Page 13 of The Devil May Care

“You survived a realm that consumes most who enter it. You carry no mark. No signature. No known flame origin. We don’t know who or what sent you to Infernalis, but it was something with power.”

“Well, sure,” I say, nodding slowly. “But have you considered the possibility that I’m just dead? Or a regular old vet tech with a bad sense of timing, shit luck, and a granola deficiency?”

His mouth twitches. Still not a smile, but something in that neighborhood.

“I am here to observe,” he repeats. “Not to pass judgment.”

“Good,” I say. “Because I’d definitely fail whatever test this is.” He turns then, without another word, and begins walking. I stare after him, then mutter, “This is the worst fever dream I’ve ever had.”

And still—I follow. Because whether he’s real, a hallucination, or something in between, he knows more than I do. And for now, that’s enough. I follow because there’s nowhere else to go, and because—terrible coping strategy or not—I don’t want to be alone anymore. Even if my only company is a possibly glamoured, emotionally repressed hallucination with cheekbones sharp enough to qualify as weaponry. Although if I had to drop into Hell and be found by an ominous demon man at least he’s a hottie. Objectively of course.

He walks ahead of me with that same eerie stillness. Fluid and quiet, like he’s not touching the ground at all. He doesn’t glance back. Doesn’task if I’m okay. Doesn’t offer reassurance or explanation or water. At least he hasn’t killed me. That’s something, I guess. Can I be killed if I’m already dead?

We move through the stone-strewn valley in silence for a while. Then, without warning, the land changes. The jagged terrain gives way to smooth black rock, cut into paths that shimmer faintly underfoot. Red light glows from beneath the cracks, like the ground is breathing embers. And ahead, suddenly there, is a giant walled fortress. It rises out of the haze as if conjured. A city of fireglass and bone-colored spires, so massive and intricate it makes my knees wobble just looking at it. I swear it wasn’t there a second ago.

“Did that just… appear?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. Typical. I keep walking anyway. My brain is trying to catch up with my senses and failing spectacularly. The walls climb higher with every step, like they’re growing as I get closer. Or maybe I’m shrinking. Either’s possible. The silence stretches along with the walls, and I can’t help myself.

“So how exactly are we determining whether I’m a threat? Is there an interview process? A multiple-choice exam? A polygraph?” He says nothing. “Couldn’t you just ask me? Save everyone the trouble? I’ll even swear on my life that the only thing I’ve ever destroyed is a microwave burrito and maybe a few bad relationships.” Still nothing. “I’m only dangerous,” I continue, “to Cool Ranch Doritos. And even then, only if they’re already open.”

He doesn’t look at me, but I swear something in his posture shifts. Like his shoulders relax just barely. Like he’s almost amused. I press my lips together to keep from smiling.

“You know, for a hallucination, you have excellent production value.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

The closer we get to the conjured city, the more surreal it becomes. The gates are tall and curved like rib bones, inlaid with runes that glow when we pass. I have a million questions—what the symbols mean, what this place is, what he is—but I bite them down. For now. It feels like walking into a painting that’s still drying. Crimson light spills across the buildings, casting everything in amber-gold and blood-warm shadow. Towers rise like teeth or antlers or maybe both—less a city and more a throne carved into the bones of something ancient.

And I’m just walking into it with the glamoured man who still hasn’t told me what’s waiting for me. My feet scream as I keep pace beside him. I don’t want to be a full step behind. Makes it feel too much like I’m being led somewhere. Herded.

“So,” I start, voice light. “What happens now? Do I get a passport? A pamphlet? A chance to plead my case before a swift, merciful execution?”

“You seem very certain that harm will come to you,” he says, not even glancing in my direction.

I blink. “I mean, statistically, it wouldn’t be shocking.”

“Have you been harmed since you came into my care?”

“Am I? In your care?”

He frowns. “Did I not tell you that I was to observe you? You are now my responsibility. Has harm come to you?”

“Not yet,” I say, then immediately regret it. “Sorry. Bad habit. I joke when I’m freaked out. You’ve been nothing but—” nice? Kind? Not murdery?

“I noticed.” His tone is even, but it doesn’t feel judgmental. Just observant.

I hug my arms across my chest and try not to look like I’m calculating how fast I could run in sneakers with blown-out soles.

“You are so certain of your death.”

Well yeah. Seems like an obvious thing to worry over.

“I will show you to a guest suite. You can rest. I’ll have food sent up,” he says this with the same beleaguered tone of someone who’s had to repeat themselves over and over again, but I can’t help it. Panic is steeping my brain in solution of fear and adrenaline. I don’t think I’m retaining any information at all. I should work on that. The heroines in my books are always noticing the tiniest details and then using what they see as a means to escape or survive. I haven’t even gotten this guy’s name yet.

“How does the assessing work?” Do I have to prove myself against a great beast? Have my mind read and picked apart for lies? Sit a test on the basic history of, what did he call this place again? Crimson?

“That depends.”