Oliver stumbled back into his own room several minutes later. He was soaked to the bone, his skin ice cold. But he barely felt it; shock clung to him like a numb second skin, suffocating all sensation beneath it.
Slowly, he sank down on his bed. His body ached for sleep, but he made no move to slip beneath the covers, or to strip off his sodden clothes. Oliver stared at a spot on the floor a few feet away without really seeing it at all.
An icy wind swept into the hollow, coalesced into mist, and then became solid. Zarine stood in front of him, in human form, her head cocked as she studied him.
“What?” Oliver asked aloud, refusing to resort to internal conversation.
“I don’t understand what has you all riled up,” Zarine said.
Oliver snorted and shook his head, looking away from her. “You wouldn’t. You’re a Demon.”
“Thank you very much for the reminder. I might remind you that even we evil, horrible Demons can use our brains and think things through.”