Page 77 of How (Not) To Raise The Dead

“Is this even safe? Isn't that, you know, lethal?” Eden asks as I drag her up from the chair by her elbow. She coughs into her sleeve as the first cloud of cherries, vinegar, and burning matches wets her skin.

“Lethal? Only if you have a weak constitution,” Serena snaps. “If your throat starts closing, just poke a hole in it with a straw. And for the love of—Malachi, stop spraying!”

I ignore her, circling Eden. I douse her hair, her skin, and even the hem of her skirts until she’s practically gasping for oxygen. The air around me is thick with the scent, a cloying cloud that makes my own eyes water and my throat itch. She smells like a poisoned fruit basket left out in a thunderstorm. Perfect.

“That is enough!” Serena shrieks, lunging across the desk, only for me to cap the bottle and shove it deep into my pocket.

I’ll make use for this later.

“I can't... breathe,” Eden wheezes, waving a hand in front of her face.

“You’re breathing well enough to complain,” I mutter, rolling out my neck and stretching my arms across my chest. “We’re going. Let's get this over and done with. We'll be back soon.”

Serena lets out a loud, hacking cough, leaning back in her chair with a look that says we aren't going anywhere yet. “Not too soon, I hope. You’ll need time to shop.”

I stop, already halfway to the door. “What?”

“You think I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart?” she asks, raising a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “You think my 'professional courtesy' extends to illegal surgeries that could get me flayed?”

“I assumed my sparkling personality was payment enough,” I rumble, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Your personality is a liability, Malachi. I want a trade,” she purrs, checking her nails. “When you are at the market, you must acquire a Stasis Rattle. It’s an ancient bit of nursery tech. It paralyses the infants vocal chords—the brat sleeps, and so do I. Bring me the Scalpel for the surgery, and the Rattle for my sanity, and I will cut you loose. No Rattle, no surgery.”

She has got to be fucking kidding me.

Chapter 28

Malachi

“You have an apartment?” She whirls around, her voice bouncing off the soaring, vaulted ceilings. “An actual apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did we sleep in a motel with demon cockroaches?” she hisses, her hand connecting with my bicep in a frustrated slap. “I had a rusted spring digging into my kidney for six hours!”

“Because I wasn't going to drag you across four distinct districts on the Vein when we’d just torn ourselves through the Veil. I was drained. The motel was a convenience of proximity.”

I kick the door shut and engage the locks, the thud echoing through the open-plan space, a cavern of liquid-black glass and sharp edges perched at the top of an obsidian needle in my own residential district.

She walks backward, craning her neck to take in the dizzying height of the vaulted ceiling. Her heel catches on the coarse, volcanic hide of the rug and she stumbles, nearly upending my steel coffee table as she goes.

In the inky depths of the rug, two eyes the color of molten magma snap open, and a guttural snarl rips through the frozen air.

She shrieks, scrambling away.

“Chain-Chewer. Stop,” I command, snapping my fingers.

The beast rises—a massive, slab-muscled monstrosity of volcanic rock and solidified shadow. He lets out a huff of sulfurous steam, before his whip-like tail thuds against the marble floor with the force of a sledgehammer.

“A dog? You have a dog?! If you have a dog, why couldn't I bring Vesper?” Eden demands, her voice climbing an octave as she backs away. “You made me leave her with Litha! You said it was ‘too dangerous’ for her, but you have a literal dog in your living room?”

“He is not a ‘dog,’ Eden. He is a Hellhound. It’d be like you mentioning to your acquaintances that you have a doorbell,” I say, keeping my back to her as I pour a generous splash of amber whiskey into a crystal tumbler. “He doesn’t require walks, affection, or sustenance. When I exit the premises, his consciousness suspends. He becomes... furniture. Lethal furniture.”

I pause, watching the liquid swirl in the glass.

“Granted, his activation sensors are somewhat temperamental. He occasionally fails to reboot entirely. I once came home to find a maintenance imp changing a lightbulb directly over his head, and the beast didn't so much as twitch. But I assure you,” I say, turning to fix her with a serious look, “if you had brought the House-Beast here, Chain-Chewer would have identified her heartbeat as a foreign contaminant and dismantled her before you’d even managed to unlace your boots. I’m assuming you’re safe because of the bind.”

I take a slow, deliberate sip, watching her over the rim of the glass.