Chapter 43
Eden
It’s a grey, miserable Saturday, the kind that makes you want to crawl under a duvet and cease to exist, yet apparently, half the city has decided this is the prime time to purchase artisanal cheese and overpriced tubers.
“You need fresh air more often,” Piper says as she inspects a crate of pomegranates. “You’ve been staring at that laptop for a week. You’re turning grey, Eden.”
“I’m working, Piper. Deadlines,” I mutter, burying my chin deeper into my scarf.
“Deadlines,” she scoffs, tossing the pomegranate into a paper bag. “You only started back on Tuesday.”
Correct. But I’m also in a ‘transition period’ which actually means “Please don’t have another mental breakdown, stay in your apartment, we just need you to work.”
“It’s busy,” I deflect, dodging a woman wielding a baguette. “Can we just get the kale and go? My skin’s itching.”
“You need to get out more,” she insists, moving relentlessly toward a flower stall. “Actually, I was talking to Greg last night. You know Greg? From my Christmas party last year? He has a cousin.”
My blood runs cold. “No.”
“He’s nice! He’s an actuary. He likes hiking.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Eden, come on. Just a coffee. You need a distraction. You need something… normal.”
I almost laugh.
Normal.
How do I explain that I don’t want a hike with an actuary; I want to be yelled at and picked on by a silver-skinned headache? How do I tell her that I’ve spent the last three weeks staring at the empty space on my couch, pining after a literal demon who I’ll never see again?
“I’m not dating,” I say tightly. “I’m focusing on… me.”
“You’re focusing on becoming a hermit,” Piper corrects, grabbing a bunch of eucalyptus and thrusting it towards me. “Here. Hold this. Maybe the smell will clear your sinuses. You sound congested.”
“I’m not congested, I’m allergic to joy,” I snap, taking the branches.
The crowd surges, a wall of bodies pressing in, and for a second, the noise drops out, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in my ears.
The fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I stop dead in the middle of the walkway, causing a chain reaction of annoyed pedestrians to swirl round me like a stream around a stubborn rock.
“Eden?” Piper stops, nearly tripping over her own feet. “What? What is it?”
I don’t answer. I’m too busy dissecting the crowd, my eyes darting from face to face, frantic and clinical. I’m not looking for a person.
Is it the guy chattering about the sourdough? The woman aggressively fondling the cantaloupes? The teenager rifling through the fruit?
Which fucking one of you is a demon?
“Eden!” Piper grabs my arm. “Seriously, you’re freaking me out. You look like you’re about to hit someone.”
I blink, the world snapping back into focus—the grey sky, the smell of fish and bread, the concern etched into Piper’s forehead.
“Nothing,” I lie, forcing my shoulders to drop. “I just... I think I should go home. I’m not feeling too good.”
Piper sighs, the sound deflating her entire posture. She stares down at her half-wrapped peonies, then back at me, resigning herself to the fact that her Saturday fun has officially been cancelled due to my sudden inability to function in society.
And honestly, I don’t blame her. I’m annoyed at me, too. I’ve been fine for weeks. I’ve been a model citizen of stability—sleeping, eating, not flinching at shadows. So why the fuck am I suddenly glitching today? Why does the air feel like it’s vibrating? I was doing so well, and now I’m frozen.
“Fine,” she grumbles, looping her arm through mine. “You win. Let’s get you back to your cave before you fully dissociate into the produce section.”
We start walking, but my skin still feels too tight, and my hand’s buried in my pocket, fingers curled around my house keys, the sharp metal threading between my knuckles.
We’re passing a bakery when a dog the size of a car lunges from its owner’s grasp. It slams into my thigh with the force of a friendly cannonball, burying its wet, oversized nose into the pocket of my coat.
I plant my feet, bracing against the impact, my hand half-raised to strike.
“Whoa, easy.” The owner’s voice rumbles behind me. “He’s friendly.”
I stare at the beasts lolling tongue and dark eyes, my pulse thumping in my throat.
“It’s just a dog, Eden. You’re okay,” Piper says softly, tugging me forward.
“Right,” I whisper, wiping the wet nose print from my coat. “Just a dog. Big dog. Huge.”
She marches me the rest of the way home, chattering about work and the weather to fill the silence, but I’m too busy calculating exit routes to hear her.
Is it the Wardens? Are the cosmic hall monitors back for more? Or is it something worse? Something that followed the scent of a demon who stayed too long and left the door unlocked?
I don’t breathe properly until I say goodbye to Piper and slam my apartment door shut behind me.
