Chapter 3 #2
“I was at a veterinary conference. There were lanyards and fluorescent lights and sad muffins. Then there was an elevator, and now there’s you, looking like a Lord of the Underworld in a…
what did you call this place? Wasteland?
” I gesture vaguely at him. “And no offense, but you’re not exactly giving strong ‘real person’ energy, so you tell me. ”
He frowns. Just slightly.
“I’m Kay,” I say, softer now. “Just Kay. And I have a shard of volcanic glass in my pocket, so if you are real and planning to murder me, just know I’ll go down swinging.
Not efficiently, but if I can handle trimming the nails of Curtis the deadly one-eyed chihuahua, I can draw some blood from you too, on my way down. ”
He doesn’t react to the threat. Just glances briefly at my hand when I hold it out. No handshake. No acknowledgment. His stare is cool, unreadable.
“You should not give your name so easily,” he says.
“You asked who I was.”
“And you answered. Quickly. Carelessly.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m pretty sure ‘Kay’ doesn’t qualify as a full incantation.”
“In this realm, names hold power.”
“Okay, Gandalf. You could’ve led with that.”
“And you should not announce that you are armed.”
“I said rock shard. I’m not exactly a war criminal.”
“Self-defense is more effective when not advertised.”
I drop my hand. “Good tip. I’ll save it for my next inter-dimensional adventure.”
We stand in silence for a beat, and for the first time, I feel myself crashing.
The adrenaline is fading fast, leaving me shaky and dry-mouthed, too tired to keep talking but too wired to stop.
He studies me again and I wonder if he catches the shake in my muscles or droop in my shoulders. His tone softens.
“I have been tasked with watching you.”
“Watching,” I echo. “Like a babysitter?”
“If you wish to call it that.”
“I don’t. That makes it sound like I’m going to eat glue and wander off.”
His mouth twitches—barely—but I catch it. The flicker of something like amusement. Or at least curiosity.
“Will you?”
It’s hard to grin when my lips are so chapped, but I think that I manage it in response to his question. I doubt he’d be teasing me if he was still considering running me through with some form of blade.
“I have been instructed to observe until a determination is made.”
“About what?” I ask.
He watches me again, eyes narrowed just slightly. “About whether you are a threat
I blink. “Wow. Okay. Instead of being Captain Cryptic, you could’ve opened with that and saved us both a lot of confusion.
I’m not a threat to anything but cheese fries.
I’m pretty sure I’m dead or you’re a figment of my traumatic brain injury.
” He says nothing. Of course he doesn’t.
I cross my arms, mostly so he can’t see how my fingers are trembling.
“What kind of threat are we talking here? Biological? Magical? Emotional damage from unresolved childhood trauma?” Still nothing.
“A threat to whom?” I push. “You? Your realm? The general atmosphere?”
His expression does not shift, but the air around him seems to tighten.
“To Crimson,” he says at last.
It’s the second time he’s mentioned the color and sure, the rocks and dirt are definitely more pinkish maroon than the beige from my memories, but I’d assumed that was the cones in my eyes were damaged in the elevator tragedy. Or, you know, because i’m dead.
“Crimson. Is that where I am?”
“You are at its edge. Behind you, is Gilded, Viridian is to your north, and Cobalt is at the other end of the realm, beyond the citadel.”
“Right,” I mutter. “So, a random, dehydrated human girl appears in your fire-and-glass rainbow wasteland and your immediate instinct is that I might destroy an entire kingdom.”
“You survived a realm that consumes most who enter it. You carry no mark. No signature. No known flame origin. We don’t know who or what sent you to Infernalis, but it was something with power.”
“Well, sure,” I say, nodding slowly. “But have you considered the possibility that I’m just dead? Or a regular old vet tech with a bad sense of timing, shit luck, and a granola deficiency?”
His mouth twitches. Still not a smile, but something in that neighborhood.
“I am here to observe,” he repeats. “Not to pass judgment.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I’d definitely fail whatever test this is.” He turns then, without another word, and begins walking. I stare after him, then mutter, “This is the worst fever dream I’ve ever had.”
And still—I follow. Because whether he’s real, a hallucination, or something in between, he knows more than I do.
And for now, that’s enough. I follow because there’s nowhere else to go, and because—terrible coping strategy or not—I don’t want to be alone anymore.
