Chapter 37 Malachi
Malachi
“The tram follows the perimeter rails,” I say, wiping a fresh layer of soot from my brow before pointing toward a cluster of hulking, rusted grates embedded in the ash like the teeth of a buried giant.
“It’s a scenic tour for the bureaucrats who want to avoid the smell.
But the Grey Archives are a heat sink. All that collective regret generates a Hell of a lot of thermal energy, and the offices need air conditioning.
We take the intake vents. It cuts a hundred-mile curve into a three-mile straight shot. ”
Eden looks at the grates, then at me. “Is it going to be tight?” she asks.
“Only for my ego,” I mutter.
I hook my fingers into the freezing cold, iron lattice of the grate. The rusted bolts shriek in protest before shearing off, and I heave the metal aside to reveal a vertical drop into the dark.
Bracing myself with one deep breath, I sling my legs over the side, and disappear, sliding down a smooth chute until I hit a mesh walkway with a hollow clang.
Monstrous, four-blade fans spin slowly overhead, cutting the air with a rhythmic thrumming that vibrates in my teeth.
Pipes the size of trees snake along the walls, hissing jets of recycled steam, turning the air into a thick, stagnant soup.
“It’s like a sauna in a basement,” Eden wheezes as she lands beside me, pulling at the collar of her shirt.
“Welcome to the lungs of the Archives,” I say, checking the pressure gauges on the wall. “It’s humid, it’s filthy, and the air’s been breathed by three billion sinners before it reached us. Try not to think about the logistics of the moisture on the walls.”
The labyrinthine tunnels of the maintenance sector seem to stretch endlessly as we walk.
The thumping of the fans is broken only by the slap of our boots and the heavy, grinding tread of Chain-Chewer flanking us, his magma-skin hissing every time a drop of condensation falls from the ceiling and hits his back.
Minutes bleed into what feels like hours until the air changes into something thicker and wetter.
We round a sharp corner where the tunnel widens, dumping us into a monolithic, cavernous hub.
The atmosphere shifts instantly from stagnant cold to a localized, humid breeze that clings to the skin.
At the center of the chamber, beneath a tangle of weeping pipes that look like the exposed veins of the city, sits a concrete basin.
It’s a runoff pool—a collection point for the condensation stripped from the Archives' cooling systems. And right now, steaming gently in the gloom, it looks like the finest bath in the universe.
The water’s crystal clear, a startling contrast to the grime-streaked walls, shimmering like liquid copper under the dull red emergency lights.
It’s an industrial oasis in a desert of soot.
I look at the pool, then back at Eden, who looks like she’s been dragged through a coal mine and then shoved into a blender.
“We should clean you up,” I murmur, my voice echoing slightly off the damp concrete.
She stares at the water, then at the dark, dripping tunnel ahead. “Malachi, do we really have time for a spa day? I’m pretty sure your sister’s currently imagining new ways to turn our skin into handbags.”
“We look like a pair of vagrants. If we want to get past the intake clerks, we need to look like we're supposed to be here. Or at least like we haven't just committed several felonies.”
She bites her lip, eyes darting between the steam and the shadows. “I don't know... I feel like every second we stand still is another second the noose tightens.”
I step closer, letting a smirk pull at my mouth, eyes flaring as I lean down toward her ear.
“I don't know,” I drawl. “Do you have time to squeeze in a quick orgasm before we’re separated for good? Or are we strictly following the HR handbook today?”
“You are a terrible person,” she whispers, though she's already reaching for the hem of her shirt, her fingers trembling just a little less than they were a minute ago.
“I'm a Torture Administrator,” I remind her, already shedding my own tunic. “Making people feel things is literally my job description. Now, get in the water. We’re on our final countdown, and I intend to spend every free second of it being remarkably unprofessional.”
The secondary runoff channel turns a blackened, murky grey as I dunk our clothes into it, swishing them around in some meagre attempt at cleaning them.
Then I wring them out and hook them over a high-pressure vent; the hot exhaust catching the fabric, snapping them dry in seconds.
Behind me, Chain-Chewer finds a length of abandoned pipe to gnaw on in a grinding lullaby for the damned.
I slide into the basin first. The water’s a warm, liquid embrace that laps against my ribs, coaxing the tension out of my silver skin.
Eden follows, her movements slow and tentative until the heat hits her.
She lets out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders finally dropping an inch.
The steam rises around us, thick and white, turning the industrial hub into a private sanctuary of humid stone.
It’s a temporary haven in the middle of Hell.
She looks like a fever dream amidst the rot.
The water slices across her waist, magnifying the supple curve of her hips below the surface.
Her hair’s plastered to the side of her neck in sodden strands, drawing my eye down to the aching swell of her breasts, where her nipples have already peaked into hard, dark points from the temperature shift, aching for a touch rougher than the water.
“I'm going to miss you,” I murmur. Then I draw a deep breath and dive beneath the surface, the silken weight of the water closing over my head.
The world above vanishes, replaced by a suspended silence. Down here, everything is a muted, golden-red blur. I move through the warmth until I find her, my hands gliding over her thighs, fingers digging in to anchor myself to the only real thing in this entire hollow realm.
I lean in, the water swirling between us, and press my face right against her pussy. My tongue meets her lips, and I lick her from top to bottom in one long, broad stroke that defies the pool.
Her hands scramble down through the water, frantically searching until they find the obsidian ridges of my horns.
She grips them tight, holding on for dear life.
I can’t hear her moan—the water steals the sound, muffling her cries into nothingness—but I can feel the vibration of it shuddering through her thighs against my cheeks.
My lips close around her clit, sucking hard, my tongue swirling around the sensitive nerves. At the same time, my hand slides up, finding her entrance, and I thrust two fingers deep inside her, dragging them upwards right against her g-spot.
