Page 70 of How (Not) To Raise The Dead

“And no, Litha,” I add, eyes flicking to Eden’s wide, petrified ones and then back. “I haven't brought you a mortal. I’ve brought you something… mortal-adjacent.”

I reach for the bag tucked under Eden’s arm and scoop out the House-Beast. The creature lets out a long, dramatic yawn, stretching its paws, claws kneading the air, looking for all the world like it hasn't just been smuggled across a metaphysical border into the literal mouth of Hell.

“A real, breathing feline?” Litha’s hands fly to her mouth as she lets out a delighted gasp. She takes the cat from me with a level of pure, trembling tenderness that borders on the obscene. The House-Beast immediately begins to purr, settling into the crook of Litha’s arm.

“Oh, you darling thing,” she coos, her voice melting into a puddle of affection. “Does this sweet thing have a name?”

Eden’s throat clicks with a nervous swallow. “V-Vesper. Her name is Vesper.”

“Vesper,” Litha repeats, her nose wrinkling just a fraction. “Well, that won’t do now, will it? You shall not be named after a prayer in this house. It’s bad for the upholstery. We shall name you... Rat-Snatcher. Yes. Much more appropriate for a beast of your stature.”

“She... she likes her ears scratched,” Eden murmurs. “Behind the left one, specifically.”

Litha beams, her fingers instantly finding the sweet spot behind Vesper’s left ear. “Oh, I bet she does. Simply divine.” She pauses, looking down at the cat with a practical concern. “Will she eat raw meat? We do not have felines in abundance here, especially not the mortal variety. I’m afraid I have no processed kibble, only fresh-cut flank.”

“I... I suppose she might like it,” Eden whispers, nodding numbly. “She’s never had it before. She usually gets salmon pâté and wet food in jelly.”

I clear my throat, moving to stand by the window as they continue to discuss the dietary requirements of a creature who’s eaten everything from pepperoni pizza to burnt toast while in my presence. My eyes track the sluggish, orange smog rolling through the streets outside as I try to figure out our next move. “This isn't permanent, Litha. We’re only here because we have some... official business to attend to. We won't be long at all. Please, just look after the House-Beast in the meantime.”

“Very well, Malachi. I shall keep the feline safe.” She clicks her tongue. “And you, come with me.”

I look back to find her gesturing toward a door draped in a heavy, deep red brocade. “I can see you’re trying to disguise her for whatever tricky reason you've conjured up, Malachi, but perhaps pajamas with mortal sheep on them are not the most adequate choice for the job. She looks like a lost toddler.”

“The soot was a temporary measure,” I defend, albeit very weakly.

“It’s a travesty,” Litha counters, setting the House-Beast down on her velvet armchair. “Come, Eden. We shall find you something a little more appropriate.” She holds out a slender, elegant hand. “You have nothing to fear from me, I promise.”

Eden looks at me, her eyes searching for a reason to stay. I’ve known Litha since I was a babe; she’s one of the only things in this realm that remains uncomfortably consistent. Her word is iron, even if her tastes are eccentric.

“Go with her, Eden,” I say with an encouraging nod. “Demons do not make promises they do not mean. If she says you are safe, the walls themselves will fight to keep it so.”

They disappear behind the curtain, and I glance back out of the window.

What the fuck am I doing?

This is, by far, the stupidest thing I have ever done. And I have an impressive, multi-century backlog of idiocy to compare it to.

Come to Hell, I’d thought. Find someone to help get rid of the bind.

It sounded so clinical in the mortal realm—so logical. But here, with the orange smog still clinging to my skin and the roar of the machine vibrating through the floorboards, the reality is starting to set in—I’ve brought a lamb into a slaughterhouse and told her it’s a sanctuary. And the worst part? She believes me. She puts so much trust and faith into me when she has literally zero reason to—less than zero. I’m the thing that crawled out of her nightmare, the thing that’s currently stretching her mind to its breaking point, and yet she looks at me as if I’m the only solid ground left in the universe. She’s too trusting. It’s a defect, a mortal flaw that makes my chest tighten with a mixture of irritation and something far more dangerous.

“She's cute,” Kael remarks, snapping me out of my thoughts as he dangles a piece of raw meat over the armchair toward the House-Beast. “For a mortal, anyway.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” I snarl, keeping my faze fixed on the back streets of the Old Sector, trying to figure out what the shit our next moves going to be.

Kael chuckles darkly, finally dropping the meat in front of the House-Beast. “Oh, come on, Mal. Don't tell me you’ve gone soft. You used to be the one we called when a soul needed to be shredded with precision. Now you’re playing bodyguard to a girl who looks like she’d break if the wind changed direction.”

“She isn't a toy, Kael. And she isn't yours to look at.”

“Ooh, territorial. I like it,” Kael says, his boots thudding as he paces the room, his eyes gleaming with his usual, annoying brand of malice. He leans back against the wall, picking at a sharp nail. “Why are you playing bodyguard?”

“None of your fucking business,” I snap, my eyes tracking a group of hooded miscreants wandering the street outside aimlessly, liquor bottles in hand.

Kael chuckles from behind me. “Aw come on, what is it? Does she fuck as good as she looks? Tell me about mortal pussy. Is it sweet? I haven't tasted anything that wasn't pickled in ash for a century. Is she as sweet as she smells, Mal?”

A white-hot spike of rage sears through my chest, and in a blur of silver light, I’m across the room.

The sound of his breath hitching is the most satisfying thing I’ve heard all day. My hand crushes against his throat, my fingers digging into the bruised-plum flesh until his pulse hammers against my palm.