Even if my only company is a possibly glamoured, emotionally repressed hallucination with cheekbones sharp enough to qualify as weaponry.
Although if I had to drop into Hell and be found by an ominous demon man at least he’s a hottie. Objectively of course.
He walks ahead of me with that same eerie stillness.
Fluid and quiet, like he’s not touching the ground at all.
He doesn’t glance back. Doesn’t ask if I’m okay.
Doesn’t offer reassurance or explanation or water.
At least he hasn’t killed me. That’s something, I guess. Can I be killed if I’m already dead?
We move through the stone-strewn valley in silence for a while.
Then, without warning, the land changes.
The jagged terrain gives way to smooth black rock, cut into paths that shimmer faintly underfoot.
Red light glows from beneath the cracks, like the ground is breathing embers.
And ahead, suddenly there, is a giant walled fortress.
It rises out of the haze as if conjured.
A city of fireglass and bone-colored spires, so massive and intricate it makes my knees wobble just looking at it. I swear it wasn’t there a second ago.
“Did that just… appear?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. Typical. I keep walking anyway.
My brain is trying to catch up with my senses and failing spectacularly.
The walls climb higher with every step, like they’re growing as I get closer.
Or maybe I’m shrinking. Either’s possible.
The silence stretches along with the walls, and I can’t help myself.
“So how exactly are we determining whether I’m a threat?
Is there an interview process? A multiple-choice exam?
A polygraph?” He says nothing. “Couldn’t you just ask me?
Save everyone the trouble? I’ll even swear on my life that the only thing I’ve ever destroyed is a microwave burrito and maybe a few bad relationships.
” Still nothing. “I’m only dangerous,” I continue, “to Cool Ranch Doritos. And even then, only if they’re already open. ”
He doesn’t look at me, but I swear something in his posture shifts. Like his shoulders relax just barely. Like he’s almost amused. I press my lips together to keep from smiling.
“You know, for a hallucination, you have excellent production value.”
He doesn’t even flinch.
The closer we get to the conjured city, the more surreal it becomes.
The gates are tall and curved like rib bones, inlaid with runes that glow when we pass.
I have a million questions—what the symbols mean, what this place is, what he is—but I bite them down.
For now. It feels like walking into a painting that’s still drying.
Crimson light spills across the buildings, casting everything in amber-gold and blood-warm shadow.
Towers rise like teeth or antlers or maybe both—less a city and more a throne carved into the bones of something ancient.
And I’m just walking into it with the glamoured man who still hasn’t told me what’s waiting for me. My feet scream as I keep pace beside him. I don’t want to be a full step behind. Makes it feel too much like I’m being led somewhere. Herded.
“So,” I start, voice light. “What happens now? Do I get a passport? A pamphlet? A chance to plead my case before a swift, merciful execution?”
“You seem very certain that harm will come to you,” he says, not even glancing in my direction.
I blink. “I mean, statistically, it wouldn’t be shocking.”
“Have you been harmed since you came into my care?”
“Am I? In your care?”
He frowns. “Did I not tell you that I was to observe you? You are now my responsibility. Has harm come to you?”
“Not yet,” I say, then immediately regret it. “Sorry. Bad habit. I joke when I’m freaked out. You’ve been nothing but—” nice? Kind? Not murdery?
“I noticed.” His tone is even, but it doesn’t feel judgmental. Just observant.
I hug my arms across my chest and try not to look like I’m calculating how fast I could run in sneakers with blown-out soles.
“You are so certain of your death.”
Well yeah. Seems like an obvious thing to worry over.
“I will show you to a guest suite. You can rest. I’ll have food sent up,” he says this with the same beleaguered tone of someone who’s had to repeat themselves over and over again, but I can’t help it.
Panic is steeping my brain in solution of fear and adrenaline.
I don’t think I’m retaining any information at all.
I should work on that. The heroines in my books are always noticing the tiniest details and then using what they see as a means to escape or survive.
I haven’t even gotten this guy’s name yet.
“How does the assessing work?” Do I have to prove myself against a great beast? Have my mind read and picked apart for lies? Sit a test on the basic history of, what did he call this place again? Crimson?
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On how they choose to classify you.”
I squint at him. “That’s not ominous at all.”
His silence stretches. I can’t tell if it’s agreement or indifference. I blow out a breath, trying not to let the sharp, itchy feeling behind my ribs spread. It’s fine. This is fine. I’ve made worse choices. Probably.
