Page 78 of The Devil May Care

“You haven’t tried.”

He meets my gaze evenly. “You assume that.”

That pulls me up short. He’s not wrong, but it still feels wrong. I’m the trapped one here.

“I just—” My voice cracks. “I didn’t mean to come here. I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know.”

“I had a job. A life. A cat who thinks I’m his emotional support human.”

His brow knits. “George.”

I nod. “George. He likes sunbeams and hates mailmen. And I just left him.” I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes. “God, I don’t even know if time works the same. What if I get back and he’s gone? What if it’s been years and he’s—”

My voice dies. My throat burns. I shouldn’t be unraveling over a cat, but it’s not just George. It’s my apartment. My ugly couch. The smell of coffee in the morning. The sound of my neighbors arguing through the walls. It’s my life. I didn’t love, not really—but it was mine. And now I don’t know if it still exists.

“Do you think anyone’s noticed I’m gone?” I whisper.

Silence. And then, carefully: “I don’t know.”

The answer shouldn’t hurt. But it does. I sit back, folding my arms across my stomach like I’m trying to hold myself together.

“I keep trying to forget,” I murmur. “Like if I don’t think about it, it won’t hurt. Like if I pretend this place is just a weird extended dream vacation from hell, it’ll fade out eventually. But it doesn’t.”

“No,” he says quietly. “It doesn’t.”

The calm in his voice feels like a slap. I turn on him, eyes narrowing.

“Is that it? That’s your plan? Just wait until I give up hoping someone’s going to fix this?”

“No.”

“Well, it sounds like it.”

Still, he doesn’t flinch.

“I haven’t given up,” he says, with quiet conviction. “But I won’t lie to you, either.”

And there it is. Not cruelty. Not indifference. Just the truth, and it cuts sharper than either.

“I don’t need a lie,” I say, my voice shaking. “But I wouldn’t mind a little hope.”

“You’re alive,” he says. “That’s more than most who cross between realms.”

“That’s not enough,” I snap. “Surviving isn’t enough.”

Silence stretches between us. Heavy. Unforgiving.

“You’re right.”

I look away, too wrung out to respond. The fire in my chest is already flickering low, giving way to a hollow ache. I don’t know what hurts more—the idea that I might be stuck here forever or the fact that, until now, I hadn’t let myself care.

“I know it can be done,” I say sharply.

Caziel tilts his head just enough to acknowledge me. He’s listening, but he’s not rushing to respond. He never does. And that’s part of what makes it worse.

“You act like I fell into this world by accident,” I go on, voice rising. “Like it’s some unrepeatable cosmic glitch, but it’s not. There are centuries of stories. Folklore. Paintings. Texts. Exorcisms.” He still doesn’t speak. I take that as permission. Or maybe defiance. “Demons. Possessions. Crossroads and soul bargains and hellfire. We didn’t invent those. We recorded them. Documented them.” I push to my feet, the chair scraping across the floor behind me. “I didn’t dream you. Or this world. Or anything I’ve seen since I got here. And I’m not the first. I can’t be.”