Page 121 of How (Not) To Raise The Dead

“We will be in touch,” he clips, smoothing his jacket with a aggression that suggests he’s imagining it’s my neck. “Do not deviate. Do not improvise. And for the love of the Veil, do not mess this up.”

He turns on his heel and marches out, the heavy oak doors slamming shut behind him.

Silence returns to the suite, broken only by the wet shicking of the Weaver’s needle and Veraxia crunching loudly on a cracker.

I turn back to the mirror. The face staring back is almost complete. It’s human, yes. But it’s currently too… soft. Too safe. It looks like a man who pays his taxes on time and enjoys vanilla yogurt.

Unacceptable.

“Higher,” I instruct, tilting my chin up to catch the harsh light. “The cheekbones. Lift them about two millimeters. I want to look sharp enough to bleed on.”

The Flesh-Weaver pauses and lowers his needle.

“This is a tactical shell, not a runway look,” he sighs. “You are going to the Mortal Realm to hunt, not to model. The bone structure does not need to be aerodynamic.”

I ignore him, turning my head side to side, admiring the potential geometry.

He’s right, of course. Technically.

I am now Malachi, Headhunter of the First Division. My mandate is to track, locate, and execute Satan’s will with extreme prejudice. I am a weapon made of meat and magic, designed to move unseen through the shadows of the mortal world. Vanity is an inefficiency.

But I don’t care about efficiency.

I care about the look on Eden’s face when I walk through her door. I want my little summoner to take one look at this face and forget how to breathe. I want her to stammer. I want her to drool. I want to look like myself, but… human.

“Do it,” I command, chomping my new, perfectly straight teeth at my reflection. “And re-do my piercings while you’re at it. The classics never die.”

“Piercings,” he repeats. “You want me to puncture the fresh vessel? We just sealed the dermis.”

“I said what I said,” I snap. “At least twelve in each ear. And the septum. Just because I’m wearing a shell doesn’t mean I have to look like a choir boy. Put the metal back where it belongs.”

From the fainting couch, there’s a rustle of silk and the clink of a china plate being set down with finality.

“This has ceased to be entertaining,” Veraxia announces, swinging her legs off the velvet cushions. “Watching you preen like a mating peacock is tedious, and I have better things to do with my administrative leave.”

She smooths her blazer, checking her reflection in a silver platter.

“I’m going to the Obsidian Springs,” she says, a predatory smirk touching her lips. “I hear the new attendants are carved from living magma. Very hot. Very... pliable. I intend to spend the afternoon ruining them.”

She glides toward the door, her heels clicking on the marble—a metronome counting down the seconds until I never see her again.

She pauses at the threshold but doesn’t turn around.

“Don’t get liquidated, Malachi,” she deadpans. “It would be a bureaucratic nightmare to replace you.”

“Don’t drown in the sulfur, Veraxia,” I reply, matching her tone perfectly. “It would be a shame to ruin that blazer.”

“Fuck off,” she says, affectionately.

“Die screaming,” I return, warmly.

The door shuts. The latch clicks. And I stare at the wood for a second longer than necessary.

“Right,” I say, turning back to the Weaver, who’s holding a hollow needle with trembling fingers. “Stop stalling. Make me beautiful.”

I’m coming for you, baby girl, and you’re going to fucking love this.

Chapter 43