Page 22

Malachi

Soft, clumsy shuffling draws my attention, and I look up to find Eden standing there, looking like she’s been dragged through a hedge backwards—and then dragged back through it for good measure. She’s a masterpiece of dishevelment in a frayed grey cardigan and tea-stained pajama pants, her hair a spectacular bird’s nest of dark knots. After her ridiculous late-night exorcism attempt, I haven’t seen her again. I assumed she’d embarrassed herself into hiding for the rest of her little life.

“Are you watching porn again?!” she shouts.

“Oh, good, you’re alive. And still as loud as a banshee in a library, I see.” I tilt the screen toward her just a fraction, forcing her to bear witness to the animated festivities. “For your information, this is educational. A historical reenactment.”

She blinks, squinting at the glowing display from across the room. The reconstruction of the early Inquisition techniques is crude—low-budget CGI meant for mortal history buffs—but the imagery is unmistakable. On screen, rough timber frames groan as digital ropes bite into wrists and ankles, stretching the pixelated limbs into angles that defy biology.

“Is that… a rack?” she whispers, horrified.

“Mhm. It’s a sloppy technique, though,” I critique, waving a hand at the screen. “They’re pulling too fast. You lose the flavor if you rush the pop.”

Fuck, how I love the feeling that runs through me when a femur finally gives way, the squelch of mashing organs under my fingertips, the music of a spine snapping like dry kindling—the way it echoes off the basalt walls and mixes in with that delicious symphony of wails.

“You never start at the joints; you work from the spine out,” I tell her. “Otherwise, the shock sets in and it’s over far too quickly. Mortals have lost all appreciation for the art of tension ever since the invention of the pocket watch.”

On the screen, the cartoon spine lets out a digitized crack and Eden full-on gags.

“Oh, my God,” she whispers, the words barely a breath. “Turn it off. Please—just stop watching weird shit on my laptop.”

I snort. “Please. This is barely foreplay.” Still, I tap the spacebar and the video freezes mid-play. “I was going to show you the segment on the Pear of Anguish once you were awake, but if you’re going to be squeamish…”

She stays silent, her eyes darting around the living room with a confused, disjointed energy.

“Hello?” I prompt. “Earth to summoner. You’re staring like you’ve never seen your own couch before.”

Her brow furrows slowly, still-tired gaze lingering on the surfaces. “You… uh… you cleaned?”

I lift an eyebrow, shifting my fluffy-sock feet on the coffee table. “That’s the part you’re stuck on? Not the inaccurate torture methods that are quite frankly offending every nerve of my being?”

“You cleaned,” she repeats flatly as she takes in the room that no longer looks like the site of an amateur occult disaster—and it’s all thanks to my elbow grease and desire to not live in filth.

“The mess was an eyesore, Eden. It’s hard to enjoy a documentary on depravity when there’s grit in the carpet and the stench of desperation in the air. Besides,” I gesture vaguely down myself, “I like to see my reflection in the surfaces.”

Her mouth hangs open in a state of pure disbelief, as if the concept of a demon using a microfiber cloth is completely out of her depth.

I click the laptop shut with one hand and slide it onto the table. “Furthermore, I did not wish for the House-Beast to cut its paws in the kitchen. And contrary to popular belief, we aren’t all filth-dwelling savages. This is my home now—at least for the time being—and I refuse to live in a kennel.”

“And the… ritual stuff? Where is it?”

“Relocated. Your precious arts-and-crafts crime scene is over there. I didn’t want to risk you trying to exorcise me again.”

She follows the line of my finger to a small cardboard box tucked neatly beside the side table. Then her eyes dart immediately to the mantelpiece, fixating on the ceramic urn. I see the panic flare in her pupils, the silent ‘did he touch that?’ screaming in her mind.

Saints below, they really are so sensitive about their dirt in jars aren’t they? It isn’t as if the real Matthew is in there. It’s just his ground-down bones. The real Matthew is probably writhing in the Pit, being tortured for his potentially dull-as-dishwater personality.

“Relax,” I drawl, leaning my head back against the cushion. “I did not touch the Corpse-Boy’s remains. I have no interest in your dusty boyfriend. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I… yeah. Thanks,” she manages to choke out.

She sinks onto the far end of the couch, followed by the House-Beast who leaps onto my lap.

“Did you find anything about the… coating?” she asks hesitantly. “I spent half the morning googling, but everything was just... fanfiction or Dungeons and Dragons stuff. I thought you might have⁠—”

“I was entertaining myself, little summoner, not boring myself to death,” I interrupt, absentmindedly scratching behind the House-Beast’s ears as I let my gaze rake over Eden. From the messy tangle of her hair down to the soft, tempting curves of her hips and the way her pulse is thrashing against the pale skin of her throat. I wonder how long it would take to make those hesitant questions turn into breathless begging.

“But we need to fix it. We can’t be stuck together.”