Page 87 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

He regards her, and there’s something different than the scholastic lens he’s been tracking her with.

“So, more experimentation nonsense,” she says, forcing cheerfulness in her voice. “Every demon I’ve talked to has been horrified, so I have that going for me.”

Surprising her, he clinks his glass against hers. “And I’ve been exiled away from the only social group I know how to interact with, cheers.”

It’s a nice bit of levity, and despite all the drama of the day, despite all the emotions, she lets the wine seep over her tongue, lets the small bit of camaraderie keep her above water.

He takes a somewhat large sip from his glass, the deep red liquid shining in the twinkling lights. “Do demons have gender preferences?”

It’s a relatively ridiculous question. “Demons don’t have a gender unless they’re in a body, not really,” she says, then shrugs. “It’s not set in stone, I’ve known some who only find male bodies, some that only find female, some that make it a priority to switch around. I never paid attention to it, mostly.”

His lips twitch. “Such a different experience than humanity.”

“It is astoundingly weird to be in one form for so long,” she says, and it still hurts. “I don’t know how humans can for their entire lives.”

“So you don’t pay attention to gender,” Gurlien says, almost to himself.

“I mean, I observe it,” Ambra says. “Humans and some Wights get very angry if you don’t at least recognize what they’re doing with that.”

Another twitch of his lips, this time into something resembling a smile.

The patio is slowly filling up, people trickling in, and besides a few curious glances their way, nobody pays them that much attention. Like they’re two normal people having a drink together, as common as anything else in this world.

It’s a soothing thought, somehow, that despite everything, she could be…normal. Have a life others wouldn’t blink at. That maybe she won’t need to exile herself away, avoid the world for forever. That despite the heartbreak, despite the loneliness and the loss inside of her, that she’d be okay.

“Try this one,” Gurlien instructs, drawing her attention back to the present, pointing at one of the luridly reddish meats. “It’s too spicy for me.”

Before she can even shift, he’s already piling some of the meat together with some cheese on one of the wafers, handing it to her.

“I think, after all of this, we should really find out all your limits in terms of spicy food,” he says, just as seriously as before, as if just as worthy of scientific experimentation as her power. “See if there’s something you actually can’t handle out there.”

After all this.

“Sure,” Ambra says, and her heart beats a little bit faster at the idea.

23

Hours pass, and the small table is full of empty wine glasses, the platter of food empty besides a few crumbs, and Ambra’s entire sense of self is…loose.

Her shoulder blades don’t hurt, the tips of her fingers don’t hurt, and there’s a red flush on the top of Gurlien’s cheekbones.

He’s animated, more animated than she thought possible, leaning back on the lounge chair with her, an arm slung over the back. They’ve moved from talking about their past, to books, to scholarly theories, to the weirdest of adventures that Gurlien’s had since being kicked out.

And it’s all…fine. Not emotionally charged. Like the wine has taken all the sharpness of conversation and dulled it to an enjoyable touch, and spending it with someone else has taken away the loneliness that usually accompanies those moments.

For the barest hint of a second, she even thinks it might be ‘fun.’

Gurlien’s hand touches her shoulder, startling her out ofher thoughts, and he’s been doing that. The small idle touches, like pulling her out of herself with just the hint of contact.

“Your face got maudlin again,” he says, and it’s amusing how he pulls out the larger, somewhat more obscure words the more wine he has.

And that he could pinpoint it in her so quickly.

“I don’t even know what my face was doing,” Ambra informs him, and he smiles at her. “Half the time this face makes expressions I have no way of controlling.”

“Again, very human trait,” he says, and there’s a teasing note to his voice. “Very normal.”

“I refuse to believe that,” Ambra says, and his hand dangles from the back of the couch cushion, barely touching her shoulder again. “Humans have got to be better, they were born in these bodies, there’s no way they all just lose control of their faces.”

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