Page 1 of The Devil May Care

The fire hummed low in the grate—steady as a heartbeat beneath the stone. Ash drifted in lazy spirals each time the wind pressed against the shutters.

“Mama,” the child whispered, drawing the blanket to her chin, “is it true the Brand has come?”

Her mother stilled. The needle in her hand paused above the mending.

“Where did you hear that?”

“Outside. The bakers were talking. They said the bells mean the Rite’s has come again.”

A faint line formed between the woman’s brows.

“People gossip when the nights grow long. You mustn’t listen.” She tried to smile, but the corners of her mouth rebelled.

“The Rite doesn’t rise without cause. The Asmodeus still rules. May his flame burn eternal.”

“But they said someone’s been marked,” the child insisted. “They said the Flame chose early.”

The mother’s breath caught. She glanced toward the hearth as if the fire might answer. Its light flickered red-gold across her face, softening the worry in her eyes.

“That’s not possible, my emberling. The Flame sleeps until it’s called. It does not wake while a Asmodeus yet lives. He protects all of Crimson.” She reached out and brushed soot from the child’s cheek, her voice turning gentle, wrapped in old lilt that made even sorrow sound like song. “Now hush. Dream of warm fields and bright skies. The world is safe while his fire still burns.”

The child nodded, but the question lingered in her eyes. She knew what she had heard, recognized the worry in the whispered words.

From somewhere beyond the walls, a bell tolled low and heavy enough to rattle the shutters. Another followed, and another, rolling through the night like thunder over stone. The mother rose, sewing forgotten, her hand pressed to her heart.

In the silence between peals, she could hear the Flame breathing—slow, vast, awake.

The Rite was rising, even as the Asmodeus still reigned.

ACT ONE

THE DESCENT

CHAPTER ONE

KAY

Ithink this coffee might be older than that dog on the slide. It’s lukewarm, bitter in a way that suggests betrayal more than bean, and clings to the roof of my mouth like ash. Still, I sip it. Not because it helps, but I don’t know what to do with my hands anymore, and the cup gives me something to do. If I leave now, I won’t get my ongoing ed credit.

On the screen, someone’s blown-up PowerPoint shows a blurry yellow Lab with thinning fur and eyes like boiled eggs. Beneath it, in cheery Comic Sans:

There’s a polite ripple of laughter around the room. My soul whimpers.

I shift in my seat. The plastic chair creaks loud enough to make the woman beside me glance over. I offer her a tight, apologetic smile and go back to pretending I’m taking notes. My pen hasn’t worked in the last hour.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Time isn’t linear in conference rooms—it folds, like bad origami. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll blink andmiss the whole thing end. Open my eyes and find I’m the only one still seated in the shabby folding chairs. Or maybe I’ll blink and end up back in my hotel bed, the whole thing a caffeine-fueled hallucination.

I check my phone just to anchor myself. 3:42 p.m. Fuck me, but this is torture.

I’d thought getting away from work for the weekend would help recharge me. Or at least give me a break from the long hours, the fluorescent lights, the clients who cry when it’s too late or scream when it costs too much. I’d hoped a weekend conference on best practices would help me remember why I decided putting myself through vet school was worth it. I thought maybe I would feel like a person again. But I’m still me. Just in a lanyard. Of course, maybe if I’d spent my long weekend anywhere but working on my continuing ed credits, the plan might have actually worked. But I doubt it.

The presenter’s voice drifts from the stage, nasal and way too enthusiastic for hormone dysfunction.

“Now, when you see this moon-shaped face and pendulous abdomen—”

I tune him out. My brain will not stay in the room. It’s always doing this, slipping sideways, finding cracks in the walls of my concentration, and leaking out. Like even the gelatinous gray matter inside my skull also finds my life too sad, too monotonous, to want to be present. Disassociating, my therapist calls it, but knowing the name doesn’t stop it from happening.

Did I finish uploading patient files before I left? They’re either still precariously perched on the edge of my desk, or have scattered across the floor, knocked by an errant patient. I have another voicemail from my landlord that I haven’t returned. Probably yet another excuse for why he can’t come fix the garbage disposal. Or the flickering light in the bathroom. Or the back left burner on the stove. I put my pen down and shake out my fingers. They seem to carry a constant ache. Probably from holding too many innocent animals determined to fight for their freedom for too many years with too little help.