“There,” she said, stepping back to inspect her work, her brow furrowed in that way that always meant bad news. “That should keep you from blowing yourself to pieces for now. But Jack, you’re running on borrowed time here. This thing is a mess. You need a full replacement, not just a patch job.”

“I’ve heard that before,” I muttered, flexing my arm. It still stung like hell, but at least it wasn’t sparking anymore. “What can you do without replacing it? You’ve patched me up before just fine.”

She gave me a look—half exasperation, half pity. “Yeah, because before, it was cracks in the casing or worn wires. This?” She pointed at my arm like it was a ticking bomb. “This is structural, Jack. Your system’s crashing, and I’m not exactly a miracle worker. I can rip the main wires and jerry-rig something, but it’s like duct-taping a dam. It won’t hold for long, and it definitely won’t be compatible with anything else.”

“Good enough,” I said, shrugging.

Her jaw tightened, and she let out a sharp breath. “You’re impossible. Fine. Just don’t come crying to me when your arm falls off mid-fight.”

“I never cry. It’s bad for my image.”

She rolled her eyes but reached for her tools anyway, muttering under her breath about stubborn idiots and their death wishes. “This is going to hurt,” she warned, snapping on a pair of gloves.

“Okay, give me a sec.”

She didn’t give me a second.

The pain hit like someone had jammed a live wire straight into my nervous system. White-hot agony exploded through me, and for a second, the world disappeared in a flash of blinding light.

When it cleared, I was slumped against the workbench, breathing hard, my arm twitching like it had a mind of its own.

“Damn it, Cali!” I snarled, shaking the dizziness from my head.

She didn’t look the least bit sorry. “Oh, quit whining. You’re still in one piece, aren’t you?” She grabbed an oil-stained rag and wiped her hands, her voice softening just a bit. “But seriously, Jack, this thing’s on its last legs. If you don’t get it properly repaired, it’s going to fail at the worst possible moment. And knowing you, that moment will probably involve a demon with a chainsaw.”

I flexed my hand, testing the new connections. It worked—barely. “I’ll think about it,” I said, which was code for not a chance in hell.

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She gave me a long, knowing look. “Sure you will,” she said dryly, packing up her tools.

Cali took a small vial of viscous liquid out of the first aid kit and started to clean my more organic wounds. It was a standard healing tonic. Her hands were deft, but she wasn’t gentle. When I yelped, she looked at me with a smirk. “Big baby.”

“You don’t have to take so much enjoyment in it,” I said through gritted teeth.

Her lips curved into a wide grin. “Keeps you honest. Besides, good to know you can still feel things,” she quipped. But I was getting a little worried about that; this all should have been much more painful than it was. She thrust the vial toward my face.

“Drink up, zombie boy.”

My gaze hovered over the clear liquid, my grotesque reflection staring back at me. Cali’s eyes were practically drilling holes into my skull. With a reluctant hand, I accepted the familiar healing concoction, swirling it around skeptically. Cali’s glare intensified.

“Just drink it, you old mop.”

I took a deep breath, bringing the glass to my lips and forcing myself to swallow. The thick liquid moved down my throat, making me grimace. Usually, the taste was unbearable, like drinking snails coated in battery acid. But this time it was different. It barely tasted like anything. I wondered if my dying nerve endings were to blame.

I gulped it down, feeling the tingle as the potion started to work, knitting my skin back together. Relief flooded in for a moment—until it didn’t. A sharp hiss filled the air, and my flesh began to sizzle like someone had dropped acid on it. The pain was instant, searing. I thrashed wildly, trying to spit it out, but it was too late. She grabbed a glass of water, shoving it into my hand, but but a sip only spread the burn, making it worse.

“Damn it!” I managed to croak, clawing at my throat.

She scrambled, then appeared with a gallon jug of milk. I ripped off the cap and downed it in desperate gulps, pouring the rest over my neck where the potion had turned my skin into a smoldering mess. The hissing finally started to fade, and I sagged in relief, even as the milk dribbled out through the raw, open wound.

“I’m so sorry, Jack.”

“It’s fine,” I rasped, feeling the last remnants of the potion working their way down to my gut, where it settled like a lead weight. “Neither of us could’ve known it’d do that. Guess health potions aren’t meant for the undead.”

She watched as the milk slowly seeped out of my neck, a mix of horror and resignation in her eyes. “We need to find something that actually helps.”

She got back to patching me up, this time sticking to tape and stitches, while the rest of the potions got shoved far, far away.

“So, this deal with Death, what’s the scoop?”

“Just some freelance work,” I explained.

“And what about the whole zombie thing? Should I be worried you’ll start craving brains, or are you more of the cute and cuddly variety?”

“There’s a cuddly type?”

“I don’t know, Jack. I’m not exactly an expert on the undead.”

She let out a low whistle. As she resumed her work, I leaned back, feeling the weariness creep in. The pain was dulling, replaced by a new sensation—an emptiness, a gnawing hunger that was starting to grow. I shook it off, focusing on the pain.