Chapter 15
Eden
My boots clatter against the damp sidewalk as I step over piles of rotting leaves and dodge the late-night stragglers.
The entire day’s been a blur of lying through my teeth to Piper and trying to ignore the itch of the sigil on my ribs that’s dulled from a burn to an ash-blackened mark.
Now it’s past midnight, the city has become a skeletal version of itself, and I’m chasing a silver-skinned nightmare through the dark.
“Malachi!” I wheeze, lunging forward to grab the edge of his sleeve, fingers bunching in the heavy fabric of the hoodie I managed to wrangle over his head when he bolted for the front door half an hour ago. “Talk to me. You’re acting like a feral bloodhound in a public street.”
He stops so abruptly I almost slam into his back.
“I’m tracking,” he says, chest heaving as he sucks in a deep, lung-bursting breath of the urban rot.
Before I can even get a ‘who’ or a ‘why’ or a ‘what the fuck’ out, he’s gone—sprinting with a terrifying speed that forces me to scramble just to keep the sickness from ripping me in two.
He rounds the corner of a damp brick building, hauling me in his wake like a tail on a kite, and skids to a halt behind a row of industrial dumpsters where the air’s thick with a gag-inducing cocktail of garbage, wet cardboard, and rust.
“Stay quiet,” he commands with a lethal whisper as he points one long, silver finger past the rusted edge of the bin.
I squint into the dim, flickering light. Standing near a pile of discarded crates is the environmentalist guy—the one with the smug, self-righteous clipboard and the ‘Save the Earth’ tote bag who’d tried to corner us on our way to the pharmacy.
My brow furrows, and I open my mouth to ask why we’re out in the middle of the night tracking a guy whose only crime was being overly passionate about recycling.
But before a single syllable can escape, Malachi’s hand slams over my mouth.
He presses me backward with a force that leaves no room for argument, until cold, wet brick meets my spine.
The environmentalist lets out a sound—a wet, clicking noise that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
What the…
Then, he reaches into the dumpster and pulls out a rat. It’s still twitching, its pink tail lashing feebly against his wrist, before he shoves the whole thing into his mouth with a disgusting, desperate greed.
My stomach does a somersault, and I gag into Malachi’s palm, the sound muffled by his skin.
“Look closer, Eden,” he whispers against my ear, his breath the only warm thing in this freezing alley, heating my skin while my blood turns to slush. “See how the skin at his throat doesn't move when he swallows? See how the light doesn't reflect in his pupils?”
I force myself to look, even though every instinct is screaming at me to bolt, to find a brightly lit street, to vomit and never stop.
He’s right. As the bulk of the rat slides down the man’s gullet, his neck remains a smooth, unbroken pillar of flesh.
No muscle movement. No Adam’s apple. Just a hungry, hollow tube.
“He’s a Vermin-Class Harvester,” Malachi snarls quietly, his hand still firm over my mouth, anchoring me to the slick masonry. “A bottom-feeder who feasts on the rot of this city and the misery of its people. And he’s the prick who outed my whereabouts to Veraxia.”
“You brought me to a... a rat-eating demon in the middle of the night? Why?!” I whisper-yell, my voice cracking under the weight of the stench and the sheer, logic-defying horror of it all.
“Because, he’s in a shell,” he says, his eyes locked on the environmentalist as he wipes a smear of dark blood from its chin using the corner of his tote bag.
“All authorized demons, like this pathetic worm, are issued one—a mortal suit. It’s bio-suit that lets us walk among you without causing a mass panic. ”
“He's wearing a... a suit?” My voice quivers, barely a breath.
He doesn’t answer as he steps out from our hiding spot, his tall, hooded silhouette cutting through the pale moonlight.
“Hey,” Malachi calls out, his voice echoing around the alleyway as he stalks forward. “Do you have a minute to talk about the environment?”
“It—it’s you—” The creature—the man—whatever the fuck it is—snaps its head toward him and scrambles back, hitting a stack of wooden pallets, sending them clattering to the ground. “You're—you're supposed to be in Hell! I reported you!”
“Not so brave and oily now, are you, you Vermin-Class cunt?” Malachi snarls as he stalks forward, the cat-fur-covered hoodie doing nothing to hide the sheer, terrifying power radiating off him. “I was here, enjoying a harmless vacation, and you reported me.”
“So what?!” it shrieks, its human eyes bulging. “It’s… it’s procedure! It’s protocol to report unsanctioned visitors!”
“I couldn’t give two fucks in a world of brimstone if it’s unsanctioned,” Malachi spits, closing the distance until he’s looming over the creature.
He reaches out, grabbing the man by the front of his windbreaker and hoisting him off the ground with one hand.
“You caused me a logistical nightmare. And now, you’re going to pay for the inconvenience. ”
“Wh… what?” the thing whimpers, its legs kicking uselessly in the air. “What do you want?”
“The shell,” Malachi growls, his golden eyes flashing with a predatory light. “Now.”
The things face contorts in pure terror. “No! Not the shell! You can’t! I’ll be exposed!”
“I’m not asking,” Malachi says, his voice deathly quiet.
Without waiting for another plea, he slams the Harvester back against the brick wall with a bone-crunching thud and sinks his silver fingers right into the man’s collarbone, seeking out the flesh underneath.
