Page 80 of The Devil May Care

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

The silence that follows is less jagged than before. Still heavy, but quieter now. Worn down by the edges of the fight.

“Do you really think we made you up? Demons?” I ask finally.

“No,” he says. “I think I’m right about the stories, and that it has more to do with fearing what you don’t know. And I still have no answers on how to get you back home.”

I’m not going to crash out. I’m not.

“Let’s go back,” Caziel says.

I blink. “To where?”

He steps closer. Not quite within reach, not yet, but I can feel the heat of him anyway.

“Your world. I want you to walk through the door.”

I stare at him. “Are we doing a visualization exercise now?”

“You are adrift,” he says simply. “Anchoring helps.”

“…Right.”

He gestures lightly, as if to say, Humor me, and because I’m too tired to argue—and maybe a little desperate for something to hold onto—I close my eyes.

“I walk in,” I say. “The air smells like… old dust and laundry detergent. George is on the windowsill. He yells at me. I yell back.”

A small pause.

He prompts, “What does he need?”

“Dry food, bottom cabinet. Blue bag. Water in a glass bowl that he tips over on purpose. He only drinks out of the bathroom sink, though. His litter box.”

“And after him?”

“My phone. Or… no. Actually pajama pants and a hoodie. Then the heating pad.”

I open my eyes.

Caziel is watching me like the words matter. Like each one is a thread he’s tying around me to keep me here.

“What is a heating pad?” he asks.

“It’s a small pouch thing. You plug it in and it gets warm. I use it for my back. Sometimes my stomach. It helps with—” I pause. “Cramps.”

His brow lifts. “Cramps?”

“You know. Periods.” He frowns. “Menstruation,” I clarify. “Monthly bleeding. Biological mayhem. Hell’s subscription box.”

“You mean every month you…bleed? From…”

“My vagina? Yep. Stupid uterus.”

“And this is…”

“Normal?” I nod. “Unless I’m pregnant.”