Chapter 16
Malachi
Apparently, a ‘scrub’ is a male of low standing attempting to court females from the passenger side of his best friend's ride. At least, that’s what the women on the screen are singing about.
It’s effectively a performance review set to a catchy bassline.
I respect the efficiency, and approve entirely.
I wouldn't want no scrubs either. Good for them.
Over the bass, I hear Eden let out a mangled groan, and I angle my head just in time to catch her stumbling into the room, blinking hard against the blasting music coming from the TV.
“Shut up,” she grits out, snatching up the remote and jabbing manically at it until the chorus is swallowed up by black and silence.
Her chest heaves as she stands there, remote clutched to her chest. “Malachi,” she rasps, her voice thick with sleep and irritation. “Do you really need to have the music channel on at maximum volume before the sun is even fully up?”
“Good morning to you too, baby girl,” I drawl.
She turns slowly, and freezes on the spot.
“Malachi?” she breathes, her anger shuttering into wide-eyed horror.
“In the flesh,” I lift my mug a fraction in greeting as I lean back, crossing my ankles on the coffee table. “Well, technically, in his flesh.”
I’d spent the early hours tailoring the Harvester’s shell into something more tolerable. I kept the dark, wavy hair and that semi-decent jawline, but I burned away the sallow, sickly tint and dialed the pigment to a rugged bronze—the kind of sun-kissed hue mortals wear on their dating shows.
I look human. I look like someone who pays taxes and worries about cholesterol. It’s disgusting. But, I’ll fit in better with them now.
The shell even came with its own built-in attire. The hideous neon went straight in the trash, but I’ve kept hold of the slacks and charcoal grey t-shirt. Though admittedly, I much prefer Eden’s vests with kittens and the shorts that let my silver skin breathe.
“Well?” I prompt. “Are you going to keep cowering over there, or are you going to tell me if I've gotten the nose right? I spent an inordinate amount of time on the bridge.”
“You're wearing him,” she whispers. “You're actually wearing him.”
“I'm wearing the shell, Eden. Don't be melodramatic,” I say, popping the mug on the coffee table and adjusting my legs, pulling at the material between my thighs. “Come closer. It’s just carbon and water. It’s not that bad, honestly.”
Her movements are so slow it’s painful, but at least she’s moving. She stops inches from me, hesitation flickering over her features.
“Can I uh…?” she whispers, reaching a trembling hadn’t toward me.
When I nod, she steps into the space between my legs, the heat radiating off her small, mortal frame making the nerves in my thighs prickle. She reaches out, her fingertips hovering just an inch from my cheek, before finally making contact.
I lean into it instinctively, my eyes closing as I anchor myself to the sensation.
“It feels like actual human skin,” she breathes, thumb feathering over my cheekbone before it wanders. She hooks it over the edge of my lip, pulling down, exposing my teeth, running the pad over a sharp tip.
“You still have your fangs. And the eyes,” she whispers, her gaze locked right on mine. “They're still yours. But… the pupils are round...”
A slow grin spreads across my now-pink lips. “Well, I had to keep a few things of myself, didn't I?” I say, flicking my septum ring. “A bit of the real flair. Can't have you forgetting who’s really sitting on your couch just because I’ve put on a bit of window dressing.”
“Remarkable,” she breathes.
I preen. It’s impossible not to. “And let’s be honest,” I muse. “Even as a mortal, I look good. I’m still a significant upgrade from the dish-plate, Corpse-Bo—”
The sensation of warmth disappears from my jaw as she flinches back. “Don’t,” she grits out, glaring at me. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. You’re wearing a dead man’s face, Malachi. The least you can do is keep your mouth shut about the one who actually meant something to me.”
My eyes roll back and I groan, hard. “Fine. Perish in the pursuit of mediocre memories. See if I care. But while we’re on the subject of ‘looks,’ you really need to go into that room and fix… whatever this is.” I gesture vaguely at her entire person. “It’s offensive to my new, aesthetic.”
She blinks, looking down at her rumpled clothes and then back at me. “Why? I wasn’t planning on going anywhere today.”
“Incorrect,” I state, cutting off her imminent retreat. “I am now passable as a functional mortal male. I told you I intended to enjoy my vacation. And I would prefer not to be seen in public with a woman who is in such disarray. I don’t want no scrub.”
Her brow furrows for a second before she crosses her arms, looking obstinate. “I don’t want to go out, Malachi. I’m tired, I’m traumatized, and I’m not going.”
