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I try not to look. I really do. But it’s hard not to stare when an innocent looking teenager walks past you holding his own intestines like a bundle of wet rope, his eyes darting around the fluorescent-lit waiting room like he’s looking for his parents in a grocery store.

Apparently, Malachi doesn't do queues. He moves through the sea of the damned like a shark parting a school of fish, the ridges of his horns cutting an imposing silhouette against the low ceiling. The sinners, confused and probably fresh from their deaths, might not know exactly where they are yet, but their instincts scream at them to get out of his and the Hellhound’s way.

We reach the imposing desk that looks completely out of place next to the plastic chairs. Malachi slams his hand onto it, and the purple-skinned woman sitting behind it sighs a long, suffering breath before slowly lifting her head, blinking up at us with void-black eyes.

“You got an appointment, sweetie?” she drawls. “Processing is backed up by around eighteen months. Take a number.”

“We aren't processing,” Malachi says coolly. “We're here to find a soul. Paperwork’s been filed under the name Virezeal.”

She taps a few keys on a flat, glowing obsidian tablet embedded in the desk, before looking back at him.

“Veraxia Virezeal?” She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “You're Veraxia?”

“No,” Malachi says, jerking his head toward me. “She is.”

Oh, fuck.

She looks at me, her gaze peeling the skin right off me.

Malachi stiffens beside me, more than likely ready to reach across the desk and rip her throat out, but I step forward. I have to do this. I have to channel her. I straighten my spine, forcing my chin up and summon every ounce of haughty disdain I saw her use.

“Yes, I am Veraxia Virezeal,” I say, pitching my voice smooth and low, layering it with a boredom that matches hers. “And as you can see, we have come straight from an emergency complication in the Mortal Realm.” I gesture vaguely to my shivering, mortal body. “Hence the poorly put-together shell. Now, are you going to check me in, or do I need to file a complaint about your efficiency?”

My heart hammers against my ribs, punching its way through each bone as her black eyes narrow into slits, looking me up and down.

“Budget cuts,” she mutters finally, rolling her eyes. “Tell me about it. They downgraded my coffee break to six minutes last century. Alright... clearance for Veraxia Virezeal, and her…?”

“Brother,” Malachi rumbles. “Malachi. Also from the Ninth. I’ll be in the system.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She pauses, her eyes sliding to the massive, stone-jawed beast at my hip. “And the Hellhound?”

“Security Hound Three-Oh-One,” he says smoothly. “From the Virezeal estate in the Cinder Spire. He belongs to Vexor and Xylia, but they're visiting the hot springs in the Seventh Division, so he’s in our care.”

The receptionist hums, talons tapping again.

I sigh overly loudly. “I really don't have the patience to stand here while you verify our parents' vacation itinerary,” I interrupt as I lean forward, resting my hands on the cold black stone. “My brother and I are on a tight schedule, and if I have to explain to my bosses that we were delayed because of your slow work ethic, I’ll have to report you to your higher ups.”

The woman stops typing and stares at me for a long second, then, she rolls her eyes so hard I think they might fall out of her head.

“Fine,” she sighs, the sound dripping with the apathy of a thousand years of customer service. “Whatever. It’s above my pay grade.”

The sound of rummaging plastic fills the air as she reaches under the desk and pulls out three thick, woven lanyards. They’re standard-issue, laminated ID badges on scratchy black cords. Two for us—printed with the names Veraxia and Malachi—and one, impossibly, for the hound.

She slides them across the desk along with a stack of parchment.

“Got the paperwork here,” she drones, pointing a finger at the stack. “Matthew Fallon. He’s currently in Sector 4: Pre-Judgment Soul Storage. Down that corridor, second left, through the double doors.”

The urge to say thank you rises in my throat as a reflex, but I strangle it down, snatch up the lanyards and parchment, and turn on my heel.

The moment we’re round the corner, and she’s out of earshot, the facade disintegrates and my knees nearly buckle.

Sector 4. Pre-Judgment. Matthew.

A cold, prickly sweat breaks out across the back of my neck, soaking the collar of the tunic instantly.

I’m going to see him. I’m going to walk into a room and look into the eyes of the man who hurt, broke, and ruined me.

“Easy,” Malachi rumbles in my ear as he stops us near a flickering light fixture to loop the ridiculous lanyard around Chain-Chewer’s neck.