Page 7

A low, animalistic hiss comes from the other side of the room, and my eyes snap over right to where Vesper is. She isn’t looking at me. She’s looking at that. She’s arched into a trembling ‘U’ on the back of the couch, every single hair on her body standing on end. Fuck—I’ve never heard her make that noise or look like that before.

How can she…

No. She’s only freaking out because I’m freaking out. Animals latch on to that sort of stuff. Right?

“Ah. A cat,” he says as he follows my line of sight, head tilted. “I do love those. They’re the only mortals who truly understand the appeal of a well-timed scratch.”

She hisses again, louder this time. He lets out a dry chuckle, and the sound of his amusement is what finally slices through the panic, jolting my vocal cords into motion.

“Who—what—what are you?” The words stutter out. “And why are you in my apartment?!”

“First of all,” he says, flicking an imaginary speck off his shoulder, “did your mortal mother never teach you manners? It’s rude to look someone in the face and demand to know what they are. So I’m not answering that. As for why I’m here—well. I saw you calling out. Liked what I saw. Thought I’d… drop in and say hello.”

I just stare at him, lagging a full ten seconds behind every word.

“You… saw me?” My voice cracks. “Saw me where? How—why—how were you even watching? We’re seven floors up. There isn’t even a balcony, I⁠—”

“Through the Veil,” he cuts me off. “Your little ritual was essentially the metaphysical equivalent of throwing a brick through a window. Your little ritual opened a door right into the Forbidden Zone… and I saw you.”

My skin freezes as the blood drains from my face. “No. No, no, no. You… you are not what I called for.”

His dark eyes glitter with a cruel sort of amusement. “Hmm. Yes. Well, I’m aware you were shopping for a human spirit—not me. Quite the specific request. May I ask which one was worth the bloodstains and the bad poetry?”

“Matthew,” I choke out.

“What is a ‘Matthew’?” he asks, rolling the name around his tongue like it’s something bitter.

“My boyfriend,” I whimper.

“Oh, how touching. Truly.” He takes a step closer, his shadow stretching across the floor until it swallows my feet. “Well, you wanted a Matthew. Instead, you got a Malachi. And let’s be honest, you can’t just wrangle your boyfriend back for some post-mortem cuddling. Candles and crying don’t equal a resurrection. Plus, he’s dead—your hands would go right through him. He’d be about as satisfying to hold as a face full of fog.”

His words hit something tender and rotten inside me, knocking all the air out of my lungs.

He rakes his fingers through his hair, fingers grazing the curve of a horn, eyes dragging down my body with infuriating interest. “Me, however? Fully solid. Excellent stamina. Built for interaction. The hands-on kind. I can do kissing, biting, choking, carrying—sometimes all at once, if the mood’s right. I can give you a demonstration if you want?”

I wet my lips, forcing the words out through the tight band around my chest. “Stop,” I whisper shakily. “You… you can’t be here. You can’t be real. I just… I just need you to leave so I can—” I break off, my voice crumbling. “Just go. Please.”

He sighs dramatically, then steps forward, stopping just a few inches away—close enough that the next flash of lightning glints off the thin metal of a septum ring and a row of hoops and studs climbing the curved point of each ear. “Alright. Since you insist on being spectacularly rude and trying to evict me from a realm I quite literally clawed my way into, we’ll try something simpler.” He extends his hand toward me. “Formal introductions.”

My gaze flits to the smooth silver skin, and the dark veins shifting just beneath the surface like ink in water.

I shake my head quickly, stumbling backwards a step. “No! Don’t touch me⁠—”

He raises his hands in mock-surrender and laughs. “Fine. But regardless of your aversion to contact—my name is Malachi, Torture Administrator of the Ninth Division. Resident of Hell—currently off-duty, and now residing in your delightfully dreary apartment.”

The room tilts.

“Resident of Hell?” I croak. “You’re a—oh fuck—you’re the fucking Devil.”

Is this what my mind thinks I deserve? Hallucinating the devil as my retribution for everything I’ve done wrong?

Matthew would’ve laughed. Or maybe he wouldn’t have. I don’t even know anymore. Maybe this is exactly what I get for trying to drag him back.

He barks out a laugh that rumbles through the room. “The Devil? Oh, no, no, no. I said I was from Hell. I didn’t say I was the Devil. She doesn’t slip through worlds for little things like you. That’d take something monumental. She’s got bigger fish to fry. Think mass genocide, a nuclear winter, a global flood. Not one lonely mortal with a cardigan and a little bitty broken heart. You, darling, got me.” he concludes, sketching a mocking bow.

The room swims at the edges like my brain is trying to smudge it all out—blur the horns, blur the eyes, blur everything.

My lungs tighten, begging me to crumble, to sink, to fold in on myself the way I always do when the world gets too sharp.