Chapter 25 Malachi
Malachi
The Central Hub is an absolute fucking headache, and I can confirm with the utmost certainty, that I haven’t missed it in the slightest. Above us, the tram rails hiss and spit blue sparks, and huge holographic advertisements flicker through the orange smog.
We’re swept into the thick, grimy soup of miserable, hollow-eyed workers who keep this machine grinding, their shoulders hunched under the weight of a thousand-year exhaustion.
Eden’s shrinking into herself, her hand in mine feeling smaller and more brittle with every step we take into the crowd.
I shoulder my way through the mass, a silver blade cutting through lead as I tug her hand, dragging her into a narrow back alley that smells of wet metal and something much, much worse—something sweet and rotting, like a bouquet of flowers and a big slab of meat left to liquefy in a dumpster.
The neon glare of the main street dies into a dim, claustrophobic gloom.
Massive, rusted pipes snake along the walls like the exposed veins of some dying machine, dripping with a thick, oily rain that pings rhythmically against the metal.
Eventually, the thick silence of the Old Sector rings through my ears, and finally, we skid to a halt before a door.
It’s a bizarre, incongruous sight against the black industrial rock—dark wood that looks like it was ripped straight out of a Victorian manor and bolted onto the side of a mountain with rusted iron spikes.
I rap my knuckles against the wood, and within a matter of seconds, the door is pulled back with a violent jerk.
“Malachi? Where the fuck have you been?” A tall, broad-shouldered demon booms, his voice so deep it makes the puddles of rot-water ripple on the ground beneath my feet.
“Kael,” I drawl. “I didn't realize you were living with your mother now. Last I heard, you were overseeing the screech-mines in the Tenth.”
“Yeah, well, the girlfriend kicked me out after I 'accidentally' traded her favorite collection of souls-in-bottles for a limited-edition scalp-scraper,” he chuckles, leaning his hulking frame against the doorframe.
Eden shifts nervously, the movement causing the contents of her bag to meow softly. The grin on Kael's face falters, and his pupils swallow up his red irises until they’re nothing but black holes.
“Fuuuck. What is that?” He leans down, head tilting as his nostrils flare, sniffing the air hungrily. A low, predatory rumble starts deep in his chest. “She smells like... rain? And soap? And… fuck, give her to me.”
The ground grumbles as he takes a menacing step forward, reaching out a hand that could crush her skull like a grape. But I move faster, stepping directly between them, cutting off his view of her entirely.
“Back up, Kael,” I warn. “Unless you want to find out if your scalp-scraper works on your own throat.”
Kael’s voice turns serious. “Mal... that isn't a demon. I don't care how much soot you smeared on her, that’s a—”
“I swear to Satan, Kael,” I growl, leaning closer. “If you finish that sentence, I will make sure your next girlfriend does more than kick you out. Where is your mother?”
“Relax, man. I’m not a narc,” Kael mutters, lifting up his hands and stepping aside to let us in, gesturing vaguely toward the back of the house. “She’s through in the living room. Try not to break anything, she just polished the silver.”
Without preamble, I haul Eden over the threshold, and the door slams shut behind us, cutting off the mechanical roar outside.
Inside, the world shifts again, into hardwood floors, and a cloying wave of vanilla and old paper.
We move into the living room, where the walls are a chaotic museum of human junk—floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with cracked clocks, faded oil paintings of landscapes that look like they were stolen from a haunted grandmother's attic, and leaning towers of yellowed books.
In the center of this hoarder’s paradise, perched in a velvet armchair that looks like it was plucked straight from an eighteen-nineties parlor, is Litha.
“Malachi?” she says, looking up from a tattered knitting project, her rose-red face lighting up with warmth. “Oh, sweetheart! I haven't seen you in an age! You look… grumpier. It suits you.”
“Yeah, well, you know how it is, Litha,” I says with a casual shrug. “No rest for the working man and all that.”
Litha’s eyes drift toward the grey smudge beside me and she gasps, the knitting needles clattering against the floor. She moves with a liquid speed that makes Eden flinch, and in the blink of an eye, she’s in her personal space, her long, cool fingers reaching out, hovering just inches from Eden.
“Oh, Malachi,” Litha breathes, her voice a soft hum of wonder. “Who have you brought to see me? My goodness... have you brought me a treasure from the Pit?”
