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I stop her from leaking, I force her to eat, I perform a miracle of modern stabilization. And she repays me with an eviction notice? Unbelievable.

“And where, exactly, do you suggest I spend the rest of the day? The closet? Or perhaps tucked under the bed with the rest of your skeletons?”

“Leave the apartment,” she snaps. “Go back to Hell. Go back to whatever sulfur-soaked void you crawled out of. I don’t care.”

I tilt my head, studying the way her hands tremble against the fabric of her covers. “Well. There is a slight technicality. I don’t think I can. Which is still something we need to⁠—”

“Then don’t leave!” she bites back desperately. “Fine! Stay! I don’t care!”

“And where do you suggest I go?” I ask.

“The couch. The floor. The bathtub,” she lists with a defeated whisper. “Just get out of my sight. I can’t look at you anymore.”

Without waiting for a rebuttal, she simply turns her back on me and crawls onto the bed. She pulls the covers up to her chin, disappearing into the sanctuary of her linens, shortly followed by the House-Beast, who hops up and curls into the small of her back, a tiny, furry sentinel guarding a broken queen.

“The couch it is,” I murmur as I push up from the floor. I stand there for a moment, looking down at the broken lump under the duvet. “But do not mistake this for departure. I am simply moving to the next room, not back to Hell. I will still be here when you decide to leave your hiding spot, little summoner.”

Chapter 6

Eden

Fourteen short cracks and three long ones.

I’ve been mapping the topography of the plaster on and off for the last several hours, and even though I’ve stared at the exact same ceiling every night for years, it’s the only thing in this godforsaken apartment—aside from Vesper—that makes any kind of sense. My eyes are burning, but sleep is a joke when there’s a silver-skinned entity exactly thirty feet away, separated from me by nothing but a half-inch of drywall and my own thinning sanity.

I toss in the sheets, but there’s no relief. The cotton might as well be low-grit sandpaper for the way it’s burning against my skin. Every nerve ending is a live wire, and my stomach is stuck in a continuous loop of somersaults—that bitter, pukey taste of bile rising in my throat every time I take a breath that’s just a little too deep.

There’s a demon in my living room. A demon who earlier today, went through Matthew’s belongings, and half an hour ago, I heard rummaging through the hallway closet. I need him gone. I need the silence back, even if the silence is one of the reasons that led me to this situation in the first place.

The sheets pool around my waist as I sit up. I’m a ‘domestic gerbil’ who’s done hiding, and there’s no way I’m staying trapped in my own bedroom while that headache occupies my living room.

I slink out of my bed and creep toward the living room, the scent of the bonfire and that cloyingly dark spice thickening with every step I take.

He’s there, on my couch, the blue light of my laptop illuminating the sharp, silver planes of his face, his golden eyes narrowed in intense, academic concentration.

What the fuck is he doing? Is he checking my emails? Looking at my search history?

It doesn’t fucking matter. It’s now or never.

I dart forward, my bare feet silent on the carpet, and snatch the container of salt from the coffee table. Without thought, I lunge right into his personal space and hurl half the container right in his face in a flurry of white crystals. It hits him square on, bounces off his horns, and slides down under the collar of the stolen vest.

“Really?” he deadpans, eyes still stuck on the screen as he brushes the pathetic dusting of salt off his shoulder with two long fingers.

I ignore him. I’m a trembling, toxic cocktail of adrenaline and sleep-deprivation. I whip out my phone, thumb hovering over the page I saved earlier today, ready to send him back to the void.

I open my mouth, my eyes frantically scanning the first line of the chant. I just need to say the words. Focus, Eden. “Ego… malig—malignum⁠—”

“Oh, yeah… fix those pipes.” A wet, breathless voice drifts out of the laptop speakers.

“...fix those pipes?” I whisper, confusion taking over.

Malachi tilts the screen toward me.

“Explain something to me,” he says, pointing a black nail at the video where two very naked, very sweaty people are tangling in a way that looks physically impossible. “Why is the male mortal making that sound? Is he in respiratory failure? Or is this a standard mating call?”

My jaw drops. The phone in my hand slips, nearly hitting the carpet. My face feels like it’s been doused in gasoline and set on fire.

“Are you... are you watching porn on my couch?!”