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“Malachi, wait⁠—”

“Listen to me,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving the path ahead, forcing me into a half-jog. “This isn't your world, Eden. It is crueler, louder, and it lacks the polite fictions you mortals use to keep from screaming. But at its core? It’s just another city of appetites. Keep your head down and your mouth shut. Can you manage that?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Okay, Eden, act demonic. This is it. This is Hell.

“I can,” I whisper.

Chapter 25

Malachi

The Central Hub is an absolute fucking headache, and I can confirm with the utmost certainty, that I haven’t missed it in the slightest. Above us, the tram rails hiss and spit blue sparks, and huge holographic advertisements flicker through the orange smog.

We’re swept into the thick, grimy soup of miserable, hollow-eyed workers who keep this machine grinding, their shoulders hunched under the weight of a thousand-year exhaustion.

Eden’s shrinking into herself, her hand in mine feeling smaller and more brittle with every step we take into the crowd. I shoulder my way through the mass, a silver blade cutting through lead as I tug her hand, dragging her into a narrow back alley that smells of wet metal and something much, much worse—something sweet and rotting, like a bouquet of flowers and a big slab of meat left to liquefy in a dumpster. The neon glare of the main street dies into a dim, claustrophobic gloom. Massive, rusted pipes snake along the walls like the exposed veins of some dying machine, dripping with a thick, oily rain that pings rhythmically against the metal.

Eventually, the thick silence of the Old Sector rings through my ears, and finally, we skid to a halt before a door. It’s a bizarre, incongruous sight against the black industrial rock—dark wood that looks like it was ripped straight out of a Victorian manor and bolted onto the side of a mountain with rusted iron spikes.

I rap my knuckles against the wood, and within a matter of seconds, the door is pulled back with a violent jerk.

“Malachi? Where the fuck have you been?” A tall, broad-shouldered demon booms, his voice so deep it makes the puddles of rot-water ripple on the ground beneath my feet.

“Kael,” I drawl. “I didn't realize you were living with your mother now. Last I heard, you were overseeing the screech-mines in the Tenth.”

“Yeah, well, the girlfriend kicked me out after I 'accidentally' traded her favorite collection of souls-in-bottles for a limited-edition scalp-scraper,” he chuckles, leaning his hulking frame against the doorframe.

Eden shifts nervously, the movement causing the contents of her bag to meow softly. The grin on Kael's face falters, and his pupils swallow up his red irises until they’re nothing but black holes.

“Fuuuck. What is that?” He leans down, head tilting as his nostrils flare, sniffing the air hungrily. A low, predatory rumble starts deep in his chest. “She smells like... rain? And soap? And… fuck, give her to me.”

The ground grumbles as he takes a menacing step forward, reaching out a hand that could crush her skull like a grape. But I move faster, stepping directly between them, cutting off his view of her entirely.

“Back up, Kael,” I warn. “Unless you want to find out if your scalp-scraper works on your own throat.”

Kael’s voice turns serious. “Mal... that isn't a demon. I don't care how much soot you smeared on her, that’s a⁠—”

“I swear to Satan, Kael,” I growl, leaning closer. “If you finish that sentence, I will make sure your next girlfriend does more than kick you out. Where is your mother?”

“Relax, man. I’m not a narc,” Kael mutters, lifting up his hands and stepping aside to let us in, gesturing vaguely toward the back of the house. “She’s through in the living room. Try not to break anything, she just polished the silver.”

Without preamble, I haul Eden over the threshold, and the door slams shut behind us, cutting off the mechanical roar outside.

Inside, the world shifts again, into hardwood floors, and a cloying wave of vanilla and old paper. We move into the living room, where the walls are a chaotic museum of human junk—floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with cracked clocks, faded oil paintings of landscapes that look like they were stolen from a haunted grandmother's attic, and leaning towers of yellowed books.

In the center of this hoarder’s paradise, perched in a velvet armchair that looks like it was plucked straight from an eighteen-nineties parlor, is Litha.

“Malachi?” she says, looking up from a tattered knitting project, her rose-red face lighting up with warmth. “Oh, sweetheart! I haven't seen you in an age! You look… grumpier. It suits you.”

“Yeah, well, you know how it is, Litha,” I says with a casual shrug. “No rest for the working man and all that.”

Litha’s eyes drift toward the grey smudge beside me and she gasps, the knitting needles clattering against the floor. She moves with a liquid speed that makes Eden flinch, and in the blink of an eye, she’s in her personal space, her long, cool fingers reaching out, hovering just inches from Eden.

“Oh, Malachi,” Litha breathes, her voice a soft hum of wonder. “Who have you brought to see me? My goodness... have you brought me a treasure from the Pit?”

Eden’s breath is coming in short, terrified hitches that she couldn’t hide no matter how hard she tried. I can practically hear her begging not to be touched. But Litha isn’t telepathic, so she touches her anyway, cupping Eden’s grimy cheeks with a besotted look on her face.

“Litha,” I interject, gently but firmly prying her fingers away from Eden’s trembling face. “This is Eden. Eden, this is Litha, and she’s more likely to accidentally impale herself on a knitting needle than she is to harm you.”