Chapter 36 Eden
Eden
The tram they’ve stuck us in—despite it being a glorified metal coffin on treads—is hurtling across fifty feet above the ground at ninety miles an hour.
“Hold still,” Malachi murmurs.
He presses the damp cloth to my temple again, and I cringe. Well, it’s less of a cloth and more a strip of cotton he ripped from the hem of his own shirt, and since the onboard water tank is nonexistent, the fabric’s damp with his own spit.
“Sorry,” he winces, pulling back to inspect his handiwork, golden eyes narrowed in concentration. “I know it stings. I just need to get the dirt out before it festers. Your immune system is distressingly fragile.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, trying to lean into the warmth of his palm, but my eyes won’t stay still. They dart around the cramped interior of the tram, seeking distraction from the bio-hazard nursing happening on my forehead.
Two Wardens are strapped into the rear jump seats, looking bored out of their minds, their heads lolling with every jerk of the tram like crash-test dummies. Further up front, near the cockpit, is Veraxia, who’s ignoring the fifty-foot drop below us to coo at Chain-Chewer.
“Who is a good little security system?” she croons, scratching behind his rocky ear. “You are. Yes, you are. Such a diligent asset.”
Chain-Chewer’s eyes snap open, his glowing eyes narrowing. He lets out a low, warning rumble that vibrates through the metal floor and into my tailbone. He clearly hasn't forgotten that she spent the last two hours calling him Security-Hound Three-Oh-One.
Malachi finishes scrubbing the crust of blood from where the machine’s needles punched through my skin. He inspects the wounds one last time, satisfied, then casually wads up the bloody, spit-soaked rag and chucks it across the cabin, hitting Veraxia square in the shoulder.
With a face contorted into absolute disgust, she slowly peels the damp fabric off her blazer. “That,” she snarls, holding the rag by a single corner, “is unsanitary. It is coated in sibling secretions and mortal fluid. You are feral, Malachi.”
“Recycle it,” he says dismissively, not even looking at her.
He turns his full attention back to me. The chaos of the rattling tram, the heat of the Hellhound, and the complaining sister all fade into the background noise.
He leans in, his face filling my vision, blocking out the grim reality of the armored walls, and presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth, then another to my jaw, lingering there.
I close my eyes as his breath washes over me, smelling of that dark, heavy spice and smoke that always seems to wrap around my throat like a silk noose.
His thumb hooks over my chin, prying my lip free from my teeth slowly.
“Stop that,” he scolds softly, his gaze dropping to the raw skin he just liberated. “I’m getting sick of seeing you bleed, little summoner. You’re going to drain yourself dry.”
His forehead leans agains mine, molten-gold eyes burning fiercely.
“You did good, Eden,” he whispers against my skin. “You were so, so brave. You can rest now. Let me worry about the logistics.”
I reach up, my fingers trembling as I cup his silver cheeks.
I let my hand wander, tracing the line of his jaw before sliding upward to his horns.
My thumb runs over the base, feeling every ridge and every bump—the terrifying, ancient anatomy of him that has no business existing in a world of padded walls and pizza boxes.
I don’t want to forget this. I don’t want to wake up in forty-eight hours with a clean hard drive, looking at my reflection and wondering why there are two fang marks in my throat and I feel like I’ve lost a limb I never knew I had.
I want to bottle the heat of him, to store his taste in the back of my throat so it’s there when the dull ache of my real life tries to swallow me whole.
But it’s the other thing that’s clawing at me. The thing about Matthew.
If my mind’s wiped, will I even know that I got to see him again?
Will I remember the moment the words leave my mouth?
Or am I going to walk around my apartment for the next fifty years feeling a phantom weight in my chest, a lingering shadow of a sin I can’t name and a closure I can’t remember achieving?
I’m terrified that I’ll be forgiven and never know it—doomed to feel the pain of a wound that’s already been stitched shut.
Malachi pulls back slightly to fumble with the buckle of my harness, his black nails clicking uselessly against the heavy iron mechanism. He’s the most powerful thing I’ve ever met, a creature who manages the mechanics of agony for a living, and he’s being defeated by a seatbelt.
I look away, turning my gaze to the reinforced porthole window.
We’ve been flying past different districts for hours—sprawling metropolises of black obsidian and neon lights—but now the architecture has given way to nothingness.
And dead ahead, growing larger with every rattling second, is the horizon line—glowing with that same sickly, radioactive orange fire Malachi pointed out on my first night here.
The destination. The end of the line. The Grey Archives.
“Malachi,” I whisper, tearing my eyes away from the radioactive sunset. “I’m going to need you to trust me. Even if it looks like I’ve lost my mind.”
His brow furrows in genuine confusion.
“Just hold me,” I breathe, pitching my voice high and wavering, terrified and needy. “Please. Just hold me and tell me it’s going to be okay.”
Without hesitation, his arms lock around my shoulders, pulling me into the solid wall of his chest. I bury my face in the scratchy tunic, letting out a loud, wet sniffle for the benefit of the Wardens and Veraxia.
“Shh,” he soothes, his chin resting on top of my head. “I have you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, and with a movement so subtle it barely registers as a twitch, I slide the scalpel from my sleeve. I’d swiped it from the metal tray when we’d been led away from that horrific little memory-stealing room.
Malachi stiffens against me as he feels the cold bite of the blade near his ribs—not cutting him, but sawing frantically at the thick nylon webbing of his harness.
He freezes for a fraction of a second, his heart thudding against my ear like a war drum.
Then, he relaxes, his hand resuming its slow circles on my back.
