Chapter 44
EZRA
It’s been three days since I summoned that stupid, red-eyed demon.
Three days since I saw my own head on a table like a grotesque centrepiece. Three days since I was told I absolutely, under no circumstances, could go home. And three days since I apparently made the executive decision to volunteer myself as useful.
I would like to formally retract that decision.
Because what nobody told me—and I mean nobody—was that “helping the healers” meant six a.m. wake-up calls, and sometimes not finishing until five a.m. the next day.
Which is honestly criminal. I didn’t even do those hours when I was pulling all-nighters for finals, and at least then I had caffeine options that didn’t taste like despair.
What I also didn’t account for was the amount of blood I’d see. So. Much. Blood.
I don’t know what I expected. Maybe some gentle potion stirring? Handing out bandages? Offering moral support? Instead, I was thrown directly into the thick of it like, Welcome to Hell, human. Here’s a severed limb.
Apparently, Cassyr thought starting me with ‘the hard stuff’ would be character building. Cassyr, for the record, is not the Head Healer. He’s the Head Healer’s son. Which I learned immediately after she took one look at me, sniffed, and said—and I quote—that she “could not be arsed” with me.
I might’ve been offended if Lucifer hadn’t laughed so hard he nearly fell over. I swear, if I could punch that smug bastard in his stupid, beautiful face without being incinerated, or whatever horrific thing he does to humans, I absolutely would.
Still. Silver linings. Cassyr is not… unpleasant to look at.
Unlike his old hag of a mother, he’s tall, with a lean build.
Like, muscular but not Korithax muscular.
His skin is a warm bronze, peppered with scars like they’re part of him rather than damage done.
His most noticeable one slices straight through his eyebrow, splitting it clean in two, and down over his eye and ends at his cheekbone.
Which gives him—unfortunately—bad boy energy.
Especially with his stubbled, sharp jawline.
His eyes are molten bronze—like honey heated too long, flecked with gold—and his horns match them, a deep amber that contrasts sharply with his jet-black hair, which he always has half tied up in a knot.
Unfortunately for me, being devastatingly attractive does not cancel out the fact he is also unbelievably rude.
“Human,” he groans. “Are you listening?”
I flush instantly. “Sorry. What?”
He rolls his eyes so hard I’m shocked they don’t detach from his skull. I return the gesture. Asshole.
“I said,” he repeats slowly, like I’m five, “go and grab two more bottles of healing tonic from the shelf.”
He doesn’t ask. He orders. Like a man who has never once been told no in his entire demon life. Like mother, like son, I guess.
I pull a face as I turn my back to him, quietly mocking his tone under my breath while grabbing the small glass bottles down from the shelf.
He is genuinely insufferable. Actually, most of them down here are. So bossy. So serious. I tried to crack a joke, one joke, and Cassyr looked at me like I’d slapped him across the face with a dead fish.
Oh, and did I mention the coffee here fucking sucks? No chai oat. No vanilla with a dash of caramel. Just black coffee and milk. That’s it. Hell is real, and it hates flavour.
I’m trying, really trying, not to be mad at Daisy.
I get why she’s basically holding me hostage.
I do. She’s protecting me. Saving me and keeping me alive.
But that doesn’t stop the resentment from creeping in when I’m elbow-deep in demon blood at four in the morning, wondering what I did in a past life to deserve this.
I was finally getting back on track. Cheer was going well.
Drama classes were going well. I was about to audition for the lead role in the biggest production our college had ever put on.
And then, of course, some creepy demon asshole had to show up, put not-my-head on my table, and ruin my entire life. Kinda fucking rude, honestly.
I hand the two bottles to Cassyr with a smile, which is only met with a grunt which I assume is a ‘thank you’ in his own moody ass language. He pops the cork and carefully pours the dark green liquid into the soldier’s mouth.
Cross-realm training started yesterday, and the casualties have been brutal.
According to the paperwork I had to file—me, a human, filing paperwork in Hell—this soldier is from Fjellheim Heights.
The whole thing still feels wildly surreal.
It was hard enough coming to terms with the fact that Hell is real and populated by demons with horns and magic and…
whatever the fuck else. But other realms?
With people who look so different, so otherworldly?
It’s bizarre in a way my brain still hasn’t fully caught up with yet.
The soldiers from the Realm of Mists, as Fjellheim is nicknamed, have translucent skin and wear pale, almost pearlescent armour.
This one took a sun-arrow straight through the shoulder, courtesy of a Solaran soldier.
And gods, it was brutal. The arrow didn’t just punch clean through.
The sun magic that’s imbued into the tip left the wound burned, and charred from the inside out.
All of that information was helpfully listed in his file that I had a nosy at.
I cringe as Cassyr gives the injury one final wipe before layering salve beneath the bandage.
