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“No, wait!” she yelps.

My hand freezes on the doorknob.

“You can’t just... walk out there,” she says, rushing forward. “If you go out like that, someone is going to call the police. You have to act... normal. You have to act human.”

I arch a brow. “My grey is gone, and I am wearing knitwear and a shroud of cotton. How much more ‘human’ can one entity become?”

“It’s not the clothes, it’s the vibe,” she hisses, gesturing wildly at my face. “Just… Don’t look at people. In fact, don’t look at anything. Look at the sidewalk. Or your phone—wait, you don’t have one. Just look at your feet and look slightly annoyed. Like you’re thinking about your taxes or a sandwich you didn’t enjoy.”

“You want me to pretend I am experiencing digestive disappointment?” I deadpan.

“Yes! Exactly! And for the love of God, stop moving like a panther. Humans don’t glide, Malachi. They... they trudge. They have joint pain and bad posture. Slouch. Give me a slouch.”

I attempt to lower my frame, rounding my shoulders into something more dithering and non-threatening, hunching my spine until the fabric of the undersized hoodie groans against my back. It’s a pathetic performance—a wolf trying to shrink into the skin of a stray cat—but I hold the pose, letting her give me a once-over.

“Better,” she mutters with a nod, though she still looks like she’s about to vomit. “And if anyone speaks to you, don’t call them ‘mortal.’ Just grunt. Or say ‘how’s it going?’ but don’t actually wait for an answer. That’s the most human thing you can do.”

I maintain the exaggerated, miserable curve of my spine, letting my arms hang like dead weights at my sides. I pull my face into an expression of profound, soul-crushing boredom.

“Rounded shoulders, depressed face, grunting,” I drone flatly. “Is there anything else, my mortal goddess? Or am I quite alright now? You’re ruining my excitement with this curriculum of mediocrity.”

“No, no,” she whispers, fingers trembling as she fastens her coat buttons, “this is fine. It’s going to be fine. We’re just two people going to the pharmacy. A girl and her... cousin. Her very tall, very grumpy, silent cousin.”

I offer a low, nasal grunt in agreement, the slouch feeling like a physical insult to my spine. But as she reaches for the door, I catch the scent of her fear again. The cousin is going to the pharmacy. But the demon? The demon’s going on a field trip.

Chapter 10

Malachi

Ass.

That is the primary olfactory note of the mortal realm.

It smells like fumes, lukewarm garbage, and unwashed ass.

What a fucking disappointment.

After the sanctuary of Eden’s apartment, I am very displeased to report that the ‘great outdoors’ is a cacophony of depression. I had—perhaps naively—expected spectacle. I expected Caligula reborn in polyester blends; streets slick with vice and mortals debasing themselves in ways that would make Hell’s auditors blush. I expected a roar of ambition, a feast of greed.

Instead, I get a man in a stained tracksuit struggling to extract a cigarette from a crumpled pack, and a teenager smoking what smells like chemically enhanced strawberries.

This is not sin. This is… beige moral decay. It’s the flesh-and-bone equivalent of lukewarm dishwater. Where is the fire? Where is the grandeur? These creatures aren’t even failing interestingly; they’re just lingering.

My consciousness claws for Eden’s apartment. I want the stifling, safe scent of her bookshelf and the rhythmic purring of the House-Beast. I want to go back to the sanctuary of the fuzzy socks and the impromptu baths of salt and tea.

But her boots are already moving quickly against the concrete. I have to hunch my shoulders, ducking my head so the ridiculous blue hood covers my profile. It’s a losing battle. I’m towering above these tiny, leaking mortals, my shadow swallowing them whole as they scurry past, eyes glued to their glowing rectangles.

“How much further is this pilgrimage, little summoner?”

“About two miles,” she shoots back under her breath.

“Two miles?” I grit out. “I do not want to hike through the scent of flatulence and despair for two miles.” My eyes dart to the keys clutched in her hand—clinking, silver promises of a quick journey. “Do you not have a metal carriage? It would be significantly more efficient than... this.”

“No,” she says quickly, her gaze fixed straight ahead, pace never faltering. “And stop talking. Just... blend. Please.”

Blend. As if I could ever efficiently mix with this tepid, lukewarm soup of humanity. If it weren’t for Eden and her bleeding arm, I would have turned around within five seconds of being out in this shit-pit.

This is a horrific vacation—and I should know. I once visited the Iron Spires of the Seventh with Rhaziel during the Great Recalibration, where the air was literally composed of the screams of the unrepentant and the ground was made of sentient glass. That was a nightmare, yes, but at least it was honest. It didn’t try to mask its rot with billboards for ‘half-priced caramel lattes’ and ‘$1.99 burgers.’