“You are safe,” he says, his voice loud enough for the Wardens and his sister to hear, while his body acts as a human shield for my vandalism. “You are a brave little mortal. So fragile. So soft.”
The webbing snaps with a silent pop.
“You have a plan, little summoner?” he breathes against my hair, the sound barely audible over the roar of the treads.
My heart’s hammering desperately against my ribs, but for once, my hands are steady.
I shift the tiny blade, pressing it against the thick strap crossing my chest now, and the second it snaps, we sit perfectly still, holding ourselves in place with sheer muscle tension so the severed straps look intact.
“Malachi,” I whisper as I lace our fingers together. “Can we get into the Grey Archives without Veraxia?”
He nods, eyes widening as he tracks my gaze up to the red lever swaying above the sleeping shrimp.
“On three then,” I hiss.
I don’t wait for three.
I surge to my feet, dragging Malachi up with me, and lunge right for the red lever above the sleeping Warden’s head.
As I yank, the bolts blow with a deafening boom, and the entire side of the tram vanishes, ripping open to the screaming wind and the blurring nightmare outside.
The cabin depressurizes with a violent whoosh that sucks the breath right out of my lungs.
The Warden’s scramble, desperately trying to unlock their harnesses.
Veraxia’s yelling something I can’t make out, one hand clamping onto a strut and the other trying to shield her eyes from the sudden hurricane.
And Chain-Chewer’s going absolutely feral, barking at the passing scenery, lunging against his restraints, tail wagging so hard he’s threatening to puncture the hull.
But I freeze.
My knees lock. My hands shake, not with adrenaline, but with that cold, static-filled paralysis that turns my blood to slush. I stare into the blur rushing past at ninety miles an hour, and I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m a statue made of panic and bad decisions.
Malachi’s voice cuts through the auditory assault and steps in close, blocking the wind, blocking the view, becoming the only solid thing in a disintegrating world. His hands clamp onto my waist. “Jump?”
I swallow the scream climbing up my throat and grip onto his tunic. Then, a slow, adrenaline-fuelled grin spreads across my lips.
“Jump,” I whisper.
He doesn't give me a single second to regret it. He pulls me tight against his chest, shielding my head with his hand, and steps backward into the empty air.
For one terrifying, heart-stopping second, we are weightless. The world is nothing but wind and the stomach-churning sensation of my internal organs trying to exit through my mouth.
Hell dissolves into a churning kaleidoscope of orange and grey, and he twists in mid-air, making sure he takes the impact.
We hit the ash dune at a forty-five-degree angle.
It’s not like hitting rock, but it’s not exactly a feather bed either.
It’s like slamming into a silo of deep, dirty flour at highway speeds.
We roll, bounce, and careen for what feels like an eternity before finally skidding to a halt at the bottom of the dune, buried half-deep in a drift of soft, powdery soot.
Above us, the tram screeches on the rails, sparks showering down like a fireworks display. But it’s moving too fast to stop. It tears around the bend, a dark metal scar against the horizon, and vanishes into the distance.
I lie there for a moment, staring up at the bruised orange sky, my chest heaving.
I am alive, and surprisingly un-broken.
Malachi opens his mouth to speak from where he’s laid on his back, but instead, he coughs out a puff of grey dirt.
A bubble of laughter rises in my throat, vibrating against my ribs until it bursts out as a full-blown, cackle. “You look like a dust bunny.”
“And you,” he retorts, grinning through the grime, “you are the velvet-cocked hero from Shattered Desires. Although it wasn’t very chivalrous of you to—”
The words are lost as I pull him toward me and kiss him hard in a collision of tongues and grit.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, fangs glinting. “Why in the name of the Pit did you do that? We just jumped out of a moving tram, Eden. I didn’t think we were aiming for a suicide pact.”
He’s still laughing softly, but his hands are checking my limbs, making sure I haven't left any vital components on the tram.
“Everything that’s happened—every nightmare, every ounce of this fuckery—is because I left him in that car,” I whisper, my fingers digging into the soot as I sit up properly. “I ran away once, and I’ve been running ever since—”
“Eden, baby girl…”
“Let me finish,” I cut him off, my voice steady despite the adrenaline-shivers.
“I’m sick of everyone deciding for me. I’m not having my memory wiped, Malachi,” I say decisively.
“I want to remember this. I want to remember the demon who made me eat pepperoni pizza while wearing my kitten vest when my world was ending. I want to remember that I survived this, and I survived him, and I did it with my eyes open, with you.”
“On your terms. You will remember.” He stands up, offering me a grime-slicked silver hand, hauling me up. “Now, let’s go find your ghost. We have a debt to settle, and I’d hate to keep the Grey Archives waiting.”
The silence of the dunes is absolute for all of three seconds before a sandy, thumping sound breaks the quiet.
From the settling dust cloud at the base of the slope, a heavy, low-slung shape emerges.
It shakes itself vigorously, sending glowing embers and soot flying in every direction like a glitter bomb.
Magma-crusted skin sizzles quietly against the cold ash as he trots over to us, leaving a trail of steam in his wake. He stops in front of Malachi and, with a look of immense canine pride, drops something at our feet with a metallic clatter—a twisted, smoking piece of the tram’s door handle.
Malachi lets out a short, surprised laugh and reaches down to ruffle the coarse, burning rock behind the beast’s ears. “Good boy. I suppose you didn't want to stay for the lecture on 'mortal fluids' either, did you?”
Chain-Chewer lets out a huff of agreement, and for the first time in a very long time, the odds don't feel quite so impossible.