Page 17 of The Devil May Care

“Is that a formal request or just a suggestion?”

He doesn’t answer. But I see the barest flicker of something at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Just the ghost of one’s shadow. He shakes his head once. “There are stories, of course. Songs, prophecies, warnings. But no one alive here has met one. Until you.”

It’s strange—the way he says it. Not until you arrived. Until you. Like the sentence ends with me, and he can’t see past that.

We cross through the heart of the market. The air is thick with the scent of spice and smoke and something faintly metallic, like hot stone after rain. A boy darts past with a basket of glowing fruit, and I flinch as the light grazes my arm. My pulse still hasn’t settled from the way the Daemari look at me—like I’m both a miracle and a mistake.

I glance up at Caz again, at the way the edges of his form flicker when I focus too long. His glamor shifts like heat distortion, a reminder that he’s something far more than what he’s letting me see. Around him, the flame bends subtly toward his body, as if even the light recognizes him.

“And what do you make of me?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, quietly—

“I’m still deciding.”

The crowd parts wider now. I catch another flicker of movement—someone bowing their head, someone whispering. Caz doesn’t look at them, but I can tell he feels it too. The way the realm itself seems to notice me, the way the air tastes different now that I’m here.

We keep moving through the streets. It’s not a long walk—Crimson seems to stretch forever, but the towers rise above everything, impossible to miss. Still, each step feels heavier. Like I’m sinking deeper into something I can’t name.

Jokes aside, every time someone stares, I stare right back. Not in challenge, but survival. I can’t afford to be small right now. Not in aplace where everything is watching. But eventually, the weight of it all gets to me.

“I’m not dangerous,” I murmur under my breath, reminding myself more than anything else. “Just under-caffeinated.”

“You’ve said that before,” he says.

“Well, I’m nothing if not consistent.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “You were afraid earlier.”

“You think?” I blink. “I’m still afraid.”

“If not for your scent, you’d hide it well.”

My scent. Right. Shudder.

“I try,” I say. “Keep walking. Keep talking. Pretend you belong until someone buys it.”

Caziel doesn’t offer reassurance. Doesn’t tell me I do belong, but he doesn’t disagree either and somehow, that’s easier to take.

Ahead, the main castle glows like a heartstone—massive, warm, and terrifying. Its gates yawn open in welcome or warning—I can’t tell. For a moment I consider turning on my battered heel, fleeing down the stone streets until Crimson, the daemari, Caziel, are nothing but a distant memory. I wouldn’t make it ten feet.

The keep swallows sound.

That’s the first thing I notice when we slip into the courtyard—how quiet everything becomes. The walls are high and smooth, the floor dark stone veined with glowing red, and the air tastes like cold iron and firelight. Even our footsteps seem reluctant to echo. There aren’t any Daemari—other than the guards—milling about in here. Not even to study the murals painted on the high stone walls. Maybe they’re too used to them, the art now just forgotten scenery. I study the image closest to me. A great beast wreathed in flame faces off against a man in gilded armor. The beast’s mouth is open wide, roaring or hissing its displeasure as the man seems completely at ease before it. Even painted with giant curved claws, I recognize the compact, rounded design of the beast's paws. Some sort of cat. On fire.

I let my eyes trace the shape of two pointed ears and for a moment the image bleeds away, leaving angry George in its placing, hissing angrily at the armored man memorialized in paint. When I blink the flame cat is back. I shake my head willing my vision to corporate. Brain injury and potential dehydration aside I can’t start hallucinating now.

Three guards stand near an arched gate on the far side of the space. They’re dressed like they mean business—more rune-inscribed bone-white armor, swords at their backs, faces open but watchful—but they also appear to be playing some sort of game with small clattering objects that they toss and catch. It kind of looks like Jacks, not that I’ve ever played the game myself, and I try desperately to stop my brain from wondering what their pieces are made of. Clay, rock, bone…

They notice us immediately. Or, more accurately, they notice me. One tilts his head, eyes sliding over me like he’s assessing a meal he didn’t order but might eat anyway. I step closer to Caziel.

“That her?” The guard murmurs. Not quiet. Not loud. Just pitched enough to carry.

“Has to be,” the second one replies. “Don’t see many soft things in Crimson.”

My jaw tightens.

“Delicate, too,” the first continues. “Look at her. Could leave a bruise just by breathing wrong.”