“Tough shit,” I drawl. “I am leaving this apartment in twenty minutes. If I walk out that door without you, you’ll be vomiting your own asshole out within minutes.” I tilt my head, grinning. “Would you enjoy that?”
She pales, her hand going instinctively to her stomach. “You... you wouldn’t.”
“Try me,” I challenge. “I have a very high tolerance for other people’s suffering.”
I point a finger at the coffee table, where a silver, metallic lump sits, steaming faintly at the edges. “But first, you will consume nutrients. I cannot have you fainting in the street; it draws unnecessary attention.”
“What is that?”
“I ordered something rather amusing,” I say, picking up the foil-wrapped cylinder and weighing it in my hand. “It is called a ‘breakfast burrito.’ Eat.”
Her eyes widen as the realization hits. “You ordered... did you use my card again?!” She scowls, snatching the burrito from my hand. “I’m not made of money, Malachi!”
“Correct,” I say, smirking. “You are comprised of flesh, calcium, and poor decision-making skills. Very well done on your biology lessons there, baby girl. Now, go change. You have ten minutes before I test the range of our little sickness.”
She lets out a frustrated grumble as she stomps toward the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
I stand up, stretching the shell to its limits, feeling the bones pop and the muscles knit tighter to the frame. While it looks infinitely more convincing than when the Harvester was piloting it, it’s still claustrophobic—like being crammed into a matchbox made of meat.
And there’s also not a chance in this realm I’m shoving my limbs back into that horrific hoodie again.
I wander over to the coat rack by the door, and tucked in the back, I find a heavy, midnight-black wool overcoat, with wide lapels and deep pockets.
When I’ve shrugged it on, I catch my reflection in the little mirror next to the door and adjust the collar, smoothing the wool over my chest. It’s a bit tight across the back and significantly short on my wrists, but it’ll do.
“No,” comes a quiet gasp.
With a glance over my shoulder, I find Eden standing there, fully dressed now, staring at me as if I’m made of cobras, the bitten burrito hanging from her hand. “What? Is the color wrong for the season?”
“That’s… that’s his,” she whispers.
I look down at the lapel, then back at her. “This belongs to the corpse-boy?”
“Don’t call him that! And take it off!” she snaps, lunging forward as if she’s actually going to try and peel me out of it. “Take it off right now.”
I sidestep her easily, the wool swishing around my thighs. “Be practical. There is a chill in the air outside and I don’t want to shove myself into your blue hoodie again. This is a functional garment.”
“It’s not yours! It’s his! It’s one of the last things he wore before—” She stops, her face twisting, and I see that messy mortal grief bubbling up again. It’s exhausting to watch.
“Well, he’s not exactly using it for his morning commute anymore, is he?” I drawl.
I turn toward the mantelpiece, where the ceramic urn sits in somber, dusty silence, and lean in, my face inches from the vessel that holds the bone-dust.
“Do you mind if I use your coat for a date with this beautiful mortal?” I ask the urn, my voice dripping with mock-sincerity. I pause, tilting my head as if waiting for a whisper from the beyond, nodding along to imagined words.
“Ah, look at that,” I say, straightening my collar and throwing a wink at my unamused little summoner. “He didn't answer. You know why? Because he’s dead. And the dead are famously relaxed about their wardrobe.”
“You’re horrible,” she chokes out, eyes glistening.
“Correct,” I say, my voice smooth and utterly devoid of apology. “Now, let's move. We’re burning daylight and not in a fun way.”
She doesn't move, so I do it for her. I grab her coat and hold it open. She stands there, frozen in a cocktail of grief and rage, until I nudge her.
“Arms in, baby girl.”
She relents, sliding her arms into the sleeves with a shuddering breath. I pull the fabric snug around her, my fingers smoothing it over her shoulders, and untucking her hair from under the collar.
The cotton of my borrowed slacks strains against my thighs as I drop to one knee in front of her. “Foot,” I command, grabbing her boots.
The limb rises, her free hand bracing against my shoulder for balance so delicately it sends a ripple of static over my skin. The boot slides on, followed by a fibrous snap as I tighten the laces.
“There,” I say, standing up and towering over her once more. “You look almost presentable. Shall we?”
As I reach for the door handle, I pause. “Goodbye House-Beast. And don’t wait up, Matthew,” I call out. “I’ll have her back for dinner. Probably.”