Page 43 of How (Not) To Raise The Dead

“In the flesh,” I lift my mug a fraction in greeting as I lean back, crossing my ankles on the coffee table. “Well, technically, in his flesh.”

I’d spent the early hours tailoring the Harvester’s shell into something more tolerable. I kept the dark, wavy hair and that semi-decent jawline, but I burned away the sallow, sickly tint and dialed the pigment to a rugged bronze—the kind of sun-kissed hue mortals wear on their dating shows.

I look human. I look like someone who pays taxes and worries about cholesterol. It’s disgusting. But, I’ll fit in better with them now.

The shell even came with its own built-in attire. The hideous neon went straight in the trash, but I’ve kept hold of the slacks and charcoal grey t-shirt. Though admittedly, I much prefer Eden’s vests with kittens and the shorts that let my silver skin breathe.

“Well?” I prompt. “Are you going to keep cowering over there, or are you going to tell me if I've gotten the nose right? I spent an inordinate amount of time on the bridge.”

“You're wearing him,” she whispers. “You're actually wearing him.”

“I'm wearing the shell, Eden. Don't be melodramatic,” I say, popping the mug on the coffee table and adjusting my legs, pulling at the material between my thighs. “Come closer. It’s just carbon and water. It’s not that bad, honestly.”

Her movements are so slow it’s painful, but at least she’s moving. She stops inches from me, hesitation flickering over her features.

“Can I uh…?” she whispers, reaching a trembling hadn’t toward me.

When I nod, she steps into the space between my legs, the heat radiating off her small, mortal frame making the nerves in my thighs prickle. She reaches out, her fingertips hovering just an inch from my cheek, before finally making contact.

I lean into it instinctively, my eyes closing as I anchor myself to the sensation.

“It feels like actual human skin,” she breathes, thumb feathering over my cheekbone before it wanders. She hooks it over the edge of my lip, pulling down, exposing my teeth, running the pad over a sharp tip.

“You still have your fangs. And the eyes,” she whispers, her gaze locked right on mine. “They're still yours. But… the pupils are round...”

A slow grin spreads across my now-pink lips. “Well, I had to keep a few things of myself, didn't I?” I say, flicking my septum ring. “A bit of the real flair. Can't have you forgetting who’s really sitting on your couch just because I’ve put on a bit of window dressing.”

“Remarkable,” she breathes.

I preen. It’s impossible not to. “And let’s be honest,” I muse. “Even as a mortal, I look good. I’m still a significant upgrade from the dish-plate, Corpse-Bo⁠—”

The sensation of warmth disappears from my jaw as she flinches back. “Don’t,” she grits out, glaring at me. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. You’re wearing a dead man’s face, Malachi. The least you can do is keep your mouth shut about the one who actually meant something to me.”

My eyes roll back and I groan, hard. “Fine. Perish in the pursuit of mediocre memories. See if I care. But while we’re on the subject of ‘looks,’ you really need to go into that room and fix… whatever this is.” I gesture vaguely at her entire person. “It’s offensive to my new, aesthetic.”

She blinks, looking down at her rumpled clothes and then back at me. “Why? I wasn’t planning on going anywhere today.”

“Incorrect,” I state, cutting off her imminent retreat. “I am now passable as a functional mortal male. I told you I intended to enjoy my vacation. And I would prefer not to be seen in public with a woman who is in such disarray. I don’t want no scrub.”

Her brow furrows for a second before she crosses her arms, looking obstinate. “I don’t want to go out, Malachi. I’m tired, I’m traumatized, and I’m not going.”

“Tough shit,” I drawl. “I am leaving this apartment in twenty minutes. If I walk out that door without you, you’ll be vomiting your own asshole out within minutes.” I tilt my head, grinning. “Would you enjoy that?”

She pales, her hand going instinctively to her stomach. “You... you wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” I challenge. “I have a very high tolerance for other people’s suffering.”

I point a finger at the coffee table, where a silver, metallic lump sits, steaming faintly at the edges. “But first, you will consume nutrients. I cannot have you fainting in the street; it draws unnecessary attention.”

“What is that?”

“I ordered something rather amusing,” I say, picking up the foil-wrapped cylinder and weighing it in my hand. “It is called a ‘breakfast burrito.’ Eat.”

Her eyes widen as the realization hits. “You ordered... did you use my card again?!” She scowls, snatching the burrito from my hand. “I’m not made of money, Malachi!”

“Correct,” I say, smirking. “You are comprised of flesh, calcium, and poor decision-making skills. Very well done on your biology lessons there, baby girl. Now, go change. You have ten minutes before I test the range of our little sickness.”

She lets out a frustrated grumble as she stomps toward the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.