The wet crack of bones crunching sends a jolt through my nervous system. The sound of skin peeling makes my vision tunnel. I can almost smell the iron and the lilies from the funeral. My hands go to my ears, but I can’t block out the sound of ripping as Malachi’s hand twists.
A blood curdling, high-pitched, electronic screech fills the air as the skin begins to peel back, revealing a shimmering, oily film as it lifts away from his body. The ‘human’ face sags and melts, the eyes sliding down the cheeks like marbles in syrup, revealing something pale and chitinous.
It has too many limbs—long, spindly things that twitch with the erratic, nervous energy of an insect—and there’s something horrific and spiny protruding from its back, like a cluster of obsidian porcupine needles.
“Please!” the thing gurgles, its voice wet and bubbling. “Don’t take my fucking shell!”
But Malachi’s relentless. He’s snarling now, golden eyes blown wide, his muscles coiled underneath the hoodie with a terrifying, overpowering aggression.
He rips the last of the shimmering film away with a final, violent jerk, and the hideous, insectoid Harvester collapses into a heap of pale, spindly limbs and weeping sores.
Oh God. Oh fuck.
My knees shake so hard I have to lean against the dumpster to stay upright. My hands are over my mouth, my heart knocking against my ribs like a caged bird. I can't breathe.
Malachi stands over the Harvester, holding the gauzy, translucent, human-shaped ‘suit’ in his hands.
“Was that totally rad, dude?” Malachi mocks, spitting down at the twitching mess on the ground. “Was it totally chill vibes? Did you save the planet today, you little snitch?”
The Harvester’s sobbing, its many limbs scratching frantically at the pavement.
“You’ve made a big mistake,” it wheezes, the voice no longer human, but a grating hiss. “That shell... it’s registered to me. When I get back to Hell… when I report this... you’re fucked. They’ll rip you limb from fucking limb for a theft this blatant.”
Malachi laughs. He doesn't look bothered, or winded. He looks... satisfied.
And that scares the shit out of me.
“No, they won’t,” he says. “Because you aren't going back to report a damn thing.”
Silver blurs across the moonlight as he drops the shell for a split second, reaching down to seize the creature by its twitching, multi-jointed neck.
There’s an unbearably loud crack, and the high-pitched wheezing stops instantly. The pale, spindly limbs give one final, pathetic jerk and then go limp. The creature’s true form begin to dissolve into a foul-smelling grey mist the second the life leaves it.
My heel catches on a piece of debris as I stagger and hit the wall hard. “You... you killed him,” I whisper, my hands shaking. “Malachi, you just…”
He looks at his hands, wiping a smudge of dark ichor onto the fur-covered hoodie, and then reaches down to pick up the shell from the floor.
“I removed an irritant,” he says, his voice flat and terrifyingly calm as he turns back to me. “He was a snitch and a bottom-feeder. Now, he is nothing.”
He takes a step toward me, and I press my spine so hard against the brick that the mortar digs into my coat, scratching through the fabric. “Stay back. Don't come near me.”
“He was a demonic version of a cockroach.” Malachi’s voice hardens as he holds up the shimmering, translucent shell, the film rippling in the moonlight.
“You don't weep when you step on a bug, little summoner. Besides,” he adds, bunching the translucent skin into a ball.
“I didn't just skin him for sport, Eden. I did it for you too.”
“For me?” I choke out, staring at the grey mist dissolving on the floor. “How is killing a man in an alley for me?”
“Because as long as I look like myself, you’re a prisoner in that apartment,” he says. “But if I wear this? I pass. And if I pass, I can walk with you. I just cleared the board so you could have your life back. You're welcome.”
“I’ll have my life back regardless,” I counter. “The kit... it’ll be here soon. And then I can go about my life without you, full stop.”
“Optimistic,” he muses. “But until your little package of cleansing supplies arrives, I wish to enjoy myself.” He looks around the damp, trash-strewn alleyway as if it’s a scenic vista.
“And frankly, as much as I enjoy your... cozy little shoebox of an apartment, I have no desire to spend the entirety of my surface time rotting on your couch with dusty paperbacks and the dating show. I want to see the sights.”
I look down at the dissipating grey mist on the asphalt.
Five minutes ago, that was a person. Well, a demon in a suit, but it walked and talked and held a clipboard.
Now it’s just a wet smear on the ground and a wadded-up costume.
And the thought of playing tourist with him—of strolling through the city with a monster who just peeled a living thing like a grape—makes the bile rise in my throat all over again.
I forgot. God, I actually forgot what he was. I ate pizza with him. He fawns over my cat. He’s been—
“You’re afraid of me now,” he says with a heavy sigh.
“Yes… no… I don't know…” I stammer, shaking my head.
“Have I harmed you, Eden?” He steps into my space and reaches out. I flinch, my eyes snapping shut as I wait for the blow, or the snap, or the end. Instead, I feel the ghost of his fingers stroking my cheek.
“No,” he murmurs. “I have no desire to. I’m many things, little summoner, but I am not in the business of harming those who are innocent.”
He drops his hand from my face and shakes the shell out like a dusty rug, bits of alleyway grit, a crushed soda tab, a cigarette butt, and a smear of that thick, grey ichor flying off it and splattering onto the damp asphalt.
“Enough,” he says. “We are going home. Now. You will go to bed. You will ignore my noises of discomfort. And in the morning, I will be… different.”