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“Also,” he says, waving a hand in front of his face, “you smell horrific. I would very much like you to smell like peaches again. Or literally anything that isn’t... this.”

“Excuse me?” I blink.

“You heard me,” he drawls, his lip curling just enough to show a hint of a fang. “You have a distinct aroma of stale fear and clinical failure. It’s offensive to my constitution.”

The indignation rises in my throat, but then the reality of my physical state finally hits me. I perform a quick, internal audit and realize he’s right. I’ve performed a ritual. I passed out in a concrete stairwell. I’ve been sweating a fever out for far too long. I’ve been to a pharmacy, I’ve been crying, and I haven’t seen the inside of a shower in at least four days.

“I’ve been a little busy!” I snap, though it lacks any real bite because I’m busy trying to discreetly sniff my own armpit. I catch a whiff of myself—stale sweat, the sour tang of sickness, and the metallic scent of dried blood.

I stink like a swamp creature that’s crawled out of a drain.

“Clearly,” he sighs. “Go. Scrape the grime off your mortal coil. I’ll be waiting here, trying to reclaim my sense of smell.”

Chapter 14

Malachi

This tub is nothing but an insult to my dimensions.

It’s a narrow, shallow little trench that forces my knees up toward my chin and grinds my spine into a curve against the cold porcelain. I’ve seen torture vats that offer more dignity to the damned than this wet coffin offers me.

And the temperature is pathetic.

To a mortal, I assume this is scalding. But to me it’s tepid soup. I want magma. I want the kind of heat that peels the dead skin off your back. But this... this lukewarm puddle... it will have to do.

The bubbles however? Well, they truly are delightful. Ridiculous, but delightful nevertheless.

The porcelain groans in protest as I lean back and scoop up a massive handful of the foam. It feels like nothing—like holding a cloud that’s decided to die in my palm. I let it slide through my fingers, watching the light catch the pearly iridescence before the bubbles pop and vanish into the steam.

I bring my hand to my face, inhaling the cloying, artificial sweetness of lavender and fake honey. Why do mortals insist on masking their nature? They are creatures of salt and sweat and iron. Why cover their warm, damp flesh with the scent of a meadow? Who looked at a predator—however weak—and decided the answer to their musk was to smell like a crushed bouquet?

The water slops lazily against the rim, lapping at my ribs as I sink a little lower. My nose wrinkles. Floral propaganda. That’s what this is. Even if it is marginally better than the lingering stink of antiseptic, street grease, and the city’s exhausts.

I close my eyes, letting the heat seep into the ache of my joints, feeling almost—almost—at peace.

“Malachi Aurelian Virezeal!”

Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.

With a groan, I slide fully under the surface, bubbles popping as the world dulls into a merciful hush.

Bliss.

But it only lasts exactly four seconds.

“Mirror! Now!”

Ah, so that’s how this is going to be. I guess that’s the gig up—can’t play house forever without Hell knocking.

No escape. No dignity. Not even the courtesy of finishing a soak.

I break the surface with a groan, slicking wet hair back from my face and blinking steam from my eyes.

Water sheets off me, puddling across the tiles as I reach for a towel. I knot it low around my hips and stalk toward the sink through the thick steam, already resigned to whatever fresh form of misery is waiting for me on the other side of the mirror.

“Well,” I murmur, wiping condensation from the glass. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Veraxia? You’re watching me through a bathroom mirror now? Has the Ninth Division developed its own peeping service, or did you just miss me that much?”

Furious, golden eyes stare back at me.