Chapter 3
Eden
Skin lights up under a flash of lightning.
Grey.
Not pale. Not cold. Not ‘in need of some vitamin D.’
Actual grey—full-blown, storm-cloud skin stretched over muscle that looks human at first glance…
and then doesn’t. Not unless the male in the business-casual suit that’s now dripping with my cold tea, consumed a biblical amount of colloidal silver and developed a catastrophic case of argyria.
But even that wouldn’t explain the rest of what I think I’m seeing.
He has horns—fucking horns—curling out from under a mess of black hair, swept back from his forehead like a mountain ram’s, ending in wicked, tapering points. And every single time he blinks, his pupils split and contract like a snake’s, swallowing up his molten-gold irises.
Between the sleep deprivation, the ritualistic nonsense, and the months of not dealing with anything properly, maybe the trauma to my skull has finally decided to stage its big comeback tour in the form of a horrific, very disturbing hallucination that just appeared from thin air behind my couch.
And I just threw my tea at it.
“Come on, little summoner. Introduce yourself. I know you can speak.” He tilts his head and grins, flashing a set of pearly-white fangs—a set of fangs too?
! Oh, God. “I heard you reciting shitty poetry a few minutes ago. Unless my ethereal beauty has stunned you so much you’re stuck in this very convincing impression of a goldfish? ”
A low, animalistic hiss comes from the other side of the room, and my eyes snap over right to where Vesper is.
She isn’t looking at me. She’s looking at that.
She’s arched into a trembling ‘U’ on the back of the couch, every single hair on her body standing on end.
Fuck—I’ve never heard her make that noise or look like that before.
How can she…
No. She’s only freaking out because I’m freaking out. Animals latch on to that sort of stuff. Right?
“Ah. A cat,” he says as he follows my line of sight, head tilted. “I do love those. They’re the only mortals who truly understand the appeal of a well-timed scratch.”
She hisses again, louder this time. He lets out a dry chuckle, and the sound of his amusement is what finally slices through the panic, jolting my vocal cords into motion.
“Who—what—what are you?” The words stutter out. “And why are you in my apartment?!”
“First of all,” he says, flicking an imaginary speck off his shoulder, “did your mortal mother never teach you manners? It’s rude to look someone in the face and demand to know what they are.
So I’m not answering that. As for why I’m here—well.
I saw you calling out. Liked what I saw. Thought I’d… drop in and say hello.”
I just stare at him, lagging a full ten seconds behind every word.
“You… saw me?” My voice cracks. “Saw me where? How—why—how were you even watching? We’re seven floors up. There isn’t even a balcony, I—”
“Through the Veil,” he cuts me off. “Your little ritual was essentially the metaphysical equivalent of throwing a brick through a window. Your little ritual opened a door right into the Forbidden Zone… and I saw you.”
My skin freezes as the blood drains from my face. “No. No, no, no. You… you are not what I called for.”
His dark eyes glitter with a cruel sort of amusement. “Hmm. Yes. Well, I’m aware you were shopping for a human spirit—not me. Quite the specific request. May I ask which one was worth the bloodstains and the bad poetry?”
“Matthew,” I choke out.
“What is a ‘Matthew’?” he asks, rolling the name around his tongue like it’s something bitter.
“My boyfriend,” I whimper.
“Oh, how touching. Truly.” He takes a step closer, his shadow stretching across the floor until it swallows my feet.
“Well, you wanted a Matthew. Instead, you got a Malachi. And let’s be honest, you can’t just wrangle your boyfriend back for some post-mortem cuddling.
Candles and crying don’t equal a resurrection.
Plus, he’s dead—your hands would go right through him.
He’d be about as satisfying to hold as a face full of fog. ”
His words hit something tender and rotten inside me, knocking all the air out of my lungs.
He rakes his fingers through his hair, fingers grazing the curve of a horn, eyes dragging down my body with infuriating interest. “Me, however? Fully solid. Excellent stamina. Built for interaction. The hands-on kind. I can do kissing, biting, choking, carrying—sometimes all at once, if the mood’s right.
I can give you a demonstration if you want? ”
I wet my lips, forcing the words out through the tight band around my chest. “Stop,” I whisper shakily. “You… you can’t be here. You can’t be real. I just… I just need you to leave so I can—” I break off, my voice crumbling. “Just go. Please.”
