Page 77 of The Devil May Care

He answers calmly, as he always does. “Crimson counts by flame cycles. You’ve been here nearly four.”

I glance up at him. “And in Earth time, that’s what? A week? A month? A year?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “I’m not sure. A few weeks? A few days? Your realm and ours are not aligned.”

Days? Weeks? That’s all? I feel like I’ve been here a lifetime. I drop my not-fork into the bowl and lean back.

A few days is long enough for my neighbor to notice my mailbox is overflowing. Long enough for work to start calling. Long enough for George to knock over a lamp in protest, claw the bathroom door, rip apart a cushion, or attempt to consume an entire houseplant.

A few days is long enough to be missed. A few weeks? Long enough for new routines. How long until I’m forgotten? I stare down at the bowl again, suddenly nauseated. The warmth from the food curls up toward me, sweet and unfamiliar, and my eyes sting for no reason at all.

“It’s still spinning,” I murmur.

Caziel shifts slightly. “Your world?”

I nod. “My world is still spinning. People are waking up, going to work. Drinking coffee. Making toast. Complaining about traffic.” I let out a laugh—soft, bitter. “It’s all still happening without me.”

He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t need to. The silence is answer enough. I thought it wouldn’t matter. I really did. The first night I got here, I told myself none of it was real. That I’d wake up soon. That the ache in my chest wasn’t grief or fear, just chemical misfiring. That this was just a waiting room, or a hallucination, or some weird subconscious art film brought on by burnout and low blood sugar.

But that was then. This is now. And now, I can’t stop thinking about what I’ve left behind.

“Have I been erased?” I ask. It comes out quieter than I intend.

Caziel doesn’t move. “I don’t know.”

My eyes fall to the tray again. “I didn’t even feed George before I left. I didn’t fill up his water dish or leave a window cracked or top off the automatic feeder. He was mad at me that morning—I’d left for the conference early, and he doesn’t like when I skip our routine. He sits on my chest and screams if I don’t cuddle him by 6 a.m. sharp.” Andbecause I wasn’t leaving him leaving him. My coworker was… I blink fast, because for some reason my throat’s closing up.

George is a cat. Just a cat. And yet…

“It wasn’t supposed to matter,” I whisper. “I didn’t think I’d be gone this long.”

Caziel still hasn’t moved. He’s watching me like I’m a wildfire he’s meant to guard, not extinguish. I take a breath, then another. It doesn’t help.

“Has anyone tried?” I ask. “To send me back? Is there a way back? Can I go home?”

His expression doesn’t shift. “No.”

“No?” I repeat, a little too loudly. “Just like that? Let’s make the human compete in our gladiator death match just for funnies?”

“There is no known way to return someone who enters this realm by accident. Or… through force.”

The word hits me strange. Force. Like I was taken. Like that stupid elevator—the man I tried to protect—was some kind of cosmic trap, and I just fell for it.

I blink. “But you travel. Between worlds.”

“I am Daemari,” he says. “But it is rare, and never without cost.”

I wait for more. He doesn’t offer it.

“So that’s it?” I say. “You don’t even know how to try?”

“There are records. Warnings. Accidents. But no controlled crossing between Crimson and the mortal plane has been successful.”

My jaw tightens.

“You’re telling me,” I say slowly, “that no one—not you, not your precious council, not the fire cult who assessed my soul like a résumé—no one is even looking for a way?”

“We don’t know where to look.”