Safe.
My shoulders press into the door as I slide down a few inches, then catch myself. No. Absolutely not.
This better not be a relapse. There is not a cat in hell’s chance I am falling back into that five-step grief routine.
I am not doing the depression-nest thing again.
I am not listening to sad playlists about longing while staring at the empty spot on the couch.
Even if the subject of said misery would be over a literal demon this time instead of a dead narcissist.
I march into the kitchen and toss the paper bag onto the counter with a little more force than necessary.
I need a reset. I need to submerge myself in water hot enough to sterilize surgical equipment.
A bath. Yes. I’m going to fill the tub until it threatens to flood the downstairs neighbor, and I’m going to boil this weird paranoia right out of my pores.
Then I’m going to eat this fancy cheese and pretend I don’t know what the word ‘supernatural’ means.
Just as my hand meets the refrigerator, three heavy, distinct knocks echo through the apartment, and I freeze.
Piper has a key. The landlord buzzes from the lobby. This is a visitor. A heavy-handed visitor.
Warden. I fucking knew it.
My heart gives a single, terrified thud, then settles into a cold, hard rhythm.
No.
I am not that girl anymore. I am not the trembling mess who threw table salt at a demon and hoped for the best. I survived Hell. I can handle a demonic shrimp in a cheap suit.
With trembling hands, I grab the paring knife from the drying rack and creep down the hallway.
Silently, I crack the door open two inches.
Through the sliver of space, a man stands in the hallway.
He’s tall, alarmingly broad, and wearing a black suit that fits him like a second skin.
He’s tan, with dark brown eyes and jet-black, fluffy hair.
I lock onto his eyes, waiting for the void—for the beady, black stare of a Warden.
But they’re just... brown. Deep, rich, completely unremarkable espresso brown.
No hellfire. No abyssal depths. Just eyes.
He looks… human. Shockingly, devastatingly human.
Not a Warden.
But if he’s selling solar panels or bibles, I’m going to scream.
“Can I help you?” I ask, tightening my grip on the knife behind the door.
He just stares at me wordlessly, his chest heaving as if he’s been running.
A massive, furry black shape squeezes between his legs and the doorframe, shoving its way into my personal space. It’s the dog. The one from the market. It whines, shoving its wet, cold nose against my hand through the crack, licking at my fingers.
The man tilts his head, and a slow, arrogant, maddeningly familiar smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. It’s a smirk that I’ve wanted to kiss and punch in equal measure for weeks.
“You have terrible situational awareness,” he says. “I followed you for five blocks.”
My eyes widen until they feel like they’re going to pop out of my skull.
“Jesus Christ.”
“No, I’m Malachi,” he drawls, the smirk widening into a grin that is all teeth and trouble.
The knife drops to the carpet as I scramble for the chain.
“You’re...” I choke, finally wrenching the metal free and yanking the door open. I stare up at him and drag a breath into my starving lungs. “You’re... you’re human.”
“Corporate shell,” he corrects smoothly, stepping over the threshold. “I got a promotion.”
My mind is going absolutely fucking bananas. A promotion? A corporate shell?
He breezes past me, the massive dog—who I’m assuming is Chain-Chewer—trotting happily at his heels, its tail whacking against the wall. The apartment is suddenly filled with the smell of bonfire, spice, wet dog, and the sheer, overwhelming gravity of him.
“Close your mouth, baby girl,” he calls over his shoulder. “You’ll catch flies.”
I spin around, slamming the door. “Malachi, what are you—”
He’s standing in the middle of my living room, the dog doing excited laps around the coffee table, and in his left hand, he’s holding a plastic crate.
My voice is a broken whisper. “Is that...”
He lifts the carrier slightly, peering through the grate. “She has been exceptionally vocal about the travel arrangements. She’s done a lot of it since you last saw her. She’s... missed you.”
A distinct, indignant meow echoes from inside the box, and it breaks me, snapping the last thread of composure I was holding onto.
I drop to the floor. I don’t care that it’s dramatic. I don’t care that I’m wearing my outside coat. I hit the carpet and scramble toward the carrier, my hands fumbling frantically with the latches.
“Vesper,” I sob.
The door swings open, and a blur of cream and black fur shoots out, headbutting my chest with enough force to bruise, her motor running so loud it rattles my ribcage.
I scoop her much heavier frame up, crying ugly, heaving tears into her fur. She’s real. He’s real. Chain-Chewer’s real. They’re all here, in my living room, and I am absolutely, completely losing it.
The springs of my cheap couch groan behind me.