Her thighs clamp around my head like a vice, a desperate, crushing pressure that threatens to crack my skull. Her grip on my horns tightens until I feel the sharp dig of her nails scraping uselessly against the obsidian ridges.
A sharp, prickly tingle spreads through my chest, the water pressure weighing down on my ribs, demanding I surface for air. My body screams for oxygen, the instinct to breathe fighting against the instinct to consume.
Fuck that.
I ignore the burn, pushing it down until it’s just another form of heat.
I’d rather drown right here, suspended in this golden-red silence with the taste of her beautiful, mortal release on my tongue, than take a single breath that isn't shared with her.
I increase the suction, swirling my tongue, curling my fingers harder, determined to wring every drop of pleasure out of her before I let myself up for air.
Her pussy pulsates hard around my fingers, and the warm, salt-sweet gush of her release washes over my tongue, sweeter than the water, heavier than the current.
I’m ready to surface. My lungs are burning, black spots dancing in my vision like little voids.
But before I can move, she shoves me further into the water by my horns, driving me down until my back hits the slick floor of the basin.
I look up, stunned, my instinct to fight warring with the haze of pleasure as she crashes her body against mine.
She seals her mouth over mine, and blows.
A burst of stolen oxygen hits my burning lungs, expanding my chest. She’s sharing her breath. She’s keeping me under. My gaze stays locked on her, bewildered, my hands instinctively gripping her waist to anchor us.
What the fuck?
She pulls back just an inch, her hair floating around her face like a dark, chaotic halo. Her eyes are wide, terrified, and she shakes her head sharply, pointing a trembling finger toward the surface.
My eyes follow her finger, looking up through the churning water. Above the surface, a grid of cold, clinical blue light is scanning, sweeping back and forth.
Maintenance.
The blood in my veins runs cold, the heat of the moment instantly doused. If that grid breaks the surface tension and hits a solid object, it triggers an alarm that will bring half the Grey Archive’s guards down on our heads.
My mind races, panic spiking through the afterglow.
Our tunics and trousers are right there.
And Chain-Chewer… saints below. The beast is in the corner chewing on iron pipe loud enough to wake the dead.
He’s supposed to go dormant when he loses visual contact with an owner, but the damn thing has the stealth capabilities of a landslide.
If he decides to crunch down on a bolt right now?
If that scanner picks up the sound? We’re dead.
Please, you stupid, rock-made mutt. Be quiet.
I hold Eden tighter, my hands bruising her waist as the blue grid sweeps directly over where our clothes are by the vents.
My lungs are screaming, my ribs a cage of fire.
The need to breathe is a physical violence, clawing at the back of my throat, turning my blood to acid.
Eden’s staring up at the light, her face pale and ghostly in the refraction, her lips pressed tight in a thin, desperate line. She looks like she’s already drowning.
The blue light pauses.
My heart stops dead in my chest. It hovers there, suspended on the surface tension, bathing the water in a cold, clinical glare that makes the red warmth of the pool look like a crime scene.
Move, I command silently, every muscle in my body coiled to spring, to fight, to tear that drone out of the air. Just fucking move.
One second. Two. An eternity of agony where the only sound is the roar of blood in my own ears.
Then, the light shuts off, and I catch the hum of the drone as it turns on its axis, drifting away toward the ventilation shafts.
I kick off the bottom of the basin with explosive force, and we break the surface together, a violent, splashing breach that shatters the silence.
The air hits my lungs and I drag in a ragged, greedy gulp of oxygen, coughing as the water clears from my throat.
Eden’s hacking beside me, her chest heaving, her hair plastered to her face.
“Fuck,” I wheeze, the adrenaline crashing into me with the force of a landslide.
I grab her and haul her wet, shivering body against mine, needing to feel the solidity of her ribcage expanding and contracting against my own.
“You're okay,” I rasp. “I've got you.”
She looks up at me, eyes wild and wide, pupils blown with fear and the lingering haze of the orgasm.
And then she surges forward, crashing her mouth against mine—hard.
I groan into her mouth, my hands tangling in her hair, kissing her back with a bruising, possessive force that says we’re alive, we’re here, you’re mine.
“We can't stay here,” I say, tearing my mouth from hers. It takes a supreme effort of will. I want nothing more than to drag her back under the surface and finish what I started, drone scans be damned. But the reality of where we are is crashing back in.
I boost her up onto the rim of the basin and she scrambles out, shivering as the air hits her skin, instantly raising goosebumps on the pale flesh I was just worshipping. I haul myself up after her, water sluicing off my frame in sheets, pooling on the concrete.
A low whine echoes from the corner, and I look over. Chain-Chewer is standing now, his massive, stone-heavy head cocked to the side. The iron pipe lies forgotten at his feet. He’s staring at us with those hollow, glowing sockets, vibrating with a low rumble that I feel in the soles of my feet.
He didn't make a sound. Not one crunch.
“You did good, you ugly bastard,” I murmur, walking over to him while dripping wet. I slam my hand against his rocky flank in a rough, affectionate pat. “Quiet as the grave.”
He leans into my touch, letting out a sound like a grinder stripping gears.
“Malachi,” Eden’s voice is soft behind me. She’s struggling with the tunic, her damp skin making the scratchy fabric cling and bunch awkwardly.
“Here,” I say, crossing the space between us in a few strides, batting her hands away so I can take over and yank the tunic down over her hips.
“We pushed our luck,” I mutter, kneeling to help her step into her pants. My thumb brushes the inside of her knee, gaze lingering for a second on the skin that’s still flushed from my mouth. “That drone will circle back. We need to be gone before it does.”
Once I’m dressed, I reach out to take her hand, lacing our fingers together with a grip that borders on bruising, and pull her away from the steam and heat, right toward that fucking Corpse-Boy.