Eden’s breath is coming in short, terrified hitches that she couldn’t hide no matter how hard she tried. I can practically hear her begging not to be touched. But Litha isn’t telepathic, so she touches her anyway, cupping Eden’s grimy cheeks with a besotted look on her face.
“Litha,” I interject, gently but firmly prying her fingers away from Eden’s trembling face. “This is Eden. Eden, this is Litha, and she’s more likely to accidentally impale herself on a knitting needle than she is to harm you.”
“And no, Litha,” I add, eyes flicking to Eden’s wide, petrified ones and then back. “I haven't brought you a mortal. I’ve brought you something… mortal-adjacent.”
I reach for the bag tucked under Eden’s arm and scoop out the House-Beast. The creature lets out a long, dramatic yawn, stretching its paws, claws kneading the air, looking for all the world like it hasn't just been smuggled across a metaphysical border into the literal mouth of Hell.
“A real, breathing feline?” Litha’s hands fly to her mouth as she lets out a delighted gasp. She takes the cat from me with a level of pure, trembling tenderness that borders on the obscene. The House-Beast immediately begins to purr, settling into the crook of Litha’s arm.
“Oh, you darling thing,” she coos, her voice melting into a puddle of affection. “Does this sweet thing have a name?”
Eden’s throat clicks with a nervous swallow. “V-Vesper. Her name is Vesper.”
“Vesper,” Litha repeats, her nose wrinkling just a fraction. “Well, that won’t do now, will it? You shall not be named after a prayer in this house. It’s bad for the upholstery. We shall name you... Rat-Snatcher. Yes. Much more appropriate for a beast of your stature.”
“She... she likes her ears scratched,” Eden murmurs. “Behind the left one, specifically.”
Litha beams, her fingers instantly finding the sweet spot behind Vesper’s left ear.
“Oh, I bet she does. Simply divine.” She pauses, looking down at the cat with a practical concern.
“Will she eat raw meat? We do not have felines in abundance here, especially not the mortal variety. I’m afraid I have no processed kibble, only fresh-cut flank. ”
“I... I suppose she might like it,” Eden whispers, nodding numbly. “She’s never had it before. She usually gets salmon paté and wet food in jelly.”
I clear my throat, moving to stand by the window as they continue to discuss the dietary requirements of a creature who’s eaten everything from pepperoni pizza to burnt toast while in my presence.
My eyes track the sluggish, orange smog rolling through the streets outside as I try to figure out our next move.
“This isn't permanent, Litha. We’re only here because we have some.
.. official business to attend to. We won't be long at all. Please, just look after the House-Beast in the meantime.”
“Very well, Malachi. I shall keep the feline safe.” She clicks her tongue. “And you, come with me.”
I look back to find her gesturing toward a door draped in a heavy, deep red brocade.
“I can see you’re trying to disguise her for whatever tricky reason you've conjured up, Malachi, but perhaps pajamas with mortal sheep on them are not the most adequate choice for the job. She looks like a lost toddler.”
“The soot was a temporary measure,” I defend, albeit very weakly.
“It’s a travesty,” Litha counters, setting the House-Beast down on her velvet armchair. “Come, Eden. We shall find you something a little more appropriate.” She holds out a slender, elegant hand. “You have nothing to fear from me, I promise.”
Eden looks at me, her eyes searching for a reason to stay. I’ve known Litha since I was a babe; she’s one of the only things in this realm that remains uncomfortably consistent. Her word is iron, even if her tastes are eccentric.
“Go with her, Eden,” I say with an encouraging nod. “Demons do not make promises they do not mean. If she says you are safe, the walls themselves will fight to keep it so.”
They disappear behind the curtain, and I glance back out of the window.
What the fuck am I doing?
This is, by far, the stupidest thing I have ever done. And I have an impressive, multi-century backlog of idiocy to compare it to.
Come to Hell, I’d thought. Find someone to help get rid of the bind.
It sounded so clinical in the mortal realm—so logical.
But here, with the orange smog still clinging to my skin and the roar of the machine vibrating through the floorboards, the reality is starting to set in—I’ve brought a lamb into a slaughterhouse and told her it’s a sanctuary.
And the worst part? She believes me. She puts so much trust and faith into me when she has literally zero reason to—less than zero.
I’m the thing that crawled out of her nightmare, the thing that’s currently stretching her mind to its breaking point, and yet she looks at me as if I’m the only solid ground left in the universe.
