Page 11 of The Devil May Care

Either way, I guess it doesn’t matter. If I’m going to die, I’d rather it be quick. Better at the hands of something terrifying than a slow spiral into thirst and sunstroke. I’ve seen enough wilderness survival documentaries to know that dying of dehydration is not the aesthetic I want to go out on. And let’s be honest, my feet are in no shape for an escape attempt. If he is going to kill me, I’d rather face him—it—head on. I don’t want to spend my last minutes in a panic running for my life. Especially when the chances I’d make it are non-existent.

So, I start walking toward it. Him, I think.

If he is real. That’s still up for debate.

He doesn’t move. Not at first. Just watches me with that impossible stillness, like he’s weighing the angle of my spine, the thread-count of my jeans, the contents of my soul. His coat should flutter in the wind—itdoesn’t. The air around him should shift with heat—it doesn’t. His whole form sits wrong in the landscape, like someone cut him out of another world and pasted him here without bothering to blend the edges.

I stop a few feet away, panting softly. My mouth tastes like heat and iron and too many unasked questions.

“Hey,” I rasp. “If you’re a hallucination, now would be a good time to start acting helpful. Say something comforting. Maybe quote Tolkien.”

Still nothing.

I take a cautious step closer. His face is beautiful, but unreal—like a portrait painted with too many straight lines. My gaze snags on the space just above his shoulders, where the light bends wrong. The shimmer’s not heat. It’s an illusion. Like bad CGI. Or no—something else. Something from all those books I read in bed with George curled against my ribs. Not a mirage. A glamour. The magical kind. The kind that hides the truth behind something prettier. Something easier to look at. Somehow that makes him more real, not less.

There’s something about the way he looks at me, too steamy, too intense. My skin prickles, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for something I can’t name. He speaks before I can test my theory aloud, his voice pouring into me. It’s like standing too close to a roaring fireplace, feeling the heat like a tangible wave prickling along the edges of my skin.

“How did you arrive in the Wastes?”

His voice is exactly what I expected. Low. Formal. Polished like a blade. But there’s no aggression in it—just a polished, clinical edge. It sounds like he’s taking surgical notes. I shiver.

“I… fell,” I say. “There was an elevator. I think.”

“You think.”

“It was a very dramatic fall. Everything got kind of glowy.”

He takes a half step closer, and I force myself not to back away. The air seems to shift, a subtle warmth curling along my spine.

“You are unmarked. Unarmed. Not Daemari.”

“Cool,” I say. “Not sure what that last word means but thank you for the helpful insult sandwich.”

“We are Daemari. The people of Crimson. Of Infernalis. Others existin these lands too, but not mortals—humans. You should not be alive,” he says.

“Okay,” I cough, blinking. “That’s not the most reassuring feedback I’ve ever gotten.”

He watches me a moment longer, then asks, “What is your flame origin?”

“My what?”

He tilts his head. “How were you branded?”

“I wasn’t. Unless you count that time I got a matching tattoo with my ex best friend during finals week. Spoiler: not worth it.”

He’s quiet again, but his gaze sharpens. “What Realm are you from?”

“Uh, Ohio?”

A beat. “That is not a realm of Infernalis.”

“It barely qualifies as a state,” I mutter. He stares. I talk faster. “Look, I don’t know how I got here. Or why I’m not dead. Or what half of those words mean. You’re asking me for ID and I’m just trying to figure out if I’m comatose, hallucinating, or really committed to a death-by-dehydration aesthetic.”

“You believe this is a delusion.”

“I was at a veterinary conference. There were lanyards and fluorescent lights and sad muffins. Then there was an elevator, and now there’s you, looking like a Lord of the Underworld in a…what did you call this place? Wasteland?” I gesture vaguely at him. “And no offense, but you’re not exactly giving strong ‘real person’ energy, so you tell me.”

He frowns. Just slightly.