Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 101

**KACIA**

Well, I feel like absolute crap. Every inch of me hurts, my stomach won’t stop rolling, and even after the water my mouth still tastes like death. My head pounds so hard it’s like someone is driving nails straight through my temples. When I glance toward one of the massive arched windows, the pain spikes. Outside, the light blazes, bright, golden and agonizingly unrelenting. It looks like the middle of the afternoon on the hottest, clearest summer day imaginable. But it was night back home. Cool, dark, comforting. The contrast makes my stomach lurch all over again. The brightness is blinding, sharp as a blade, and it slices through my skull until I have to squint away. The air doesn’t help either. It’s heavy with magic, saturated so thick it feels like I’m breathing syrup. Sweetness clings to the back of my throat. Oz has complained that fae smell sickly like sugar and honey. My sense of smell isn’t nearly as good as his. But even without it… The feeling is there. Sickly, sugary and false. And the longer I stand in it, the more it presses on me. My senses react, thrumming uncomfortably under my skin like a hive of bees, responding to enchantments I don’t understand. It’s too much. Too loud. Too bright. I feel sick and disoriented, like the entire world is leaning sideways. Raylah is speaking, her voice melodic and lilting, but the words slip through me without meaning. I can’t focus enough to catch them. All I can do is slump against Oz, praying my stomach doesn’t turn itself inside out again. Thank the stars for him. He feels solid and grounding in a place that already feels wrong. If it weren’t for him, I don’t think I’d manage to stay upright at all. Raylah glides forward a few steps, clearly expecting us to follow, but I don’t move. I can’t. My limbs are useless, heavy as stone, and the thought of walking makes my head spin harder. Then she pauses. Turns. Clears her throat. Pointed and deliberate.

“You wouldn’t be refusing my hospitality now, would you?” Her tone is soft sugar, but the edge beneath it cuts sharp as a knife. A chill runs straight through me. Fae hospitality isn’t just politeness, it’s law. To refuse is to insult. And to insult a fae… Well, people die over less. I feel Oz stiffen beside me, hear the sigh of someone weighing bad choices against worse ones. He shifts, pulling me up with careful strength, his arm braced firmly around my waist. My legs tremble, threatening to buckle, but he keeps me steady.

Together, we shuffle forward after Raylah. Every step takes effort, like wading through deep water. The air hums with magic, prickling over my skin, needling at me with reminders that I don’t belong. And as Raylah sweeps ahead of us, perfect and untouchable, I can’t shake the truth pressing in from all sides, this isn’t home. This isn’t safe. And in this place, the rules aren’t mine. As we walk, I dig through my memory for every scrap of information I can recall about the fae rules of hospitality. I did read about them during my research, once, briefly, but I hadn’t exactly pictured myself sitting down for tea with an fae at the time. It had felt more like folklore than something I’d need to survive. Which, considering the situation now, is painfully stupid of me. Some rules are simple, the kind even a half asleep human could follow. Don’t steal from your host. Don’t insult the food or drink they offer you. Don’t raise a weapon or start violence under their roof. Easy enough. Others are more twisted, and that’s where the trouble begins. If you’re offered food or drink, you’re expected to accept it. Refusing can be taken as an insult, even a declaration of hostility. But accepting isn’t without its dangers either, fae refreshments are often laced with enchantments, spells that can bind you to an agreement you didn’t even realize you’d made. Some say that once you taste their food, you’re trapped here, unable to return home. I can’t remember if that’s literal truth or more of a symbolic warning. Then there are the subtler rules. If your host gives you a gift, you must reciprocate, or else you’ve entered into a debt. And debts are dangerous currency in Faerie. Politeness is a weapon here, every gesture a contract. Even compliments can be risky if worded wrong. I press a hand against my temple, trying to ease the pounding there. My head is throbbing, my stomach still unstable, but I know I have to get this right. One slip, one careless word, and we could insult Raylah without even meaning to. And from the sound of her voice when she said ‘hospitality,’ she’d be more than willing to make us pay for it. Oz’s arm is firm around me as we shuffle along, and I cling to that steadiness, grounding myself against his warmth. I can’t afford to look weak in front of Raylah, but damn it, I already do.

Tea with a fae. Out of all the situations I thought I’d end up in, this has to be the most ridiculous. And of course it has to happen after I’ve been yanked straight out of bed. I’m sitting here in my comfiest, softest, most unflattering pyjamas, the kind that are one wash away from falling apart. I did briefly consider putting on something cute before collapsing into bed earlier. Something that might let me swan around in front of Oz and prove I am more than capable of weaponizing my looks. But I was too tired and decided comfort was king. Now, as we trail after Raylah, I regret it. Not because I’d feel less exposed in lace or silk, no, I’d probably feel more exposed, but at least I wouldn’t feel so… Slobbish in comparison to her. She’s glittering like she stepped straight off the cover of a magazine, and I look like I should be clutching a tub of ice cream and crying over a soap opera. My eyes drift down to her feet, expecting the sharp click of designer heels to match the dress she’s flaunting. But her steps are silent. Barefoot. No shoes at all. Is that a Raylah thing or a fae thing? Either way, it’s weirdly grounding. Maybe they don’t need heels when they’re already perfect. Still, I can’t help approving, practicality wins points with me. The weakness in my limbs slowly begins to ease as we move, though the nausea refuses to budge, sitting stubbornly at the pit of my stomach. Raylah sweeps us into a large, airy room that’s even brighter than the last, light spilling in from enchanted sconces and massive windows. My head throbs in protest. She gestures for us to sit, her movements graceful, commanding. I take a step toward one of the velvet backed chairs, but Oz’s arm hooks firmly around me before I can sit. He doesn’t let go until he drops into his own seat, then promptly pulls me down into his lap.

“Not that I’m complaining…” I whisper, trying to keep my voice low enough that Raylah won’t catch it. 

“But why am I on your lap?” I ask Oz. His hold tightens, protective and stubborn. 

“Because I’m not letting you out of reach while we’re here. I promised to keep you safe, and that’s what I’m going to do.” He says stubbornly. The intensity in his voice makes me soften despite myself. My lips curl into a small smile. 

“Well… Okay then. Thank you.” I murmur sweetly. And since his cheek is right there, I lean in and brush a quick kiss against it. He tenses under me, muscles coiling, and lets out a frustrated sigh that vibrates against my side.

“You can’t complain when you’re the one being all clingy.” I point out, smug despite the queasiness in my stomach. Oz rolls his eyes, clearly biting back a retort. But before he can get a word out, Raylah throws her head back and laughs.