Chapter 6 Eden
Eden
Fourteen short cracks and three long ones.
I’ve been mapping the topography of the plaster on and off for the last several hours, and even though I’ve stared at the exact same ceiling every night for years, it’s the only thing in this godforsaken apartment—aside from Vesper—that makes any kind of sense.
My eyes are burning, but sleep is a joke when there’s a silver-skinned entity exactly thirty feet away, separated from me by nothing but a half-inch of drywall and my own thinning sanity.
I toss in the sheets, but there’s no relief.
The cotton might as well be low-grit sandpaper for the way it’s burning against my skin.
Every nerve ending is a live wire, and my stomach is stuck in a continuous loop of somersaults—that bitter, pukey taste of bile rising in my throat every time I take a breath that’s just a little too deep.
There’s a demon in my living room. A demon who earlier today, went through Matthew’s belongings, and half an hour ago, I heard rummaging through the hallway closet. I need him gone. I need the silence back, even if the silence is one of the reasons that led me to this situation in the first place.
The sheets pool around my waist as I sit up. I’m a ‘domestic gerbil’ who’s done hiding, and there’s no way I’m staying trapped in my own bedroom while that headache occupies my living room.
I slink out of my bed and creep toward the living room, the scent of the bonfire and that cloyingly dark spice thickening with every step I take.
He’s there, on my couch, the blue light of my laptop illuminating the sharp, silver planes of his face, his golden eyes narrowed in intense, academic concentration.
What the fuck is he doing? Is he checking my emails? Looking at my search history?
It doesn’t fucking matter. It’s now or never.
I dart forward, my bare feet silent on the carpet, and snatch the container of salt from the coffee table.
Without thought, I lunge right into his personal space and hurl half the container right in his face in a flurry of white crystals.
It hits him square on, bounces off his horns, and slides down under the collar of the stolen vest.
“Really?” he deadpans, eyes still stuck on the screen as he brushes the pathetic dusting of salt off his shoulder with two long fingers.
I ignore him. I’m a trembling, toxic cocktail of adrenaline and sleep-deprivation. I whip out my phone, thumb hovering over the page I saved earlier today, ready to send him back to the void.
I open my mouth, my eyes frantically scanning the first line of the chant. I just need to say the words. Focus, Eden. “Ego… malig—malignum—”
“Oh, yeah… fix those pipes.” A wet, breathless voice drifts out of the laptop speakers.
“...fix those pipes?” I whisper, confusion taking over.
Malachi tilts the screen toward me.
“Explain something to me,” he says, pointing a black nail at the video where two very naked, very sweaty people are tangling in a way that looks physically impossible. “Why is the male mortal making that sound? Is he in respiratory failure? Or is this a standard mating call?”
My jaw drops. The phone in my hand slips, nearly hitting the carpet. My face feels like it’s been doused in gasoline and set on fire.
“Are you... are you watching porn on my couch?!”
“Please. I do not 'watch porn.' I am attempting to assimilate,” he counters calmly. “I’ve been studying the Passionate Plumber archives for the last hour. Your internet suggests that if I wish to properly seduce a mortal, I must first learn the art of home maintenance.”
“It’s porn, Malachi! It isn't real!” I hiss, lunging for the device. “Turn it off. Turn it off right now!”
“You find it offensive?” He shuts the laptop with a click, cutting off a particularly loud moan.
“Interesting. Yet it appears to be the primary pastime of your civilization—digital voyeurism. You throw seasoning at my face like a medieval peasant, yet you cannot bear to look at the mechanics of your own biology? How else am I supposed to seduce you if I cannot do research?”
“I don't know! Read a fucking romance book!” I shout, pointing at the stack in the corner. “Something written by a woman, preferably—no! Why am I even saying that? Why am I having this conversation with you? You are not supposed to be seducing me at all!”
The embarrassment curdles, thick and bitter, instantly turning into blind, white-hot rage.
“Exi!” I shout, voice trembling as I back up, finding my place on the phone screen again. “EXI!”
“Oh, we’re doing bad Latin now? You’ve gone from a summoning ritual to pantry-based witchcraft. Stunning progress, Eden. Truly. What’s next? Flour? Paprika? Are you going to dry-rub me back to Hell?”
“Exi!” I scream again, my voice cracking under the weight of my own hysteria.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Exīre,” he corrects with a sigh. “It’s an imperative. But yes, by all means, keep butchering a dead language. It’s a very effective deterrent.”
“Just—just stay back, and leave!”
“Oh, good. More volume. That’ll do it.” He stands slowly, shaking the rest of the salt from his hair like it’s nothing but a mild inconvenience.
Then he turns his back on my eleven p.m. exorcism and wanders down the hallway toward my bedroom, completely unbothered by the fact that I am currently trying to cancel his existence.
“Hey! I’m not done!” I scramble after him, dropping the salt and snatching up a glass of water from the side table. “Discede! Discede! In nomine—fuck—in nomine sanctorum! Spiritus malus, egō tibi… prohibeo? Fugio? Oh for fuck’s sake—PROFICISCERE!”
I swing my arm and unleash the glass of water in one big explosion that crashes down the back of his head, soaking into his hair, sliding in rivulets down the length of his spine.
Slowly, he peels the wet butterfly vest away from the back of his ribcage with a sickening slap. Then he drags a hand through his dripping hair and flicks a cool spray of water right at my face, making me flinch and stagger back, the glass slipping from my fingers.
“Did you just try to baptize me?” he asks. “That’s the second time you’ve drenched me in twenty-four hours. At this point, Eden, we’re bordering on a kink.”
He nudges my bedroom door open with his shoulder and drifts inside, hooking two fingers into the handle of my dresser.
“I wonder what you’re hiding in here?” he muses, pulling the drawer open with a slow wooden creak.
