Chapter 27 - Malachi #2
“I wasn’t summoning you,” Eden reminds me under her breath as I lift my arm, bringing her into Serena's line of sight.
Serena pauses, her quill hovering mid-stroke over a scroll, a single drop of ink trembling on the tip before splashing onto a ledger.
Her head turns slowly, the gold dagger-pins in her hair catching the iridescent, sickly-pink light of the District through the window.
Her gaze finally lands on Eden, dragging slowly over the Victorian lace, the soot-stained skin, and the general aura of a completely unplanned catastrophe.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” she whispers, a slow, terrifying grin spreading across her face as she snaps her fingers. “Rhaziel, shut the door. Lock it. If a single clerk tries to enter with a requisition form, kill them. I’ll sign the paperwork for their execution later.”
Rhaziel slams the door shut, the locks clicking into place.
Bone and ink pots clatter against the grimy tile as she empties the two chairs opposite her desk of all their clutter and gestures for us both to sit. As we do, her ink-stained fingers move through the air above her desk, tracing invisible lines that seem to pull at the very fabric of the room.
A humming pressure builds behind my eyes, pulsing like a drum against the inside of my skull.
Then, there’s a loud bang, the stink of burnt wiring crackling in my nose.
Between Eden and myself, the air shimmers and curdles, turning thick as honey.
Strands of light, previously hidden in the folds of our reality, weep into view, weaving themselves into a terrifying tapestry before our eyes.
A thread emerges from Eden’s chest—a sickly, deep red cord, pulsing with ugly, textured grey bumps like a diseased vein.
Then a darker one erupts from mine: an obsidian cable, knotted like a hangman’s rope and slick with black oil.
Both meet in the middle, touching tentatively for a moment before seizing with a spark of crimson light and twisting around one another in a brutal, intricate braid.
“Yep. Definitely a blood-bind,” Serena says, the glare illuminating her face as she leans over the desk. She peers into the knot, clacking a long, sharp nail against the wood. “How did you manage such a thing?”
Hesitantly, Eden relays every agonizing step of the ritual—from the cheap salt and the yellowed parchment to the sheer, desperate stupidity of her grief.
“Have you tried being apart?” Serena asks, searching for a weak point in the braid.
Eden nods, her fingers twisting tightly in the velvet skirts. “Yes.”
“And?” Serena prompts, leaning in.
“I felt like I was being hollowed out,” Eden whispers. “Like my heart was being squeezed in a fist, and if I took one more step, it was just going to pop. I couldn't breathe. I thought… I thought I was going to die right there and then.”
“It was the same for me,” I agree, the memory of that sickness sending my stomach flipping.
Serena’s finger jabs directly into the shimmering, curdled mess of the tether, causing both Eden and I to gasp in discomfort. She tries to hook a nail into the place where my obsidian thread disappears into Eden’s red knot, pulling and twisting as if trying to unpick a bird's nest.
“By the fires below,” she hisses, her face twisting in a grimace as she fights the resistance of the magic. “It’s like trying to untie a knot made of wet slugs and lightning.”
She pulls her hand back, a faint trail of black smoke rising from her fingertips. “What were the terms when you drew the blade, mortal? What did you promise him?”
“I... I didn't promise him anything,” Eden stammers, shrinking back into the chair. ““I wasn’t even calling for him. It… It was an accident.”
“Accidents are for spilled ink, you foolish, lace-covered meat-sack,” Serena snarls, waving her hand with a dismissive flick.
The shimmering, ugly braid of red and obsidian snaps out of existence, the light vanishing instantly.
“This is a bind that’s fused down to the bone.
A blood-bind is a transaction—the kind used by the High Council or the Devil herself.
It’s a closed loop. A legal, airtight cage built on a price.
A trade. Do you understand what I’m saying, Malachi?
“The nuances of occult theory usually bore me to tears, Serena,” I drawl, rolling my eyes. “I know it’s making our lives a logistical nightmare. Beyond that? My eyes usually glaze over the second someone starts talking about anything to do with… this sort of stuff.”
Serena groans. “You waltzed into a bind with no exit clause. You’re not just tethered to her; you’re stuck in a stalemate with the universe.
Without a price to be paid, there is no end to the contract.
It’s a bridge to nowhere, and you’re both standing in the middle of it while the foundations rot with her mortal timeline. ”
“Can’t we just... cut it?” Eden asks, her voice trembling as she looks at me for some kind of reassurance I know I can’t give to her. “There has to be a way to unpick it.”
“No,” Serena says, shaking her head. “I could try a heavy-duty meat cleaver, but last time the cleanup took weeks. You'd both be mush, and I'd have no one to bill for the upholstery.”
The bag of jelly in my arms shifts, letting out a soft, delighted coo as it reaches up to pat my cheek with a tiny, damp hand, only for me to swat it away.
