Page 23 of The Devil May Care

She glances around the room, then back at me. My gaze darts to the pillow hiding my impromptu knife. Was she spying on me? Did I assume no one was? Do I even care? Have at it, hallucination. Watch me pick my nose and disassociate.

“I thought you’d want something fresh to wear. And real food. Not whatever they sent up.” Her eyes search mine. “Unless you’d rather keeplying there, waiting for someone more terrifying to knock or you want to choke yourself on dry biscuits.”

I shake my head. “No. Thank you. Food would be...” A trap? “Appreciated?”

She smiles like she knows that’s a lie and still forgives me for it. Sarai sets the folded clothes on a low bench near the basin and starts unpacking a tray of food from the narrow cart I didn’t hear arrive.

“Nothing fancy,” she says, lifting the cover off a bowl of something warm and spiced. “But it’ll help. You’ll want to be at your best for the assessment.”

I shift forward on the bed, arms still folded around my knees. “You always this chipper when delivering meals to doomed strangers?”

“Only the pretty ones,” she says.

I snort. It surprises both of us. She glances over her shoulder and flashes a grin before turning back to the tray. There’s bread—soft, round, dusted with something floral—and a few slices of fruit in pink and gold tones. One of them looks suspiciously like a peach, but a peach that’s been glamorized for stage lighting. There’s also a bowl of something dark and rich that makes my mouth water.

“You should eat,” Sarai says, gentler now. “Your blood still smells like dust and nerves. I promise it’s just food. No magic entrapment here.”

My eyes slingshot to hers. “Wow. Romantic.”

“Truthful.” She smiles.

I eye the bowl as she pours a bit of amber liquid into a glass and sets it beside me.

“What is it?” I ask.

“The stew or the drink?”

“Let’s start with the part that looks like it has bones in it.”

“It’s not bones. It’s a root. Supposed to calm you down, settle your nerves.” She pauses. “Unless your kind’s allergic to gorse root. Are you?”

I blink. “I have no idea.”

“Then we’ll find out.”

Not quite the ringing endorsement I would have liked.

She sits on the edge of the other bench, facing me with the kind of casual familiarity I didn’t realize I missed until just now.

“You’re not like them,” I say after a minute. “The others.”

Her eyebrows rise slightly. “Which others?”

“The glowing, perfect ones. The ones who look like they could set someone on fire just by sighing too hard. Like—” Caziel. I don’t say his name. Should I use Ember Heir instead? Do I not mention him?

Her smile fades just a little. “Ah. You mean the Daemari.”

“So they’re not all like that?”

“Oh no,” she says with mock solemnity. “Some of them are worse.”

I laugh again. Not hard. But real. She watches me for a beat. Her eyes narrow—not suspicious, just… focused. And then she tilts her head.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says too quickly, “You just remind me of someone.”

“Someone Daemari?”