Page 67 of The Devil May Care

KAY

I’ve been pacing for fifteen minutes. Which is impressive, considering the size of my room and the fact that my legs are still sore from getting knocked on my ass in training. Again. But I can’t sit still. Not tonight. I’ve decided I’m going to ask him. Not for answers, exactly—That would be too easy. Too straightforward—I want context.

I want the real story—the politics, the myths, the wars they never mention but that helped shape this world and the culture around me. After what Sarai said last night, I’m done being the human accessory in a flaming power struggle. I want to know what I’m walking into. I want the rules everyone else already memorized. And unfortunately, there’s only one person who might give me that.

I run through the words again in my head, turning them over like a script.

Caziel, I know I’m not marked, but if I’m going to survive this…

No. Too formal.

Hey, quick favor—can you explain five thousand years of fire cult politics to me over tea?

Absolutely not. I’m debating whether I should find him or just wall-text him telepathically, when there’s a knock at the door. It isn’t hesitant. It’s low, measured, the kind of thud that says the person on the other side doesn’t knock often.

I wrench the door open, already knowing who I expect to find, and there he is. Caziel stands in the threshold, arms fullof… books. Not just a few. A tower of them, heavy and ancient-looking, some leather-bound, some etched with metal sigils, one with what looks like glass pages.

He doesn’t greet me. Just steps inside and sets the whole stack on my small table with surprising ease.

“Either this is the best surprise ever,” I say, gathering my hair up into a knot on the top of my head, “or you’ve brought me something cursed.”

“The books aren’t cursed,” he says. “As far as I know.”

“How did you know I was going to ask?” I run a hand over the spine of a particularly old looking text.

“I suspected.” Caziel doesn’t quite smile. “The other contenders will have innate knowledge that you simply will not possess.”

I look at the pile. Then back at him. He’s wearing a soft black shirt, half-unlaced at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His hair is a little mussed. His expression unreadable. I’m reminded—too vividly—that I haven’t had sex in… a long time. Not since before my last relationship ended with a crash and a restraining order. Not since I stopped trusting anyone enough to take off more than my shoes. And certainly not since waking up in fantasy hell dimension. What if my sentient room decided to hand-deliver the man in front of me straight to my bed? I’d have to throw myself off the top of the nearest tower out of pure humiliation.

Caziel shifts, and I tear my gaze away before it lingers too long. This is not the time to objectify the maybe-prince who can start fires with his thoughts. He’s already headed for the door when I find my words.

“Wait.” My voice cracks, but he pauses. “Can you… stay?” He turns. “I mean,” I rush on, “just for a bit? I—these books look incredible, but I’m not even sure I can read half of them because I can’t read the scroll things, and if I have questions it would be easier if you—or I could write them down I guess, but I’d need a piece of… paper.”

He tilts his head, evaluating me. I can practically hear the gears turning behind his eyes. For a second, I’m sure he’ll say no, but he steps back inside and closes my door behind him.

“I’ll stay.”

He settles on the floor across from me, pulling a thinner volume from the middle of the pile. His movements are precise but unhurried. I sit down opposite him, trying to act normal while my insides buzz.

We read. Or rather—I try. The first book is mostly diagrams, with captions in angular symbols that almost looks familiar. Runes of somesort? Maybe not. I can’t concentrate. Not when he’s sitting so close. Not when I can see the edge of his throat as he swallows. Not when I feel the faintest tug in the air when his glamor flickers. It’s just for a second—his eye color shifts. Something inhuman. Bright. And then it’s gone like the room blinked. I swallow.

“I’m going to need subtitles for this. Or a dictionary and thesaurus combo.”

He doesn’t look up. “You may ask questions.”

His tone is neutral, but there’s that flicker again—the way he’s watching me, not with disdain, but with focus. Like I’m a puzzle he hasn’t decided how to solve.

“Fine.” I rest my chin on my hand. “Start with the others. I know their names, but not who they are.”

“Very well. We can start with the Captain you faced off against first.” He shuts the book with a soft thump. “Lyra Iskar. Crimson braids nearly to her knees. Twin blades, steady as her command.”

“Belgian Malinois,” I say immediately.

His head tilts. “What is that?”

“A dog. Military type. Fierce, loyal, disciplined. Won’t quit until the job’s done.”

A pause—then the faintest flicker at his mouth.