“Weapons? A relic? Perhaps a sacrificial blade I could play with?” He pauses, his golden eyes scanning the contents.
“Not quite the occult arsenal I was hoping for, little summoner.”
“Get off my things!” I yell shakily, hovering on the precipice of total internal combustion.
“You’d prefer me all-natural, huh?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder as he shoves his wet trousers down his hips.
“Oh my—! Stop—what—stop it!” I whip away from him, palms plastered over my eyes so hard I see stars.
“You know,” he says casually over the rustle of fabric, “I think you’d be pleasantly surprised if you just had a little peek. It’s a very impressive landscape.”
“Absolutely not!”
“Tragic,” he sighs. “Mortals spend so much time obsessing over bodies, yet you panic when given the opportunity to gawk at an absolutely perfect one.”
I should be halfway down the fire escape by now, but my legs feel like they’ve been filled with lead. I’m feverish, my stomach’s rippling again, and my skin feels three sizes too small.
A solid hand lands on my shoulder, turning me back to face him with a gentle tug. “I’m dressed now, your fragile porcelain majesty.”
I drop my hands, but the second my eyes lock onto my cartoon kitten vest and pajama shorts, the sheer absurdity of it sends me into a tailspin.
I spin on my heel, making a beeline for the door.
I don't even get two steps before the air shivers, and he’s suddenly there, blocking the exit like a wall of silver.
“Jesus Christ!” I hiss through gritted teeth, my hand flying to my chest to keep my heart from leaping out.
His smile sharpens, the light catching the glint of his fangs. “Do not say that miscreant’s name in my presence, you foul-mouthed creature.”
“What is wrong with you?” I snap, completely and utterly bewildered.
“A lot,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, smoothing down the kitten across his chest. “But we can unpack my personal issues after we deal with this exorcism bullshit—and exactly what’s going to happen to you if you try the whole 'oops-let-me-flee' routine again.”
“What the fuck are you even on about?” I ask.
“Were you not paying attention earlier?” He snaps.
“When you ran last night. It felt like my atoms were being unspooled and the universe was peeling strips off my organs the further away you got. I don’t get sick.
Ever. Yet I had to launch myself down that stairwell to find you before the distance literally ripped the bones from my chest.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “What does that even mean? Metaphorically?”
He blows out a frustrated breath, pacing the small width of my bedroom. “I don’t know. It’s likely just some leftover coating from the Veil. A metaphysical glue that didn't set right. So, we get sick when we're apart. Are you following the logic, or do I need to draw it in crayon?”
I narrow my eyes. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? How do I know this isn't some kind of trick?”
He stops pacing abruptly, turning to face me with a cold, challenging smirk. He gestures lazily toward the hallway.
“You want to test the perimeter? Be my guest. Go ahead. Run.” His golden eyes flash. “See how far you get down the stairwell before you’re vomiting out your internal organs. I’ll wait.”
I swallow hard, the phantom nausea from earlier ghosting over my tongue.
“Didn't think so,” he drawls.
I look down at my feet, at the scattered grains of salt on the carpet. “How long?” I ask, my voice barely audible. “How long will it last?”
“No idea.” He shrugs. “Could be hours. Could be days. Maybe I’ll spend the next few weeks staggering after you like some parasitic shadow, tethered by gut-stabbing drama every time you wander too far.”
He tilts his head, a dark, wicked light dawning in his eyes.
“Maybe I’ll be condemned to haunt your bones after you die, because I’ll still get sick if I stray too far—an eternal decorative demon perched at your graveside, critiquing your pathetic flower arrangements and hissing at teenagers who come make out at midnight.
Which, frankly, beats filing Form 42-B: Post-Mortem Screaming Volume Audit. But still, it—”
“But I have a life,” I protest, trying to set my jaw. “I have a job. I have things to do.”
Which is mostly true, I do have a job, even if I did have to call in earlier today to take the week off with the excuse of severe food poisoning, just to keep them off my back.
“Sure you do,” he drawls, rocking back on his heels just enough to look me up and down. “Because all people with a full, thriving life slit their wrists and scream for dead men in the middle of the night.”
I flinch as if he’d slapped me, the blade of truth wedging itself right between my ribs.
I open my mouth to tell him to back the fuck up, to find a word that isn't a humiliated stutter, but the room tilts, a wave of dizzy, grey nausea washing over me in a sudden, sickening swoop.
My hand slaps blindly at the edge of the dresser, fingers scrambling for purchase on the wood to keep from face-planting onto the floor.
“Pathetic,” he mutters, hands catching my waist. “You mortals are built like glass figurines held together with hope and spit.”
“I'm... fine,” I lie.
He ignores me, of course, and steers me back toward my bed, fingertips digging into my flesh. He takes so much of my weight that my toes barely scuff the carpet, maneuvering me like I’m a broken mannequin that needs to be returned to storage.
“Get off,” I wheeze, trying to bat his hands away as he dumps me onto the mattress. “I don't need your help. Back off.”
“Or what?” he taunts. “You’ll season me?”
“I—”
Before I can come up with a retort, he grabs the duvet and tugs the heavy fabric over me, pulling it tight across my shoulders and pinning my arms to my sides with a ruthless, efficient precision.
“What are you—”
“I am swaddling you,” he says flatly as he tugs the final corner of the blanket under my hip, effectively turning me into a human burrito. “Stay in your cocoon. If you attempt to unravel yourself and wander again, I will be forced to use more... permanent methods of restraint.”
I want to argue. I want to tell him I'm not a newborn or a golden retriever puppy, but my body is already betraying me, sinking into the forced warmth of the blankets.
“Go away,” I mutter.
“In a moment,” he rumbles, his shadow lingering over the bed. “Sleep, little summoner.”