“So, real question,” I say, working to keep my tone flippant, “is there something I can call you? You know, short of ‘my slightly threatening hallucination.’ Because I’ve gone through most of the broody fantasy romance tropes—Dark McBroodyface, Sinister Cloak Guy, The Tall One With Cheekbones—and honestly I’m starting to repeat myself. ”
“You may call me what you want,” he says, flatly.
I blink. “That’s oddly philosophical. And very open-ended. But okay.”
A beat.
I squint at him again. “Wait, was that a name?”
He doesn’t answer.
I make a face. “We’ll workshop it.”
We keep walking.
The gates to the city are visible now. Two enormous, curved towers frame the entryway, runed and glowing. Shapes move beyond them—people, I think—but I can’t quite focus on them yet.
I force a breath through my nose. “So… what happens if your people decide I am a threat?”
He stops and turns to face me. For the first time since I first saw him on the ridge, the air around him settles.
The shimmer quiets. His form sharpens. No blur.
No flicker. Just him, standing still, lit from behind by the city’s fire.
Dark wavy hair. Darker eyes. High ridged cheekbones and a sharp jawline.
He looks a bit like that actor that played Superman, but on steroids.
I swallow, willing myself not to blush. It has to be adrenaline causing the heat to curl in my belly.
He can be good looking, sure, thanks brain for hallucinating me a little treat, but don’t forget that I’m either dead, dying, or lying at the bottom of an elevator shaft.
“Do you mean Crimson or it’s people harm?” he asks. His voice isn’t harsh. It’s level. Precise. It lands in my chest like a weight.
“No,” I say quickly. “Of course not.” He doesn’t move. Still watching me. “I mean it,” I add. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m not here on purpose. I didn’t mean to trespass or infringe or whatever it is I did.”
“You survived,” he says. “You survived the Wastes.”
“Not on purpose.”
“It is not the act itself that is in question. It is that survival should have been impossible, and yet…”
And yet, here I am.
The gates loom—massive and bone-white, inscribed with glowing red sigils that pulse like they are alive.
The guards in front of them are just as intimidating, all sharp armor and narrow eyes, like they’ve been bred to spot threats before they can blink.
One steps forward as we approach. His helmet’s off, tucked under one arm, and his face is all perfect lines and practiced disdain.
He doesn’t look at my escort. He looks at me.
“This is the mortal?” he asks, voice too casual to be polite.
Something about his tone prickles against my skin. I resist the urge to step behind my big dark and dangerous babysitter. Barely.
“She is under watch,” the man beside me says, calm and clipped.
The guard’s eyes linger. “Strange. She looks fragile.”
“I’m right here,” I say, voice too sharp to sound brave. “And I bite.” It only occurs to me after the words are out of my mouth that they could be interpreted as a threat.
His mouth curls into a smirk. “Where are you taking her?”
There’s a shift in the air. My escort doesn’t move, but somehow the space around him does—pulling taut like a held breath.
“That has not been disclosed to you.”
“Apologies my Lord,” The other guard gives a courtly bow that doesn’t quite disguise the elbow he throws into his partner’s ribs. “We did not mean to overstep. Welcome back, Ember Heir.”
The first guard stiffens at the correction.
I do not miss it. Nor do I miss the way his eyes slide to me.
His gaze shifts over the scuffed toes of my shoes and up the line of my legs, I feel each inch like an oil slick.
I swallow back the bile that backs up into my throat and step further behind my protector.
Ember Heir.
The title hits like a gong behind my ribs. I don’t know what it means, not exactly, but I can guess. And if I had doubts before that this man was important—dangerously important—they’re gone now.
My babysitter ignores the greeting. But he notices the way the guard’s gaze slides back to me like the guy is still deciding how sharp his curiosity can get without drawing blood.
“We’ll take the side gate,” my escort says, his voice quiet but absolute.
The guard opens his mouth—then thinks better of it.
We turn before anything else can be said, moving down a narrower, shadowed path that curves away from the flame-lit main entry. I wait until we’re out of earshot.
“So,” I murmur. “Ember Heir, huh?” He says nothing.
I don’t push, but I do file it away. Because whatever game I’ve stumbled into is not small. Which only means there are about a million ways I can fuck this up. Great.