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I stand up, stretching the shell to its limits, feeling the bones pop and the muscles knit tighter to the frame. While it looks infinitely more convincing than when the Harvester was piloting it, it’s still claustrophobic—like being crammed into a matchbox made of meat.
And there’s also not a chance in this realm I’m shoving my limbs back into that horrific hoodie again.
I wander over to the coat rack by the door, and tucked in the back, I find a heavy, midnight-black wool overcoat, with wide lapels and deep pockets.
When I’ve shrugged it on, I catch my reflection in the little mirror next to the door and adjust the collar, smoothing the wool over my chest. It’s a bit tight across the back and significantly short on my wrists, but it’ll do.
“No,” comes a quiet gasp.
With a glance over my shoulder, I find Eden standing there, fully dressed now, staring at me as if I’m made of cobras, the bitten burrito hanging from her hand. “What? Is the color wrong for the season?”
“That’s… that’s his,” she whispers.
I look down at the lapel, then back at her. “This belongs to the corpse-boy?”
“Don’t call him that! And take it off!” she snaps, lunging forward as if she’s actually going to try and peel me out of it. “Take it off right now.”
I sidestep her easily, the wool swishing around my thighs. “Be practical. There is a chill in the air outside and I don’t want to shove myself into your blue hoodie again. This is a functional garment.”
“It’s not yours! It’s his! It’s one of the last things he wore before—” She stops, her face twisting, and I see that messy mortal grief bubbling up again. It’s exhausting to watch.
“Well, he’s not exactly using it for his morning commute anymore, is he?” I drawl.
I turn toward the mantelpiece, where the ceramic urn sits in somber, dusty silence, and lean in, my face inches from the vessel that holds the bone-dust.
“Do you mind if I use your coat for a date with this beautiful mortal?” I ask the urn, my voice dripping with mock-sincerity. I pause, tilting my head as if waiting for a whisper from the beyond, nodding along to imagined words.
“Ah, look at that,” I say, straightening my collar and throwing a wink at my unamused little summoner. “He didn't answer. You know why? Because he’s dead. And the dead are famously relaxed about their wardrobe.”
“You’re horrible,” she chokes out, eyes glistening.
“Correct,” I say, my voice smooth and utterly devoid of apology. “Now, let's move. We’re burning daylight and not in a fun way.”
She doesn't move, so I do it for her. I grab her coat and hold it open. She stands there, frozen in a cocktail of grief and rage, until I nudge her.
“Arms in, baby girl.”
She relents, sliding her arms into the sleeves with a shuddering breath. I pull the fabric snug around her, my fingers smoothing it over her shoulders, and untucking her hair from under the collar.
The cotton of my borrowed slacks strains against my thighs as I drop to one knee in front of her. “Foot,” I command, grabbing her boots.
The limb rises, her free hand bracing against my shoulder for balance so delicately it sends a ripple of static over my skin. The boot slides on, followed by a fibrous snap as I tighten the laces.
“There,” I say, standing up and towering over her once more. “You look almost presentable. Shall we?”
As I reach for the door handle, I pause. “Goodbye House-Beast. And don’t wait up, Matthew,” I call out. “I’ll have her back for dinner. Probably.”
Chapter 17
Eden
“Iam victorious!”
The roar cuts through the auditory assault booming from the speakers, and a woman pushing a stroller three feet away nearly tips the thing over, veering left in terror.
He’s standing in front of the basketball booth, chest puffed out like he’s just conquered a small nation instead of a plywood stall manned by a reedy teenager.
“Impressive,” I mutter, the words getting lost in the fibers of my scarf. “You managed to put a ball through a hoop without committing a felony. Gold star for you.”
