Chapter 7 Malachi
Malachi
Soft, clumsy shuffling draws my attention, and I look up to find Eden standing there, looking like she’s been dragged through a hedge backwards—and then dragged back through it for good measure.
She’s a masterpiece of dishevelment in a frayed grey cardigan and tea-stained pajama pants, her hair a spectacular bird’s nest of dark knots.
After her ridiculous late-night exorcism attempt, I haven’t seen her again.
I assumed she’d embarrassed herself into hiding for the rest of her little life.
“Are you watching porn again?!” she shouts.
“Oh, good, you’re alive. And still as loud as a banshee in a library, I see.” I tilt the screen toward her just a fraction, forcing her to bear witness to the animated festivities. “For your information, this is educational. A historical reenactment.”
She blinks, squinting at the glowing display from across the room.
The reconstruction of the early Inquisition techniques is crude—low-budget CGI meant for mortal history buffs—but the imagery is unmistakable.
On screen, rough timber frames groan as digital ropes bite into wrists and ankles, stretching the pixelated limbs into angles that defy biology.
“Is that… a rack?” she whispers, horrified.
“Mhm. It’s a sloppy technique, though,” I critique, waving a hand at the screen. “They’re pulling too fast. You lose the flavor if you rush the pop.”
Fuck, how I love the feeling that runs through me when a femur finally gives way, the squelch of mashing organs under my fingertips, the music of a spine snapping like dry kindling—the way it echoes off the basalt walls and mixes in with that delicious symphony of wails.
“You never start at the joints; you work from the spine out,” I tell her. “Otherwise, the shock sets in and it’s over far too quickly. Mortals have lost all appreciation for the art of tension ever since the invention of the pocket watch.”
On the screen, the cartoon spine lets out a digitized crack and Eden full-on gags.
“Oh, my God,” she whispers, the words barely a breath. “Turn it off. Please—just stop watching weird shit on my laptop.”
I snort. “Please. This is barely foreplay.” Still, I tap the spacebar and the video freezes mid-play. “I was going to show you the segment on the Pear of Anguish once you were awake, but if you’re going to be squeamish…”
She stays silent, her eyes darting around the living room with a confused, disjointed energy.
“Hello?” I prompt. “Earth to summoner. You’re staring like you’ve never seen your own couch before.”
Her brow furrows slowly, still-tired gaze lingering on the surfaces. “You… uh… you cleaned?”
I lift an eyebrow, shifting my fluffy-sock feet on the coffee table. “That’s the part you’re stuck on? Not the inaccurate torture methods that are quite frankly offending every nerve of my being?”
“You cleaned,” she repeats flatly as she takes in the room that no longer looks like the site of an amateur occult disaster—and it’s all thanks to my elbow grease and desire to not live in filth.
“The mess was an eyesore, Eden. It’s hard to enjoy a documentary on depravity when there’s grit in the carpet and the stench of desperation in the air. Besides,” I gesture vaguely down myself, “I like to see my reflection in the surfaces.”
Her mouth hangs open in a state of pure disbelief, as if the concept of a demon using a microfiber cloth is completely out of her depth.
I click the laptop shut with one hand and slide it onto the table.
“Furthermore, I did not wish for the House-Beast to cut its paws in the kitchen. And contrary to popular belief, we aren’t all filth-dwelling savages.
This is my home now—at least for the time being—and I refuse to live in a kennel. ”
“And the… ritual stuff? Where is it?”
“Relocated. Your precious arts-and-crafts crime scene is over there. I didn’t want to risk you trying to exorcise me again.”
She follows the line of my finger to a small cardboard box tucked neatly beside the side table. Then her eyes dart immediately to the mantelpiece, fixating on the ceramic urn. I see the panic flare in her pupils, the silent ‘did he touch that?’ screaming in her mind.
Saints below, they really are so sensitive about their dirt in jars aren’t they? It isn’t as if the real Matthew is in there. It’s just his ground-down bones. The real Matthew is probably writhing in the Pit, being tortured for his potentially dull-as-dishwater personality.
“Relax,” I drawl, leaning my head back against the cushion. “I did not touch the Corpse-Boy’s remains. I have no interest in your dusty boyfriend. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“I… yeah. Thanks,” she manages to choke out.
She sinks onto the far end of the couch, followed by the House-Beast who leaps onto my lap.