He sighs dramatically, then steps forward, stopping just a few inches away—close enough that the next flash of lightning glints off the thin metal of a septum ring and a row of hoops and studs climbing the curved point of each ear.
“Alright. Since you insist on being spectacularly rude and trying to evict me from a realm I quite literally clawed my way into, we’ll try something simpler.
” He extends his hand toward me. “Formal introductions.”
My gaze flits to the smooth silver skin, and the dark veins shifting just beneath the surface like ink in water.
I shake my head quickly, stumbling backwards a step. “No! Don’t touch me—”
He raises his hands in mock-surrender and laughs. “Fine. But regardless of your aversion to contact—my name is Malachi, Torture Administrator of the Ninth Division. Resident of Hell—currently off-duty, and now residing in your delightfully dreary apartment.”
The room tilts.
“Resident of Hell?” I croak. “You’re a—oh fuck—you’re the fucking Devil.”
Is this what my mind thinks I deserve? Hallucinating the devil as my retribution for everything I’ve done wrong?
Matthew would’ve laughed. Or maybe he wouldn’t have. I don’t even know anymore. Maybe this is exactly what I get for trying to drag him back.
He barks out a laugh that rumbles through the room.
“The Devil? Oh, no, no, no. I said I was from Hell. I didn’t say I was the Devil.
She doesn’t slip through worlds for little things like you.
That’d take something monumental. She’s got bigger fish to fry.
Think mass genocide, a nuclear winter, a global flood.
Not one lonely mortal with a cardigan and a little bitty broken heart.
You, darling, got me.” he concludes, sketching a mocking bow.
The room swims at the edges like my brain is trying to smudge it all out—blur the horns, blur the eyes, blur everything.
My lungs tighten, begging me to crumble, to sink, to fold in on myself the way I always do when the world gets too sharp.
No. No crumbling. Not right now.
I gather the shreds of my sanity and shove them into one shaky sentence. “You need to get out of my head. Right now.”
“You sure about that?” he murmurs. “Because I think we really could have a lot of fun together.”
“Stop—stop talking like that. I’m being serious. Out of my head. I—”
He lifts a brow slowly. “You can scream beg or plead, it changes absolutely nothing. I am not in your head. I’m here. I’m staying. That’s the situation.”
“But I don’t want you here,” I whisper thinly.
“I couldn’t give two fucks in a lake of fire,” he scoffs.
“Life is an avalanche of disappointments, and I’ve been at the bottom of the pile for a long time.
So settle in, you’ve got a brand-new best friend.
Lucky you. I’m excellent company. A little murdery, sure, but delightful once you stop gasping for air like a trout on land. ”
My nerves fizz stupidly, rendering me almost completely useless. My hands shake so hard I nearly knock the phone onto the floor as I snatch it off the table.
This is not happening. This cannot be happening.
Maybe I should call my mom, my dad, or Piper—but what would I even say? “Hey, sorry to bother you, but there’s an evil manifestation of my own horrific life choices standing in my apartment and it won’t leave.”
I thumb the screen awake, the harsh LED light blinding in the dim room. I bypass my contacts and open the browser instead, hovering over the search bar.
Maybe the police.
Maybe a crisis line.
Maybe someone qualified in—shit—what even is the correct place to go to for this?
PTSD hallucinations real? How to manage?
“Post-traumatic stress disorder, isn’t it?” he drawls, so close the scent of bonfire and spice floods my senses. “Plenty of mortals come screaming through the gates with that one. Though you don’t look the type for war. Not nearly enough bloodlust in those pretty eyes.”
“You don’t just get PTSD from wars,” I snap, my thumbs shaking as I scroll. “You can get it from—oh, you know what? Why am I even explaining this? I’m arguing with a figment of my own mind.”
He leans further in, pointing a long, silver finger at the screen.
“Headaches… dizziness…” He hums thoughtfully. “Check and check. Oh, look at this one—mood swings and irritability. Well, that certainly explains the delightful attempt to baptize me in cold tea, doesn’t it?”
I lock my jaw, scrolling faster, trying to find a solution to whatever the fuck’s going on.
“Visual misperceptions of figures not present… very on-brand,” he murmurs. “Auditory distortions… that must be my irresistible charm echoing through your tormented psyche. You’re really speed-running the checklist.”
