Page 115 of The Devil May Care

Idon’t slam the door when I come in. Mostly because it’s made of etched metal and would probably break my hand before it made a satisfying sound. But the desire is there. Every part of me aches. My thigh is bruised from Lyra’s staff, my ribs still smart from where Varo slammed me down in yesterday’s bout, and the pads of my fingers are raw from gripping a sword that’s too long and too heavy for me. If this is supposed to be the part where I’m growing stronger, tougher—when does it kick in?

My schedule told me to meet Caz here, in the keep, and I’m grateful for the reprieve of privacy. I round the corner into the study chamber expecting another brutal form drill or worse, a sparring partner who isn’t actively trying to murder me but doesn’t mind if I look murdered by the end of it. Instead, Caz is waiting alone.

He’s standing beside one of the curved tables, a stack of thick, dusty books and parchment rolls spread in a careful arc around him. There’s something ceremonial about the way he lays one out, just as I step inside.

I blink. “We’re… reading?”

He glances up. “Studying.”

“Same thing.”

“Both necessary.”

I limp closer and fold myself onto the bench across from him, groaning the whole way down. I’m grateful for the break in physicaltraining, but I’ve never been a good studier. I don’t learn well from reading a text or hearing a lecture. I learn by doing. I pick the first book off the top of the pile.

“Please tell me this isn’t another language.”

“It’s your language,” he says, tapping one of the books.

I cross my arms across my chest, trying not to wince at the pull in my biceps. Caz’s jaw tightens. “And what language is that, Mr. Ember Heir?” I ask, I’d grin if my lip wasn’t split nearly in half from a well-placed hit from Nyxen Vale.

“English, one of the west-Germanic languages, and a defactoLingua Francafor humans in your world. You speak a version from the continent of North America, specifically the Midwest region of the United States of America.”

The fuck.

He opens the first text and turns it toward me as if he didn’t just metaphorically pat me on the head like I’m a posturing kitten. A map of the Infernalis fans out across the page, jagged edges, twisting borders, each of the seven realms inked in a different color. Crimson flares like blood in the center.

“The Rite is held here,” he says, tapping a long, finger over the scarlet heart of the world. “But the trials are not just of Crimson. Each is shaped by another Realm’s influence.”

I blink again, slower this time.

“So, we’re still in this one,” I place my hand the center of the map too, my fingers almost brushing his. “But fighting through the others? Like a board game?” He frowns and this time my smile is involuntary. “Which part is tripping you up?” I lean in, pausing as his face shifts. Not away from mine. It literally glitches in front of my eyes. A moment and then gone. “Is this a lost in translation thing? Or a my-daddy-didn’t-play-with-me thing?”

He shakes his head a me, muttering something, but he’s smiling too, smooth lips almost buzzing as they curve. His glamor is acting up again.

“Knows the details of a language but can’t place board games.”

It’s Caz’s turn to lean closer. “In my lexicon, board games are two opponents using pieces to best each other in a game of strategy or wits. But the Rite does not have a single opponent.”

“And it’s a good thing chess wasn’t the game I was referring to.” Itrace a line from Crimson through the other six realms. A lopsided little spiral. “A lot of board games are about getting from point A to point B despite obstacles. Others are a race of sort, doing laps and collecting points. And unlike chess, most of those game boards are covered in cartoons and color.”And require a fair bit of luck,but I keep that part to myself.

“Are you saying the sacred Rite that choose the ruler of my realm, is like a children’s pastime?”

I gesture to the map. “If the rainbow fits.” The laugh slips out of me before I can stop it, and Caz tips his head in question. “Nothing.” I shake my head, but the giggles get stronger.

“Tell me.”

I shake my head again, my hair sticking to the sweat still coating my cheeks. “It’s bad,” I say. “Like horrible humor. I’m going to…” I look around. “Well, Nevermind.”

Caz’s smile is wicked. My stomach twists like when I used to throw my head back while on the swings as the rundown playground across the road from my foster family’s apartment building. A flip of anticipation.

“I’d like to know.” His breath is warm over my chin. I shiver anyway. “You are learning about my world. It seems only fair. And I did brave the artillery store without artillery.”

He’s right. He braved a department store. An overstimulating one with fluorescent lights and piped in music. When he’s used to stone and ash and magic. He bought me tampons. I’m not even sure Crimson has tampons, and I know many human men who wouldn’t have done that for the women in their lives.

I shake my head, grinning. “It’s just—Hell is a rainbow.”

He blinks, clearly amused. “You are going to have to explain that one. Like board games.”