Page 36 of The Devil May Care

“Exactly.” I stick out my tongue and Sarai hides her smile. Barely. I drag myself upright against the pillows. “Do you people even have caffeine?” When she frowns, I add, “You know, the stuff that gives you energy? Makes your heart race? See sounds and hear colors?”

“We have stimulants.”

“That’s not the same.”

“Stimulants give you energy, make your heart race, and can create bouts of synesthesia.”

I wave my hand in the air, “Fine, yes, caffeine is a stimulant but it’s not like speed. Or tequila. People drink it in the morning. To wake them up. Prepare for the day.”

I may or may not have an addiction I’m not willing to discuss. She frowns again, but she rises, crosses the room, and sets a warm ceramic cup in my hands.

“Its name roughly translates to fire tea,” she says, sitting at the foot of the bed. “It is used for the same purpose.”

I take a cautious sip and flinch. It tastes like cinnamon if I set it on fire and it held a grudge. I try to smile without letting smoke unfurl out of my nostrils.

“It’s good.” I give her a shaky thumbs up.

“You’ll live.” Sarai says, hiding her smile behind the flat of her hand.

“Not with tastebuds,” I grouse, but I take another sip. The second taste isn’t quite as volatile. The heat seems to burn the cobwebs out of my brain.

Sarai and I fall into easy rhythm. She refills my cup. I criticize the tea. She ignores me. She hands me a biscuit; I try not to let my head blow off as I take a bite. The room smells faintly of smoke and citrus—clean, sharp, oddly comforting.

I watch her smooth the linens again, then ask, “Is your current assignment to take care of me?”

“Spy you mean?” She shrugs. “When I’m not being cursed bread.”

“Still one of my favorite compliments. I’m taking that one home with me. It describes George perfectly.”

“George?”

Sarai doesn’t recognize the word cat, but my charade skills are surprisingly handy.

“This murder cloud creature is your friend?” And honestly, murder cloud creature might be the best description of a house cat I’ve ever heard.

I nod. “He’s practically family.”

She rolls her eyes. “You should raise your standards. The Embermaw are dangerous.”

“Embermaw?” It’s her turn to act out the unknown word. She does so but arching her back, making hissing sounds, and flailing her limbs like an inflatable tube guy at a used car lot. Either she sucks at charades or it’s a Saber-toothed hell-beast, set ablaze like Burning Man. I decide I don’t want to know.

“Oh, I did,” I say. “That’s why I’m talking to you and not, you know, the guy with the eyebrows that scream ‘I set villages on fire for sport.’”

“That could describe many Daemari.”

I take another sip. “Fair.”

There’s a lull—comfortable, quiet—and I find myself watching the way the light cuts across the shimmering braid tucked under a kerchief. Sharp shoulders and nose. Pale eyes that don’t quite match her smile, ringed in translucent lashes.

She’s beautiful. And unreadable.

“Do you have family here?” I ask suddenly. She hesitates. “A job, obviously. But—people?”

“I’m assigned to the castle keep,” she says carefully. “I serve.”

I frown. “That’s not what I asked.”

“I know.” She doesn’t offer more. I shift tracks.