Page 10 of The Devil May Care

“It won’t.”

“If it does—”

“Then the Flame is wrong.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Weighted with loss. With knowing. People have lost everything for the same claim.

I turn to leave.

“Watch her carefully,” Solonar says. “She may surprise you.”

“So did the last one.”

And this time, I do not look back.

CHAPTER THREE

KAY

My feet hurt.

Which is strange, honestly. Shouldn’t I not feel things if I’m dreaming? Or dead? Or whatever brand of unreality this is? Because this cannot be real. I know I sound like a broken record, but my mind circles the thought like a pride of lions circling an injured antelope. Maybe I’ll wake up in my hotel room, George yowling for breakfast, and laugh at how for even I moment I thought this was anything other than hallucinations caused by a TBI. It’s the only thing that seems logical, true. This place is not real.

I’ve been walking—staggering, really—across cracked red rock and ankle-twisting gravel for what feels like hours, but the sky hasn’t changed. No sun, no moon, no stars. Just a constant, hazy bleed of crimson light and black cloud-smeared horizon. Every once in a while, the wind kicks up and sends tiny flecks of something sharp against my cheeks. I don’t bleed, but I flinch. So that’s helpful. I can feel pain, apparently. Awesome. Seems about right for Hell.

No signs of life. No trees other than the twisted, blackened boughs I passed ages back. No water. Just rock, dust, and the occasional dead-looking tumbleweed made of long, stiff needles that would absolutely slice me open if I so much as breathed on them wrong.

If this is the fae realm, someone screwed up the staging. All signs point to Hell.

I always thought if I got magically abducted, there’d be flowers.Singing. Enchanted forests. Maybe a dark prince with a tragic backstory and an alarming number of rings. None of it trustworthy—I’m not an idiot—but still, tempting in it’s beauty, comfort. Instead, I get Mars. With less charm.

I stop to rest on a chunk of black stone that could either be a natural ledge or the shoulder blade of some long-dead beast. Hard to say. I stretch out one leg and roll my ankle with a wince. The ache is real enough. The blisters are starting to whisper threats. My lips are cracked. My head is pounding.

“Maybe a coma,” I mutter. “Those are supposed to be unpleasant, right? Sand hallucinations, time dilation, existential dread.”

My voice sounds weird here. A little too sharp, like it cuts through the air and bounces back, distorted. Wherever this is, the laws of physics aren’t working quite right. I pull off my shoe and shake out a rock. My sock is stiff with dust. Great. One more day of this and I’ll have trench foot and chapped everything.

I press a thumb into the center of my palm. Hard. Just to see. It stings, but I don’t wake up. I stretch out my aching neck as I look around. No obvious shelter in sight. No food. No water. And no options either. I know enough from watching survival shows that I can go three days without water. A little longer if I just lie down and give up, but that does not sound appealing. And food? Eh. That’s optional.

I should’ve grabbed that granola bar from the seminar table. But of course, I didn’t. And to be fair, the moment I sat down I was so bored I wanted to melt into the carpet. And if I had taken any kind of snack, I would’ve eaten it immediately just to give my mouth something to do.

Honestly? This might be better than the conference. At least it’s not forgettable.

I adjust the hem of my hoodie and scan the horizon again. Still red. Still endless. Still not a damn clue where I am. Will time move differently here? If I were to trip over one of the glowing rock things, would I wake back up on the elevator floor? Would I find myself in a hospital bed only to learn years had passed? Would I blink out of existence?

George is going to be so pissed.

He’s probably sitting on the back of the couch right now, staring at the door, waiting for me to get home and refill his treat bowl. My coworker promised to check in on him while I was gone, but if I don’tshow up after the weekend, someone’s going to have to break it to him. He’ll adapt. He’s a cat. I’m sure he’ll grieve mostly for dramatic effect, knock over three picture frames, and move on with his life. Honestly, I admire the emotional efficiency.

I spot something glittering near my boot and crouch to pick it up. It’s a shard of volcanic glass—obsidian, maybe. I test the edge against my thumb. It’s no scalpel but it could probably do some damage in a pinch. Not much, but it’s better than nothing. I slide it into my back pocket.

Something shimmers on the horizon and I freeze. If being alone is nerve wracking, the alternative is far scarier. It’s a figure. Maybe. Too far to be clear. The air ripples between us, distorting the shape. It might be a person. Might be a mirage. In the desert, people see things that aren’t there. Water, shade, rescue. Angels.

Demons.

I stare. It could be help. It could be something ready to kill me. Or worse. Because there is a worse. The shape stands too still. Too certain. Not like a hallucination. Like something that sees me back.

I swivel my head, taking another quick stock of what’s around me. No big boulders to hide behind, no trees to climb, nowhere to hunker down and blend in. Add my blue jeans and my light-colored t-shirt and I’m not built to camouflage in this landscape. There’s nowhere to hide and my feet are too shredded to run. Walking is almost more than I can handle. I have a slight head start with distance, but I know it will not make a difference.