“Rhaziel, take this thing before I drop it,” I snap, blindly lifting it over my shoulder.
“Watch the head, you brute!” Serena hisses, her eyes flashing as her brother gingerly takes it into his own arms.
“The brat’s skull is fine,” I snap. “If we don't sever this bind, a Warden’s going to turn her in to mush anyway. Give me the dirty version, Serena. How do we do it?”
Serena taps her nails against the desk. “I’d need a Void-Glass Scalpel.
It’s high-end medical tech for flesh-sculptors—very precise, very expensive, and remarkably good at slicing souls without making my colleagues complain about the screaming.
” She lets out a dry scoff, flicking a stray bit of parchment off her desk.
“Naturally, I don't have one. I’m a 'respectable' consultant now, and butcher's tools are so hard to sanitize between clients.”
“Right. So where do I get one of those?” I ask.
“The Slag Heaps,” she responds flatly.
The Slag Heaps… The armpit of the Ninth. It’s a lawless sprawl of stolen souls and illegal skins—great for pit-fights on a Friday, but a death sentence for a mortal. She’d be picked apart like a rotisserie chicken before we cleared the first gate.
“You're fucking joking, right?” I ask with a raised brow.
“Do I look like I'm joking, Virezeal?” Serena leans back, crossing her arms over her chest, a cruel little smirk tugging at her mouth. “By the sounds of everything I just heard, it’s all going to go to shit if you don’t go there.
Either she’s a snack for the Slag-dwellers, or she’s an 'unauthorized variable' for the Wardens. Take your pick, Malachi. At least in the Heaps, she has a chance to hide in the trash.”
I shoot her a look of pure, unadulterated venom. “How the fuck am I supposed to manage it? Look at her. I might as well walk her in there with a 'Free Samples' sign around her neck.”
“Not my problem, Virezeal,” Serena says, inspecting her ink-stained cuticles with a cold indifference. “I’m a consultant, not a travel agent for the terminally stupid. Figure it out or start picking out a coffin—maybe a double-wide for the two of you.”
Rhaziel chimes in from the corner, still bouncing the babbling demon infant who’s trying to pull on one of his horns.
“You could always just use some of Serena’s perfume to mask her scent a little,” he suggests with a shrug.
“Douse her in that shit. It’s heavy enough to cover the smell of a rotting soul-pit; it’ll definitely drown out a little bit of fresh soap and blood. ”
Serena’s head snaps toward him, her eyes narrowing. “That 'perfume' is an extract of fermented nightshade and sulfur-blooms, Rhaziel. It costs more than your quarterly salary.”
“Serena. If she gets caught, the Wardens won’t just take her,” I say, already reaching out a hand. “They’ll trace the tether too. They’ll find out who looked at the knot. They’ll find you.”
Her jaw works for a minute before she lets out a huff and produces a small, ornate amethyst bottle from one of her drawers, sliding it across the desk. “Fine. Only a few spritzes though!”
“Is this even safe? Isn't that, you know, lethal?” Eden asks as I drag her up from the chair by her elbow. She coughs into her sleeve as the first cloud of cherries, vinegar, and burning matches wets her skin.
“Lethal? Only if you have a weak constitution,” Serena snaps. “If your throat starts closing, just poke a hole in it with a straw. And for the love of—Malachi, stop spraying!”
I ignore her, circling Eden. I douse her hair, her skin, and even the hem of her skirts until she’s practically gasping for oxygen.
The air around me is thick with the scent, a cloying cloud that makes my own eyes water and my throat itch.
She smells like a poisoned fruit basket left out in a thunderstorm. Perfect.
“That is enough!” Serena shrieks, lunging across the desk, only for me to cap the bottle and shove it deep into my pocket.
I’ll make use for this later.
“I can't... breathe,” Eden wheezes, waving a hand in front of her face.
“You’re breathing well enough to complain,” I mutter, rolling out my neck and stretching my arms across my chest. “We’re going. Let's get this over and done with. We'll be back soon.”
Serena lets out a loud, hacking cough, leaning back in her chair with a look that says we aren't going anywhere yet. “Not too soon, I hope. You’ll need time to shop.”
I stop, already halfway to the door. “What?”
“You think I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart?” she asks, raising a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “You think my 'professional courtesy' extends to illegal surgeries that could get me flayed?”
“I assumed my sparkling personality was payment enough,” I rumble, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Your personality is a liability, Malachi. I want a trade,” she purrs, checking her nails.
“When you are at the market, you must acquire a Stasis Rattle. It’s an ancient bit of nursery tech.
It paralyses the infants vocal chords—the brat sleeps, and so do I.
Bring me the Scalpel for the surgery, and the Rattle for my sanity, and I will cut you loose. No Rattle, no surgery.”
She has got to be fucking kidding me.