Zara nodded. “Obviously. How else would anyone survive four days of PowerPoint presentations on damnation reform?”
Despite everything, Ramona laughed. Actual laughter, surprising herself. Zara’s expression shifted — something that might have been pleasure, or satisfaction, or just acknowledgment that she’d made a joke and it had landed.
They finished eating. Ramona cleared the bowls, washing them hastily in the sink. Zara stood by the table, clearly uncertain whether to help or stay out of the way.
“You can just—” Ramona gestured vaguely. “Sit. I’ve got it.”
“I could assist.”
“You’re a guest. Or, like a guest-prisoner, I guess.” Ramona grimaced.
“Maybe we could just say I’m here for a while,” Zara said, wiping the table with a napkin.
Ramona washed the bowls, the forks, the pot. Simple, mindless tasks. The kitchen was quiet except for the sound of running water and the distant hum of traffic outside. Zara had moved to the window, looking out at the street below.
It felt almost normal to have a meal together, talking and laughing. Almost domestic.
Ramona shoved that thought away so hard it probably bruised.
“We should test the tether,” Ramona said, drying her hands on a dish towel that had seen better days. “Properly. While no one’s home.”
“Good idea.” Zara turned from the window. “Where do you want to start?”
“The living room?” Ramona gestured to the couch and TV area across the open-concept great room. “Then we’ll try the other rooms, see how far we can push it.”
They started in the living room, Zara standing by the front door with her phone out, that red glow illuminating her face asshe pulled up some kind of measuring app on her HellBerry. Ramona walked backward toward the hallway, counting her steps.
“Tell me when you feel it,” Zara said.
At twenty feet, nothing. At forty feet, a slight tightness in her chest like she’d taken a breath and held it too long. At fifty feet, the tightness became uncomfortable.
“It’s pretty strong right now,” Ramona said, stopping.
“Fifty-two feet.” Zara made a note. “Keep going.”
Ramona took another step. The discomfort increased, a pressure building behind her ribs. Another step. The pressure turned sharp, insistent.
“Fifty-nine feet,” she said, her voice strained.
“Farther,” Zara said.
Ramona grimaced, rubbing at her sternum. “Do I have to?”
“We need to know the limits.”
Ramona took two more steps, and suddenly it wasn’t just discomfort — it was pain. Real, visceral pain, like someone had wrapped a cord around her lungs and was pulling it tight. Her vision blurred at the edges.
She stumbled back, and immediately the pain eased. Zara was moving toward her, crossing the distance in a few long strides.
“Mortal—”
“I’m fine.” Ramona caught her breath, leaning against the wall. “Just… I guess that’s the limit before it really hurts.”
“Noted.” Zara’s hand was on her elbow, steadying. “We’ll try other directions.”
Ramona glanced down to Zara’s hand on her arm. Her touch was blazing hot, her skin soft. Her black nails were trimmed short, but some kind of illusion darkened the tips of her fingers, like she’d wrapped her hand in shadows.
Zara let go of Ramona, taking a step back, and Ramona stared at the invisible demonic handprint on her arm where Zara had touched her. She hadn’t expected Zara to feel so hot to the touch, but perhaps that was just a demon thing? Her eyes flicked up to meet Zara’s, finding an expectant and impatient expression there. Ramona straightened, focusing.