“Shut up!” The words teeter on the edge of a scream.
He chuckles darkly. “So what’s the verdict, internet doctor?
Am I a concussion? A trauma response? Faulty electrics?
Or am I the dead boyfriend’s ghost disguised as something much more attractive?
” He tilts his head, his horns nearly brushing my temple.
“Maybe I’m your deep-seated sexual repression manifesting with horns.
Or—ooh, here’s an idea—am I simply... a demon? ”
I’m losing my fucking mind. I’m actually losing it.
I need to go.
I need out. Right now.
If I can just get out of this room—out of this apartment—I can fix this. If I can get to the street, to fresh air, to people who aren’t him, I can make him disappear. I won’t think about him. It. Whatever it is.
I skirt around him, keeping as much distance as the narrow room allows, and make a beeline for the door.
I jam my feet into my boots without untying them, nearly falling as I grab my jacket off the hook.
All while that thing just stands there watching me, head cocked, eyes bright and unbearably amused.
His breath fans across the back of my neck. “What are you doing? Abandoning your brand-new best friend? Leaving me alone with all your precious belongings and your House-Beast in the middle of the night just to escape me? Bold choice.”
My fingers fumble at my zip as it sticks slightly halfway up.
Vesper. Fuck.
She’s still a small, vibrating ball of shadow on the couch. A sickening spike of guilt pierces through the fog in my brain. I’m leaving her. I’m leaving my only companion in a room with a…
No.
I grit my teeth and wrench the zip free with a violent tug.
Stop it. This isn’t real, Eden.
She’ll be fine. Hallucinations don’t hurt cats. She only freaked out because I freaked out. So maybe once my panicky-ass self is out of the room, she’ll get a chance to calm down too.
“Run all you want, little summoner,” he purrs behind me. “I’ll see you when you get back.”
I bolt out, slam the door shut, and lean back against the hallway wall, pressing my fingertips to my temples, kneading at the pressure before it mutates into something catastrophic.
Move, Eden.
One foot, then the next. Fresh air. Normalcy. Noise that isn’t… whatever the hell that thing is.
So I drag myself forward, forcing my feet toward the stairwell. I scramble down the first flight on shaking legs, hand clinging to the rail because my bones feel like they’ve been assembled out of wet cardboard.
Halfway down the next flight, the steps seem to pulse beneath me. I miss one and stumble, slapping a palm against the wall to steady myself. My head dips forward as hot saliva surges, nausea rolling so violently through me I nearly fold.
No. Nope. Absolutely not. Pull yourself together.
I clamp my lips together, barely managing to swallow the flood down.
It’s fine. Keep moving. Just go.
Slick beads of sweat prickle across my forehead, my vision flickering.
What the hell is happening?
I buckle, catching myself on the railing with both hands, doubled over. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying my best to suck in lungfuls of air.
Come on. Stand up. Move.
I push up and manage two unsteady steps before the entire floor drops sideways in a slow underwater tilt that sends a hot wave rocketing up my throat. I slap a hand over my mouth as I dry heave into nothingness.
My knees splay outward, fighting for balance against another tilt. The spot beneath my sternum feels like it’s swelling, guts pushing my bones outwards in quick shoves.
Oh God. No. No. Something is wrong. Something is seriously wrong.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t—
Iron fingers hook onto my arm, jerking me upward and backward in one brutal pull, whipping the world past in a smear of concrete.
I barely manage a gasp before a second hand slams over my mouth, sealing the half-formed scream against my tongue.
My body jerks on instinct, limbs flailing as I try to struggle against the hold.
My shoes scrape uselessly against the concrete, soles squealing as he drags me backward, step by step.
All at once, it collapses—the pressure, the nausea, the stabbing heat in my bones. It dissolves into one big, dizzying rush of something warm and heavy, like hot syrup flooding through my veins, like a muscle unclenching after being held too tight for too long.
Another arm slides under my knees in a single, efficient sweep, scooping me into a bridal hold, and my head lolls against a shoulder. I can’t tell if it’s comfort or terror flooding me anymore. My body is limp, useless, humming with strange relief.
The air around me dissolves into nothing but goopy static.
“Don’t pass out,” a low growl warns. “Oh, you dramatic little—”