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My stomach does a somersault, and I gag into Malachi’s palm, the sound muffled by his skin.

“Look closer, Eden,” he whispers against my ear, his breath the only warm thing in this freezing alley, heating my skin while my blood turns to slush. “See how the skin at his throat doesn't move when he swallows? See how the light doesn't reflect in his pupils?”

I force myself to look, even though every instinct is screaming at me to bolt, to find a brightly lit street, to vomit and never stop. He’s right. As the bulk of the rat slides down the man’s gullet, his neck remains a smooth, unbroken pillar of flesh. No muscle movement. No Adam’s apple. Just a hungry, hollow tube.

“He’s a Vermin-Class Harvester,” Malachi snarls quietly, his hand still firm over my mouth, anchoring me to the slick masonry. “A bottom-feeder who feasts on the rot of this city and the misery of its people. And he’s the prick who outed my whereabouts to Veraxia.”

“You brought me to a... a rat-eating demon in the middle of the night? Why?!” I whisper-yell, my voice cracking under the weight of the stench and the sheer, logic-defying horror of it all.

“Because, he’s in a shell,” he says, his eyes locked on the environmentalist as he wipes a smear of dark blood from its chin using the corner of his tote bag. “All authorized demons, like this pathetic worm, are issued one—a mortal suit. It’s bio-suit that lets us walk among you without causing a mass panic.”

“He's wearing a... a suit?” My voice quivers, barely a breath.

He doesn’t answer as he steps out from our hiding spot, his tall, hooded silhouette cutting through the pale moonlight.

“Hey,” Malachi calls out, his voice echoing around the alleyway as he stalks forward. “Do you have a minute to talk about the environment?”

“It—it’s you—” The creature—the man—whatever the fuck it is—snaps its head toward him and scrambles back, hitting a stack of wooden pallets, sending them clattering to the ground. “You're—you're supposed to be in Hell! I reported you!”

“Not so brave and oily now, are you, you Vermin-Class cunt?” Malachi snarls as he stalks forward, the cat-fur-covered hoodie doing nothing to hide the sheer, terrifying power radiating off him. “I was here, enjoying a harmless vacation, and you reported me.”

“So what?!” it shrieks, its human eyes bulging. “It’s… it’s procedure! It’s protocol to report unsanctioned visitors!”

“I couldn’t give two fucks in a world of brimstone if it’s unsanctioned,” Malachi spits, closing the distance until he’s looming over the creature. He reaches out, grabbing the man by the front of his windbreaker and hoisting him off the ground with one hand. “You caused me a logistical nightmare. And now, you’re going to pay for the inconvenience.”

“Wh… what?” the thing whimpers, its legs kicking uselessly in the air. “What do you want?”

“The shell,” Malachi growls, his golden eyes flashing with a predatory light. “Now.”

The things face contorts in pure terror. “No! Not the shell! You can’t! I’ll be exposed!”

“I’m not asking,” Malachi says, his voice deathly quiet.

Without waiting for another plea, he slams the Harvester back against the brick wall with a bone-crunching thud and sinks his silver fingers right into the man’s collarbone, seeking out the flesh underneath.

The wet crack of bones crunching sends a jolt through my nervous system. The sound of skin peeling makes my vision tunnel. I can almost smell the iron and the lilies from the funeral. My hands go to my ears, but I can’t block out the sound of ripping as Malachi’s hand twists.

A blood curdling, high-pitched, electronic screech fills the air as the skin begins to peel back, revealing a shimmering, oily film as it lifts away from his body. The ‘human’ face sags and melts, the eyes sliding down the cheeks like marbles in syrup, revealing something pale and chitinous.

It has too many limbs—long, spindly things that twitch with the erratic, nervous energy of an insect—and there’s something horrific and spiny protruding from its back, like a cluster of obsidian porcupine needles.

“Please!” the thing gurgles, its voice wet and bubbling. “Don’t take my fucking shell!”

But Malachi’s relentless. He’s snarling now, golden eyes blown wide, his muscles coiled underneath the hoodie with a terrifying, overpowering aggression. He rips the last of the shimmering film away with a final, violent jerk, and the hideous, insectoid Harvester collapses into a heap of pale, spindly limbs and weeping sores.

Oh God. Oh fuck.

My knees shake so hard I have to lean against the dumpster to stay upright. My hands are over my mouth, my heart knocking against my ribs like a caged bird. I can't breathe.

Malachi stands over the Harvester, holding the gauzy, translucent, human-shaped ‘suit’ in his hands.

“Was that totally rad, dude?” Malachi mocks, spitting down at the twitching mess on the ground. “Was it totally chill vibes? Did you save the planet today, you little snitch?”

The Harvester’s sobbing, its many limbs scratching frantically at the pavement.

“You’ve made a big mistake,” it wheezes, the voice no longer human, but a grating hiss. “That shell... it’s registered to me. When I get back to Hell… when I report this... you’re fucked. They’ll rip you limb from fucking limb for a theft this blatant.”

Malachi laughs. He doesn't look bothered, or winded. He looks... satisfied.