Page 30 of How (Not) To Raise The Dead

I tuck my chin deeper into the hoodie, trying to filter the air through the synthetic material before I actually gag. I wonder if the mortals are immune to this wretchedness—if the stench of rot and exhaust is dampened for them, or if they simply live their entire lives in a state of sensory masochism. Is this normal to them? Do they wake up and think, ‘Yes, I would like to inhale the ghost of a burnt tire and a stranger’s stomach contents today’?

The thought is as revolting as the reality.

She must dislike it as much as I do—my little summoner is exceptionally tense right now. She’s sticking to the inner edge of the sidewalk a step ahead of me, keeping as much distance between us and the litter-scattered road as possible. Her head is down, her shoulders hunched as if she’s trying to shrink into the fabric of her own coat, disappearing into herself.

I’m practically leaning into her wake. It’s the only damn way to survive this. She’s the only thing that doesn’t smell like garbage.

The flow of the crowd hitches in one movement. A man in a tailored suit with a face set in a mask of self-important urgency barrels blindly through the lane and slams his shoulder right into Eden.

She stumbles sideways, her shoulder cracking against the rough brick of the buildings we’d been hugging, and she full-on recoils, letting out a panicked wheeze, her eyes instantly blowing wide and glazed, staring at nothing.

She’s shaking, her hand scrambling for purchase against the brick like she’s trying to hold onto reality itself. But the asshole doesn’t even look up. He doesn’t even break his stride or offer a grunt of apology.

A white-hot spike of fury pierces through my disdain. How dare he. How dare this well-dressed worm smack into my little summoner like she’s a piece of furniture. Like she’s just another obstacle in his path to more money and more boredom.

“Hey,” I snarl in his direction, the sound vibrating out of my chest.

I want to reach out, snag him by the back of that expensive silk tie, and show him exactly how small a mortal becomes when he’s staring into the maw of the Ninth.

I’m about to move, hands twitching inside the oversized pouch of the hoodie, but my attention is snagged by Eden’s whispered plea that I really don’t want to hear.

“It’s fine. Just keep walking. Please.”

“Fine?” I hiss, stepping into her space. “He didn’t even acknowledge your existence. Stick up for yourself, little summoner. I should peel the skin from his⁠—”

“Quiet!”

I force the snarl back down my throat, the metallic tang of unshed anger coating my tongue. I have to settle. I have to compress myself back into the shape of a man who pays taxes and worries about his cholesterol.

But the realm I’m beginning to hate isn’t finished with us. Before I can give the suit-wearing worm the lingering death he deserves, a man in a neon vest steps directly into our path, clutching a clipboard.

“Hey!” he chirps, his voice a pitch too high with a forced, manic cheer. “Do you have a minute to talk about the environment?”

My muscles coil to lunge. First the suit, and now this slab of meat has the audacity to stop our pilgrimage? To talk about the environment they’re already burning? The sheer, staggering arrogance of has the blood in my veins simmering.

Then, I look closer.

Oh…

He has a wide, far-too-toothy grin plastered across a face that, at a glance, is classically handsome. Chiseled jaw, perfectly symmetrical brow, but the closer I look, the more it sours. Those eyes are too far apart… his skin’s tight where it should be loose, and sagging where it should be cinched to the bone…

Vermin-Class Harvester from the Twelfth Division.

He isn’t here to save the planet. He’s here to harvest the low-level frustration of passersby, feeding on the tiny drops of misery they leak when they’re forced to be polite to a stranger they want to punch. He’s a bottom-feeder, a parasite in a neon vest.

And the little shit is looking me right in the eye.

He knows. He fucking knows.

I step forward, my height casting a shadow that swallows his cheerful neon vest whole. “You will move out of our way. And you will do it while you still have the structural integrity to stand.”

The little thing steps forward, closing the gap until I can smell the stagnant musk wafting off him beneath the lavender he’s caked over his skin. He eyes me up and down—taking in the oversized hoodie, the beige mud-streaked face, and the ridiculous glasses. A flicker of genuine amusement crosses his plastic features.

“Where’s your sanctioned shell?” he asks, quiet enough to stay below the hearing of the mortals. “The Ninth Division hasn’t issued shitty makeup and tight clothes as a standard shell.”

“Well they’ve obviously kept you out of the loop,” I lie, because there’s no way I’m going to tell this scavenger that I’m essentially a squatter tied to a girl who wasn’t expecting me to appear in place of her dead boyfriend. “New model, specifically for a job that requires me to peel you like a grape if you don’t step aside. Now, move.”

“I’m just doing my job, sir,” he says, loud enough for the passing crowd to hear, his voice dripping with that mock-humility that makes me want to rip his tongue out. “Just trying to make the world a... cleaner place.”