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And that scares the shit out of me.

“No, they won’t,” he says. “Because you aren't going back to report a damn thing.”

Silver blurs across the moonlight as he drops the shell for a split second, reaching down to seize the creature by its twitching, multi-jointed neck.

There’s an unbearably loud crack, and the high-pitched wheezing stops instantly. The pale, spindly limbs give one final, pathetic jerk and then go limp. The creature’s true form begin to dissolve into a foul-smelling grey mist the second the life leaves it.

My heel catches on a piece of debris as I stagger and hit the wall hard. “You... you killed him,” I whisper, my hands shaking. “Malachi, you just…”

He looks at his hands, wiping a smudge of dark ichor onto the fur-covered hoodie, and then reaches down to pick up the shell from the floor.

“I removed an irritant,” he says, his voice flat and terrifyingly calm as he turns back to me. “He was a snitch and a bottom-feeder. Now, he is nothing.”

He takes a step toward me, and I press my spine so hard against the brick that the mortar digs into my coat, scratching through the fabric. “Stay back. Don't come near me.”

“He was a demonic version of a cockroach.” Malachi’s voice hardens as he holds up the shimmering, translucent shell, the film rippling in the moonlight. “You don't weep when you step on a bug, little summoner. Besides,” he adds, bunching the translucent skin into a ball. “I didn't just skin him for sport, Eden. I did it for you too.”

“For me?” I choke out, staring at the grey mist dissolving on the floor. “How is killing a man in an alley for me?”

“Because as long as I look like myself, you’re a prisoner in that apartment,” he says. “But if I wear this? I pass. And if I pass, I can walk with you. I just cleared the board so you could have your life back. You're welcome.”

“I’ll have my life back regardless,” I counter. “The kit... it’ll be here soon. And then I can go about my life without you, full stop.”

“Optimistic,” he muses. “But until your little package of cleansing supplies arrives, I wish to enjoy myself.” He looks around the damp, trash-strewn alleyway as if it’s a scenic vista. “And frankly, as much as I enjoy your... cozy little shoebox of an apartment, I have no desire to spend the entirety of my surface time rotting on your couch with dusty paperbacks and the dating show. I want to see the sights.”

I look down at the dissipating grey mist on the asphalt. Five minutes ago, that was a person. Well, a demon in a suit, but it walked and talked and held a clipboard. Now it’s just a wet smear on the ground and a wadded-up costume. And the thought of playing tourist with him—of strolling through the city with a monster who just peeled a living thing like a grape—makes the bile rise in my throat all over again.

I forgot. God, I actually forgot what he was. I ate pizza with him. He fawns over my cat. He’s been⁠—

“You’re afraid of me now,” he says with a heavy sigh.

“Yes… no… I don't know…” I stammer, shaking my head.

“Have I harmed you, Eden?” He steps into my space and reaches out. I flinch, my eyes snapping shut as I wait for the blow, or the snap, or the end. Instead, I feel the ghost of his fingers stroking my cheek.

“No,” he murmurs. “I have no desire to. I’m many things, little summoner, but I am not in the business of harming those who are innocent.”

He drops his hand from my face and shakes the shell out like a dusty rug, bits of alleyway grit, a crushed soda tab, a cigarette butt, and a smear of that thick, grey ichor flying off it and splattering onto the damp asphalt.

“Enough,” he says. “We are going home. Now. You will go to bed. You will ignore my noises of discomfort. And in the morning, I will be… different.”

Chapter 16

Malachi

Apparently, a ‘scrub’ is a male of low standing attempting to court females from the passenger side of his best friend's ride. At least, that’s what the women on the screen are singing about. It’s effectively a performance review set to a catchy bassline. I respect the efficiency, and approve entirely. I wouldn't want no scrubs either. Good for them.

Over the bass, I hear Eden let out a mangled groan, and I angle my head just in time to catch her stumbling into the room, blinking hard against the blasting music coming from the TV.

“Shut up,” she grits out, snatching up the remote and jabbing manically at it until the chorus is swallowed up by black and silence.

Her chest heaves as she stands there, remote clutched to her chest. “Malachi,” she rasps, her voice thick with sleep and irritation. “Do you really need to have the music channel on at maximum volume before the sun is even fully up?”

“Good morning to you too, baby girl,” I drawl.

She turns slowly, and freezes on the spot.

“Malachi?” she breathes, her anger shuttering into wide-eyed horror.