Page 101 of How (Not) To Raise The Dead

“She’s traumatized, Veraxia!” I snap, my grip tightening on Eden’s face. “She’s not one of us. She can’t handle this confrontation.”

“She doesn't have to fight him, you idiot. She just has to arrive at the destination!” Veraxia’s voice rises. “The clause is mandatory. Wardens! I’m putting through the paperwork now, have a transport tram ready at the sub-level terminal. Stat! And someone fetch a mop—I’m tired of all the mortal fluids.”

Chapter 36

Eden

The tram they’ve stuck us in—despite it being a glorified metal coffin on treads—is hurtling across fifty feet above the ground at ninety miles an hour.

“Hold still,” Malachi murmurs.

He presses the damp cloth to my temple again, and I cringe. Well, it’s less of a cloth and more a strip of cotton he ripped from the hem of his own shirt, and since the onboard water tank is nonexistent, the fabric’s damp with his own spit.

“Sorry,” he winces, pulling back to inspect his handiwork, golden eyes narrowed in concentration. “I know it stings. I just need to get the dirt out before it festers. Your immune system is distressingly fragile.”

“It’s okay,” I whisper, trying to lean into the warmth of his palm, but my eyes won’t stay still. They dart around the cramped interior of the tram, seeking distraction from the bio-hazard nursing happening on my forehead.

Two Wardens are strapped into the rear jump seats, looking bored out of their minds, their heads lolling with every jerk of the tram like crash-test dummies. Further up front, near the cockpit, is Veraxia, who’s ignoring the fifty-foot drop below us to coo at Chain-Chewer.

“Who is a good little security system?” she croons, scratching behind his rocky ear. “You are. Yes, you are. Such a diligent asset.”

Chain-Chewer’s eyes snap open, his glowing eyes narrowing. He lets out a low, warning rumble that vibrates through the metal floor and into my tailbone. He clearly hasn't forgotten that she spent the last two hours calling him Security-Hound Three-Oh-One.

Malachi finishes scrubbing the crust of blood from where the machine’s needles punched through my skin. He inspects the wounds one last time, satisfied, then casually wads up the bloody, spit-soaked rag and chucks it across the cabin, hitting Veraxia square in the shoulder.

With a face contorted into absolute disgust, she slowly peels the damp fabric off her blazer. “That,” she snarls, holding the rag by a single corner, “is unsanitary. It is coated in sibling secretions and mortal fluid. You are feral, Malachi.”

“Recycle it,” he says dismissively, not even looking at her.

He turns his full attention back to me. The chaos of the rattling tram, the heat of the Hellhound, and the complaining sister all fade into the background noise. He leans in, his face filling my vision, blocking out the grim reality of the armored walls, and presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth, then another to my jaw, lingering there. I close my eyes as his breath washes over me, smelling of that dark, heavy spice and smoke that always seems to wrap around my throat like a silk noose.

His thumb hooks over my chin, prying my lip free from my teeth slowly.

“Stop that,” he scolds softly, his gaze dropping to the raw skin he just liberated. “I’m getting sick of seeing you bleed, little summoner. You’re going to drain yourself dry.”

His forehead leans agains mine, molten-gold eyes burning fiercely.

“You did good, Eden,” he whispers against my skin. “You were so, so brave. You can rest now. Let me worry about the logistics.”

I reach up, my fingers trembling as I cup his silver cheeks. I let my hand wander, tracing the line of his jaw before sliding upward to his horns. My thumb runs over the base, feeling every ridge and every bump—the terrifying, ancient anatomy of him that has no business existing in a world of padded walls and pizza boxes.

I don’t want to forget this. I don’t want to wake up in forty-eight hours with a clean hard drive, looking at my reflection and wondering why there are two fang marks in my throat and I feel like I’ve lost a limb I never knew I had. I want to bottle the heat of him, to store his taste in the back of my throat so it’s there when the dull ache of my real life tries to swallow me whole.

But it’s the other thing that’s clawing at me. The thing about Matthew.

If my mind’s wiped, will I even know that I got to see him again? Will I remember the moment the words leave my mouth? Or am I going to walk around my apartment for the next fifty years feeling a phantom weight in my chest, a lingering shadow of a sin I can’t name and a closure I can’t remember achieving? I’m terrified that I’ll be forgiven and never know it—doomed to feel the pain of a wound that’s already been stitched shut.

Malachi pulls back slightly to fumble with the buckle of my harness, his black nails clicking uselessly against the heavy iron mechanism. He’s the most powerful thing I’ve ever met, a creature who manages the mechanics of agony for a living, and he’s being defeated by a seatbelt.

I look away, turning my gaze to the reinforced porthole window. We’ve been flying past different districts for hours—sprawling metropolises of black obsidian and neon lights—but now the architecture has given way to nothingness. And dead ahead, growing larger with every rattling second, is the horizon line—glowing with that same sickly, radioactive orange fire Malachi pointed out on my first night here. The destination. The end of the line. The Grey Archives.

“Malachi,” I whisper, tearing my eyes away from the radioactive sunset. “I’m going to need you to trust me. Even if it looks like I’ve lost my mind.”

His brow furrows in genuine confusion.

“Just hold me,” I breathe, pitching my voice high and wavering, terrified and needy. “Please. Just hold me and tell me it’s going to be okay.”

Without hesitation, his arms lock around my shoulders, pulling me into the solid wall of his chest. I bury my face in the scratchy tunic, letting out a loud, wet sniffle for the benefit of the Wardens and Veraxia.