The first day I came to help the healers, I threw up no less than five times. Thankfully, my eyes and stomach are adjusting to my new career path. But I still can’t stop myself from cringing at the sights. I’ve gone from being a cheerleader and drama student, to healers’ lackey. Yay me.
Thank fuck tomorrow is my assigned day off.
I need a lie-in, a bubble bath, and an illegal amount of snacks.
I also need to see Daisy. I’ve barely crossed paths with her since arriving.
She’s busy being queen and organising for an actual war, while I’m down here being scowled at by Cass, the grumpy ass. A fitting nickname, if you ask me.
“Don’t you have like magic or something you can use instead of potions?” I ask, tilting my head at him.
He rolls his eyes again, because of course, he does. “Yes, I have the ability to briefly remove a patient’s pain while I work.”
“Did you use it on him?” I question, nodding at the now-sleeping soldier.
“No.”
“Why not?”
He huffs in irritation. “Because his injury wasn’t severe enough to warrant it. It takes considerable energy and focus.” His gaze flicks to me. “Something I struggle to maintain when you’re yapping in my ear.”
“Sorry,” I murmur quietly, fiddling with my fingers.
I’m not used to people not enjoying my loud, bubbly personality.
Apparently, in Hell, having a personality at all is a flaw.
I’m genuinely trying to be helpful, but it feels like all I’m doing is irritating him.
So, I decide to busy myself, cleaning up the supplies Cassyr used, dumping the bloodied rags into the flaming pits where I saw other healers toss dirty bandages.
As I reach for an empty tonic bottle, Cassyr huffs and places his large hand over mine. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I’m not used to having someone work with me. And you talk… a lot.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks at both the words, and the contact. “I’ll try to be quieter,” I say quickly. “And stay out of your way.”
He shakes his head, something like a smirk tugging at his mouth as he pulls his hand back. “You can finish for the day. Training ends soon, so I can’t imagine we will have many more casualties.”
I raise a brow. “Wow. I’m so annoying you’re sending me home early?”
“You could always empty the sick buckets,” he offers with a grin.
“Nope. Absolutely not. See ya.” I bolt before he can change his mind.
I hate all bodily fluids, but vomit is my personal hell. I’m pretty sure I have emetophobia. Just thinking about sick makes my heart race, and if someone throws up near me? I’m gone. Spiritually deceased.
Back in my room, I peel off the black healer’s robes and dive face-first onto my bed.
If there’s one thing Hell does right, it’s beds.
This thing is massive, and it feels like a cloud.
I don’t know if I’m getting special treatment because the queen’s my best friend, but this room is bigger than my entire flat back on Earth.
It has a four-poster bed with soft silk sheets, large windows that look out at the distant mountains that somehow have dusted white tips despite it being basically summer, and an actual fireplace, with wood and everything.
It’s amazing. And the attached bathroom?
Huge tub. Huge. Do I miss home? Obviously.
Am I complaining about the accommodation though? Absolutely not.
After an hour-long bubble bath, I tug on some black cotton PJ bottoms that were placed into my room’s closet for me, and flop back onto the bed.
I miss my phone. I miss social media. I miss my freaking TV.
What the hell am I supposed to do when I’m not working?
Read? Stare dramatically out of a window?
Develop a personality outside of caffeine, oversharing, and Taylor Swift? That part sounds terrifying.
My eyes are just starting to drift closed when a firm knock sounds at the door. “Ugh,” I groan. “Do I never get a moment’s peace?”
I pad over and open it to find Cassyr standing there, still in his healer’s uniform. His gaze flicks down my body before he visibly catches himself.
“Cassyr?” I murmur.
His amber eyes snap back up to mine. “You left this in the infirmary.” He holds up my beaded bracelet that I got given to me at a Taylor Swift concert.
I take it with a smile. “Oh my god, thank you. I’d be devastated if I lost this. It’s from a Taylor Swift concert. I don’t know if you know who she is, but she’s a legend. A total queen—”
He lifts a hand, rubbing his temple and I clamp my mouth shut.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Too much talking again.”
He lets out a quiet laugh that takes me by surprise. “Just don’t leave it lying around again. Or I’ll throw it in the pit with the rags.”
I gasp, placing a hand over my heart. “Blasphemy.”
He rolls his eyes in that infuriating way again, but this time there’s a smirk tugging at his mouth. “See you tomorrow.”
He turns to leave, but I call after him. “The hell you will. Tomorrow’s my day off.”
He pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. “Thank fuck for that.”
My mouth falls open, but he just winks and chuckles as he walks away, leaving me standing as I clutch my bracelet in utter shock like a Victorian maiden who has just seen an ankle. Infuriating prick.
But why did I get butterflies when he winked at me?