Page 33 of The Girl Who Only Died Once

Chloe just blinks at her, in the morning light. “You just teleported, didn’t you?”

The Wight gives her a blandly unamused expression.

“I take it there’s a reason you couldn’t just teleport me out here?” Chloe asks. The air is so dry her lips feel already chapped.

“The amount of energy it took to get everyone out of Toronto was the result of years of planning for the right opportunity,” the Wight says simply. “No. No I couldn’t.”

Chloe sighs. “Look, I’ll get breakfast and I’ll be fine,” she says, and the Wight just raises an eyebrow. “I’ve done more on far less sleep.”

“Have you slept?” the Wight asks.

“I was knocked out for like thirteen hours, so yeah,” Chloe replies, and the expression the Wight overwhelmingly reminds her of being in kindergarten and being caught stealing snacks. “That counts.”

Instead of immediately answering her, the Wight just glances off towards the mountains, towards the mines that embed themselves into the pale rocks.

“You are, at minimum, facing a demon,” the Wight says, her voice dry. “And I’ve seen you practice, you’re not a combat mage on your best days.”

“I dunno if combat will happen,” Chloe says, sheltering her eyes from the sun, which was at just the right angle to blast through her defenses. “He didn’t seem too interested in hurting me last time.”

“Besides the sleep spell,” the Wight replies dryly. “And the teleporting to an occupied territory. And the thievery.”

Chloe knows when she’s beat and says nothing.

“Think of the energy equations needed for what you do,” the Wight says, still strict. “And now it can’t even maintain a connection to a piece of paper.”

“You sound like a spellweaver,” Chloe grumbles, and her entire face hurts with exhaustion.

“I take that as an insult,” the Wight says, voice still dry and grave. “If you charge in now there’s no likely manner you’ll make it out alive.”

“Eh, died once, I’ll be okay,” Chloe says, then attempts to give her a sunny smile.

It falls flat.

“I will tell Zoel, and I will make sure that report gets to your people, if you don’t rest,” the Wight says, and Chloe gapes at her.

“Why?” Chloe blurts out, and the Wight fixes her with a glare. “I mean, you don’t need to, nobody would hold it against you if you didn’t…”

“You already made a demon teleport into my territory, close to my daughter, for this quest, you can rest so it’s actually successful.” The Wight casts a significant glance at the piece of paper, her wiry gray hair a halo in the morning sunshine. “No demon should have a hand in getting the fox.”

Chloe shivers, even though it’s far warmer here than in northern Washington, and the Wight waits, watchingimpassively, the weight of her gaze almost as heavy as Chloe’s exhaustion.

“This won’t work until I rest?” Chloe mutters, and the Wight nods. “Fuck. Fine. I’ll get a room.”

“I’ll let Zoel know,” she says, then disappears, and Chloe gapes at the gravel spot she just inhabited.

Great. Now her friends will text her with their worries, she has another delay, and every delay just gives the demon more of a chance to get ahead, to move with her research, leave her completely behind in the dust.

The hotel in front of her is old-west themed, with fake skeleton cowboys posed outside—at least Chloe hopes they’re fake, Delina would know better—and the entire world is pale and bleached in the sunshine, hurting her eyes.

“Fuck,” Chloe whispers.

Chloe doesn’t sleep,of course, but she makes herself lay as still as possible, her mind racing the entire time.

Sure, she’s tired, but the replay of the sands dripping off her scrolls when the demon rolls them up, the soft grip of his hand in hers, and the magic cuff sparking against her awareness filters behind her closed eyes.

The bed isn’t the most uncomfortable thing she’s ever stayed in, that’d be prison, but the hours stretch on interminably long, her brain fully uncooperative with the idea of rest. The sun slips through the blinds, bright despite the time of year, casting deep shadows against the pastel reds and yellows of the western themed hotel.

It’s the same crawling sensation she sometimes got in the cabin, when Gurlien and her first found it, of being stuck in place. Of being unable to leave without jeopardizing herself.

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