She’s too trusting. It’s a defect, a mortal flaw that makes my chest tighten with a mixture of irritation and something far more dangerous.
“She's cute,” Kael remarks, snapping me out of my thoughts as he dangles a piece of raw meat over the armchair toward the House-Beast. “For a mortal, anyway.”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I snarl, keeping my faze fixed on the back streets of the Old Sector, trying to figure out what the shit our next moves going to be.
Kael chuckles darkly, finally dropping the meat in front of the House-Beast. “Oh, come on, Mal. Don't tell me you’ve gone soft. You used to be the one we called when a soul needed to be shredded with precision. Now you’re playing bodyguard to a girl who looks like she’d break if the wind changed direction. ”
“She isn't a toy, Kael. And she isn't yours to look at.”
“Ooh, territorial. I like it,” Kael says, his boots thudding as he paces the room, his eyes gleaming with his usual, annoying brand of malice. He leans back against the wall, picking at a sharp nail. “Why are you playing bodyguard?”
“None of your fucking business,” I snap, my eyes tracking a group of hooded miscreants wandering the street outside aimlessly, liquor bottles in hand.
Kael chuckles from behind me. “Aw come on, what is it? Does she fuck as good as she looks? Tell me about mortal pussy. Is it sweet? I haven't tasted anything that wasn't pickled in ash for a century. Is she as sweet as she smells, Mal?”
A white-hot spike of rage sears through my chest, and in a blur of silver light, I’m across the room.
The sound of his breath hitching is the most satisfying thing I’ve heard all day. My hand crushes against his throat, my fingers digging into the bruised-plum flesh until his pulse hammers against my palm.
“Listen to me very carefully, you insult to Demon-kind,” I hiss, my face inches from his. “She is mine. If you so much as think about her in that way again, I will peel the skin from your frame and hang it from the tram lines for the Scavengers to nest in. Do you understand?”
Kael’s eyes bulge, his hands coming up to grip my forearm. “Understood,” he wheezes. “Loud and clear, Mal. She’s—she's off-limits.”
I squeeze his throat just a fraction harder, letting him feel the absolute certainty of my threat, before a sudden smack connects with the back of my head.
I drop Kael, whirling around with a guttural growl, my fangs bared and ready to tear—only to find myself staring down at Litha’s silver-filigreed horns.
“None of that in my house, thank you,” she says sharply, smoothing the front of her gown. “You’ll damage the walls. Now, behave. Your mortal is ready.”
I take a breath, forcing some semblance of back into my veins, and turn toward the hallway, only for the air to leave my lungs in a single, silent rush.
Litha has stripped away my little summoners sheep pajamas and replaced them with something that looks like it was stolen from a mortal widow in mourning—a long, heavy skirt of charcoal velvet, a high-necked lace blouse that buttons tightly at her throat, and a boned corset.
“I have to go, Vesper,” she whispers, her voice small and trembling as she kneels by the velvet chair. She buries her face in the cat’s soft fur one last time, inhaling the scent of home before she has to step back into the smog. “Be good for the lady. I’ll come back. I promise.”
“The House-Beast is safe,” Litha affirms softly, placing a hand on Eden’s shoulder. “Go. Do what you must.”
Eden stands, her eyes swimming with a glossiness that makes my chest tighten.
“Don't you dare start leaking,” I huff, stepping forward and catching her chin. I use the pad of my thumb to smear a bit of the soot back over the now-clean line on her cheek. “Demons do not cry, Eden.”
I release her and turn to Kael, who’s still leaning against the wall, gingerly rubbing his plum-colored throat. I hold out my hand, palm up. I don't ask. I shouldn't have to.
He lets out a dry, hacking laugh. “The great Malachi, begging for scraps. How the mighty have tripped over their own shadows.”
“Now, Kael,” I growl. “Unless you'd like to see how those bruises feel on the inside of your windpipe.”
He sighs, reaching into his jacket, and tosses a small, greasy leather pouch right into my palm. When I pull the drawstring, I’m greeted with a dozen yellowed, cracked canines and a single incisor.
“That's it?” I hiss, looking at the pittance. “This wouldn't buy a decent meal.”
“It's all I've got that isn't nailed down, asshole,” Kael mocks, though he winces as he speaks.
I shove the pouch into my coat, giving him one last, lethal look over my shoulder before grabbing Eden’s hand and hauling her back out into my world.