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She moves to the front door, then lingers at the threshold, her keys jangling in her hand.
“Fine,” she says, though she looks anything but convinced. “There are snacks in the bag and soup in the flask. They’ll make you feel better. I’m booking you in for a therapy session, and I’m calling you in three hours. If you don’t pick up, I’m coming back with a locksmith to break in, and I’m bringing Mom.”
The second it clicks shut, I lock it behind her and lean my forehead against the wood for a single, shaking breath before my brain kicks back into gear.
I make a beeline for my room, heart hammering against my teeth. I need to take charge. I need to be the one in control of… whatever this is.
I throw the door open, prepared to lay down the law—or at least attempt to.
But I stop dead. The air in my lungs turns to lead, bile lurching up my throat.
No.
Chapter 5
Malachi
“Little summoner,” I say, sprawled face-down across her plush mattress as I comb through the clutter in front of me, my heels kicked up in the air. “I feel I must offer a formal apology. Earlier, I referred to you as a gerbil. I realize now that was uncalled for. Because if your sister is the alternative to you, I will gladly accept a lifetime of your petulance.” I let out a long sigh, resting my chin on my hands. “I mean, yap, yap, fucking yap. Saints below—I thought she’d never shut up.”
When I’m met with nothing but silence, I look over my shoulder, glancing toward the doorway. Eden is frozen there, hand white-knuckled on the doorknob. Her skin is a horrific pallor of grey. Or green. Or some disgusting mix of the two.
“Oh for Satan’s sake,” I groan. “What is it now? You successfully hid me away. Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”
“Get off my bed,” she whispers, gaze fixed on the center of the mattress.
I rest my chin in the crook of my arm and flash her a grin. “Oh, you’re getting far too bossy. No. I shall not be getting up.”
Beside my hip, the House-Beast lets out a low, vibrating purr, kneading her claws into the duvet.
“See?” I say, a slow grin spreading across my face. “The cat wants me right here. She has much better taste than you.”
Eden’s whole body seems to tremble. “I told you... I told you not to touch my things.”
I look down at the sealed pouch I’d found in her nightstand, and tut. “But these aren’t your things, are they? Unless you lied to me and your name is actually Matthew Fallon?”
The scattered belongings of the man she tried to summon make something like disappointment curdle in my chest.
PATIENT NAME: MATTHEW FALLON
DOB: 30 March 1989
STATUS: (DOA)
HOSPITAL: St. Brigid’s
COMMENTS: Held for collection by next of kin.
It’s a pathetic hoard. There’s a cracked leather wallet, a set of car keys, a watch with a shattered face, and a phone so thoroughly obliterated the glass has burst outward.
I snort as I flip the wallet open with my thumb, peering at the empty slots. “These are the treasures of a realm-rupturing love, Eden? Really? I’ve seen more interesting relics in Hell’s washrooms.”
No tiny bag of drugs tucked into the lining. No folded wad of illicit cash. Not even a photograph of her.
This is it?
Honestly, I wonder if he ended up down in Hell just for being so fucking boring.
I slide a piece of plastic from the leather sleeve. An ID. I grimace immediately, my lip curling back over my fangs.
