Tempt the Stars

“Okay” was a relative term considering where we were, and encompassed a lot of things. But he didn’t look any more beat up.
    Unfortunately, that was about the only plus.
    He hadn’t found any extra clothes to go with the dirty jeans, which were now also cut in several places, and scorched down one side, probably the result of the near miss on the rooftop. His hair, always terrible, was now extra Pritkin-y, meaning it would have put any self-respecting stylist on suicide watch. Although it matched his face, which was a stubbly mess, and his left eye, which was black and swollen, and his right arm, which was in a sling, and his ribs—
    “You wouldn’t even get in the door at Rosier’s looking like that,” I told him, after a minute.
    His lips pursed. “Should I worry that you sound pleased?”
    “I do not!” That was ridiculous. “And I meant you look terrible.”
    “Would you like a mirror?” he asked sweetly.
    “No.”
    I glanced around. We were still on the sofa, only someone had added a rattan privacy screen on one side, shielding us from the view of the rest of the lobby. That seemed to happen to me a lot.
    I guess even hell has some standards.
    Although Caleb, at least, was doing earth proud. He was standing by a pillar, arms crossed, eyes watchful, face back to its usual fuck-with-me-and-die expression, maybe kicked up an extra notch or two because of where we were. His knee-length leather duster was likewise looking sharp. Of course, it was war mage issue, meaning that it was less a coat than self-healing armor, knitting up any little boo-boos almost as soon as they happened. I suspected it might be self-cleaning, too, because he was suspiciously lacking in dirt.
    Casanova, on the other, other hand, was bringing our average back down again, although less because of looks than attitude. He was still sprawled on the couch on my other side, and he must have finished off the bottle he was still clutching. Because his handsome face was pasty and crumpled, like his once-nice suit. And his eyes kept darting around the lobby blearily, as if trying to see through the bland beige glamourie.
    Altogether, we were a sorry lot, and then my stomach growled plaintively. “Have I been out long?” I asked, tucking a limp strand of hair behind my ear. And wincing, because even that hurt.
    “A few hours,” Pritkin told me. “You weren’t unconscious, just exhausted. We thought it best to let you sleep. It’ll likely be hours yet before we hear anything.”
    I digested that. And, unfortunately, nothing else. My stomach spoke up again, more forcefully.
    “Does this place have a coffee shop?”
    “No,” he said, getting up, and grimacing. I guess I wasn’t the only stiff one. “But there’s a food cart next door. If I remember right, it’s one of the safe ones.”
    “Safe?” Caleb frowned, like that word didn’t compute around here. “Am I misremembering the bunch of guys who just tried to kill us?”
    “That was before we reached the council,” Pritkin said, and stretched, cracking his back. I tried that, too, because it sounded like it would feel awesome, but I was too bendy. I just flopped over. So I pretended to be touching my toes since I was already down there.
    And, God, my toes. And the rest of my poor feet. Filthy, pedicure gone, cut and bruised and traces of hell gunk between the toes.
    And after everything, the running and the fighting and the almost dying . . . that was what did it.
    That was what finally had me tearing up.
    Until a pair of honest-to-God flip-flops were dangled in front of my face.
    I looked up. “How—”
    “Shop around the corner,” Pritkin told me, about the time that I noticed his nice, clean, flip-flop-clad feet.
    “You got a bath!” I accused, staring at them.
    “Sponge.” He nodded at a discreet sign on a nearby wall. Which had an arrow pointing down a hall and a curly script that read
Bathrooms
.
    And I realized that I had something else to take care of. “Be right back,” I told him, grabbing the shoes.
    “Wait.” That was Caleb, staring at the sign suspiciously. “How do we know what’s in there?”
    “What?”
    “There’s a toilet in there,” Pritkin told him, looking vaguely amused. “Many of the demon races have bodies, you know.”
    “And what if one of those bodies attacks her?” Caleb demanded. “Or some spirit does?” He glanced around unhappily. “This place is crawling with threats.”
    “Not for us. Once the trial