it did seem she didn’t smile nearly as much as she once had. Her tall pink mohawk bobbed angrily as she ladled out the meal.
    Douglas watched Nina bustle about, and tried hard to feel . . . something. It was difficult for him to feel anything much, anymore. His family was dead, his friends were gone, his responsibilities taken from him. He felt lost