Page 112 of How (Not) To Raise The Dead

I don't look back at the carnage. I don't check for injuries. But my eyes lock onto the dark, crumbling skyline to the east. My boots slam against the cracked pavement as I break into a run, veering into the labyrinth of the back alleys, leaving the chaos of the main thoroughfare behind.

My lungs burn with each rattling inhale of rotting meat and rust. Chain-Chewer’s matching my pace, his claws skittering on the slick stones, but even he looks winded.

We skid around a final, garbage-strewn corner unit I reach the door I’m looking for, and hammer my fist against it.

“Open up!” I roar, my voice echoing off the damp brick walls.

A latch clicks, then a bolt slides back with a slow groan. The door swings open, revealing a slice of warm, yellow light that smells of dried herbs and tea.

“Malachi? You look dreadful.”

I brace a hand against the doorframe, chest heaving, fighting to keep my voice level.

“Litha,” I rasp. “I need the House-Beast. Now.”

She tuts, ushering me inside with a flap of her floral sleeve. “Come in, come in. Mind the doilies.”

I stumble into her human-junk house, and Chain-Chewer squeezes in behind me.

“Watch the tail!” Litha snaps, swatting at the Hellhound’s stone flank. “If you break my commemorative spoon collection, I will turn you into dust, do you hear me?”

Chain-Chewer whines, tucking his tail between his legs and shrinking down, trying to make his terrifying bulk look dainty.

“The feline has been an absolute delight, by the way,” Litha chatters, shuffling toward the living room, oblivious to the fact that my heart rate’s sitting at a lethal three hundred beats per minute. “Very well behaved. Kael has been to the market twice this week just to pick her up extra meat. She simply adores the flank steak. I think she’s refined her palate.”

“That is… wonderful, Litha. Truly,” I say, scanning the room frantically. “Where is she?”

“Over there, on the fainting couch.”

Curled up on a crushed velvet armchair is Vesper. The creature has not just survived; she has thrived. She’s a cream-and-black sphere of fluff, looking less like a cat and more like a rising loaf of bread with ears.

I turn to Chain-Chewer, who’s sniffing the air with a predatory glint in his magma-colored eyes.

“Listen to me,” I hiss, grabbing his snout and forcing him to look at me. “Do you see that ball of arrogance? That is not a threat. That is a diplomatic asset. If you maul this feline, Eden will never scratch behind your ears again. She will not call you a ‘good boy.’ She will look at you with cold, human disappointment for the rest of eternity. Do you understand?”

Chain-Chewer looks from me, to the cat, and then lets out a low, mournful grumble, slumping his shoulders in defeat.

Litha looks past me, peering back toward the hallway. “Where is the pretty mortal? I thought she’d be coming to collect her herself.”

My jaw tightens, the question hitting me like a punch to the sternum.

“Long story,” I say, my voice tight. “And I do not have time to tell it. Do you have something I can put the cat in? A crate? A box?”

“I have… this,” Litha says, rummaging through a pile of antique fabrics before producing a hideous, floral tapestry with leather handles.

“It’s vile,” I say, snatching it from her with zero hesitation. “And perfect. Thank you.”

I stride over to the velvet armchair and reach down, scooping the creature up. She lets out a disgruntled mewl and goes limp, dangling from my grip like a boneless, furry fluid.

“Good grief,” I mutter, adjusting my hold as her new weight settles in my arms. “You have become a dense, gravitational anomaly. Has she been feeding you lead bricks?”

I lift her higher, until her blinking eyes are level with my own. She stares at me with that familiar, imperious judgment that I have against all logic, come to crave.

“Hello, House-Beast,” I whisper.

I lean in and press my lips firmly against the soft fur between her ears, inhaling the scent of dust and warm animal. She blinks in return, reaching out a paw to bat lazily at my nose.

“We are going to go to your mistress,” I say, pulling back to look at her one last time. “But you are going to have to travel economy class.”