“Did you find anything about the… coating?” she asks hesitantly. “I spent half the morning googling, but everything was just... fanfiction or Dungeons and Dragons stuff. I thought you might have—”
“I was entertaining myself, little summoner, not boring myself to death,” I interrupt, absentmindedly scratching behind the House-Beast’s ears as I let my gaze rake over Eden.
From the messy tangle of her hair down to the soft, tempting curves of her hips and the way her pulse is thrashing against the pale skin of her throat.
I wonder how long it would take to make those hesitant questions turn into breathless begging.
“But we need to fix it. We can’t be stuck together.”
My lips curl into a smirk. “Relax, baby girl. It’ll be fine.”
She chokes on air. “Excuse me, what?”
I narrow my eyes, brow furrowed. “I said I did not spend my evening researching—”
“No!” she cuts in, a hysterical laugh bubbling in her throat. “Baby girl? Where did you even—no. Absolutely not. Never say that again.”
“The dating show,” I say, gesturing to the muted TV.
“The male with the pumpkin-hued flesh and the gravity-defying hair tuft kept calling the female he was courting by that title. She seemed to enjoy it, and I found it rather fitting. Given the swaddling, and the fact that you leak saltwater at the slightest provocation…”
“It’s a reality show, Malachi. It’s trash. And you are not courting me.”
I pause, watching the flush of indignation crawl up her neck.
Well, she isn’t exactly wrong. As if I need to engage in the tedious, shuffling dance of mortal pleasantries.
We passed the stage of flowers and shy glances the moment her blood hit the parchment and I tore through the Veil.
Courting implies a question. It implies we have a choice.
I don’t need to court her. I just need to be near her so I don’t feel like I’m being hollowed out with a rusted spoon.
“Hmm. Yes. Anyway.” I dismiss her outrage with a flick of my fingers.
“You’ve been unconscious from sundown to sunup, which is abysmal hospitality, by the way.
I’ve checked the cupboards. There is no sustenance here other than a stale loaf of bread and more tea.
I fear that if an apocalypse was to strike, you would be one of the first ones to die based solely on your lack of preparedness. ”
She looks toward the kitchen, and as if on cue, her stomach gives a hungry growl.
“Shall we go to one of your mortal stores?” I stand and stretch, leaning into the delicious pull with a groan. “I need sustenance before I starve to death and turn into a husk on your floor.”
“No! No, absolutely not,” she blurts out. “I... I’ll order something. I don’t know. I can get them to bring it up to the door. I’ll just tip extra—like, a lot extra—so they just leave it and go. I’ll just... I’ll handle it.”
“Hmm. Ordering to the door. Truly innovative, baby girl.”
“Stop that,” she snaps, pointing a trembling finger at me with the most adorable lack of conviction.
An hour later, the sun is streaming through the dusty blinds and I’m sitting across from her at her tiny kitchen table, confronted with the spoils of war—or at least the spoils of a delivery app—hunched over a stack of buttermilk circles.
The mortal seasonings are a riot on my tongue—too much salt, too much grease, a chaotic symphony of flavors compared to what I’m used to. My gaze flits to the yellow eye of the egg on my plate. I poke it with a finger, watching it burst.
I pick the remains of the orb up gingerly between two fingers and take a bite.
Oh, fuuuuck no.
It’s like swallowing a mouthful of wet sand and sulfur.
I give the egg a disgusted look, and with a bored flick of my wrist, I toss it toward the floor like the piece of trash it is, right toward the House-Beast, who launches herself toward it with predatory grace and snaps it up, before trotting off to eat it in the corner.
My eyes flit to Eden. She isn’t eating. She’s merely picking at her toast, scrolling on her phone, and taking long, desperate sips of tea as if the liquid could wash away the reality of me sitting in her kitchen.
“You should eat, little summoner,” I drawl, leaning back until the chair creaks, letting my gaze wander over the cracked tiles on her kitchen walls, a look of faux-sympathy tugging at my mouth.
I hope she’s thinking of more interesting things to buy for me—perhaps a larger bed or a more comfortable throne or food that doesn’t make me want to vomit on her linoleum—and not trying to send me back home again. I’m only just starting to enjoy the lack of paperwork.
But her expression isn’t one of leisurely shopping; it’s one of desperation. Her teeth dig into her chapped lower lip, worrying the skin until the indents turn a stark, bloodless white.
My thumb moves of its own volition, landing in the center of her chin.
“Stop that,” I murmur, applying just enough pressure to force her jaw down, releasing the captive lip from her teeth. “You’re going to make yourself bleed.”
She swats me away, her attention still glued to the glowing rectangle in her palm.