Page 12 of Interior Design for Demons
The sneer in his tone chills me. I sink back into the bath, deflated. Not that I wanted Rath—but for some reason his rejection hurts.
“I need a razor,” I say quietly.
Rath yanks open a drawer and hands over a razor without looking at me. He sets a canister of shaving gel beside it—exactly the brand and scent I usually use. Apollyon wasn’t lying when he said they knew everything about me.
“There’s makeup in this drawer.” Rath taps the drawer above the one he opened. “Everything suitable for your skin tone. And there’s a selection of clothing in your size in the bedroom closet.”
I give him a noncommittal “Hm” so as not to betray my flare of excitement at the mention of a closet full of new clothes.
Why isn’t he leaving? Might as well ask him some more questions if he’s going to hang around. “Can demons—fall in love?”
“Demons sometimes fall in love with each other, and occasionally with humans,” he replies stiffly. “For two or three demons, it’s a simple thing—a mutually satisfying sexual and emotional partnership that can last for centuries.”
“What about if it’s a demon/human thing?”
Rath sighs. “As I said, casual flings aren’t allowed, but the demon can petition to be allowed sexual privileges, to see if the feelings last. Such petitions are rarely approved. And usually it’s just a passing fancy, but sometimes a pair of souls are truly bonded and they want to be together forever. A permanent human/demon pairing used to be forbidden, but that only made us want humans more; so finally the higher-ups legalized it. You have to fill out a horrendously long application and endure a trial period of five years apart to make sure the commitment is genuine on both sides, but eventually the pair can be together. Oh, and the human has to pass preliminary demon trials.”
“What does that mean?”
“A human who wants to be with a demon forever must become a demon. The preliminary trials are meant to test their capacity for carrying out demonic tasks and responsibilities.”
“So basically only evil people fall in love with demons and pass the demon training program.”
“You’d be surprised,” Rath replies. “And not all demonic tasks are ‘evil,’ per se. Some of us are in charge of delivering souls from Earth to their assigned places in Hell—there’s no actual temptation, or dark deals, or torture involved. Other demons maintain the Hellfire portals and stand guard against angelic invasion. And others take care of building repairs and construction.”
“If you have demons who can repair and build things, why not design these rooms yourselves?”
“We can appreciate creativity, but we are not creative beings,” Rath answers. “We can imitate the results in a limited way, but we cannot produce anything truly inspired. No music, art, or stories.”
“That’s why my bedroom is such a horrific mess.” I run my fingers over my leg to make sure I didn’t miss any stubbled spots. “Looks like someone grabbed a bunch of 16th century luxury furnishings, stirred them around, and dumped them in there.”
Rath turns around then, his face sour. “I handled the furnishing of your room. And yes, it was a rush job, because you were an afterthought. You weren’t even supposed to be here.”
“So why don’t you just take me home then?” Tears are welling in my eyes, and it surprises me, because I thought I was more or less fine, but—I’m not. I’mnot.
“You know I can’t take you home now,” Rath says. “It’s too late. You have to compete.”
More tears course down my cheeks, and a heaving sob rises in my chest. “I’ll die. First round. I know it. You said it yourself.”
Rath crosses to the tub in two swift strides. He grabs my shoulders and hauls me through the water until I’m eye to eye with him. “Stop it. Don’t think like that. I’ve seen your sketches, your projects, that portfolio you’ve never shown to anyone—you’ve got talent, and creativity by the—by the tubful.” He nods to the water, and I can’t help a hysterical laugh through my tears. “And you’ve got something else—you’re unpredictable. You’re good at connecting with others right away, even if they don’twantto like you—” His hands tighten on my shoulders. “I have no doubt now that you’ll make it past the first round. Maybe you’ll even win this thing. So don’t quit before you’ve begun, Grace. Don’t you dare.”
He releases one of my shoulders, but takes my chin in his hand instead, rubbing his thumb along my jawline. “You should finish up with your bath.” His voice is husky. “And then get some sleep.”
“Wait—” I try to catch his hand as he leaves, but he sweeps through the bathroom doorway and he’s gone.
Of all the tours I thought I might take in my lifetime—the Louvre, maybe, or the Kyoto Imperial Palace—I never suspected I’d be taking a tour of Hell itself.
Our tour guide is a chirpy female demon with pixie-cut lavender hair, dark skin, and four tiny white horns. The human men in our group (and at least one of the women) seem to be enamored with her. I’m more interested in discovering more about my fellow contestants.
Walking beside me is the man who wore the blue suit yesterday. He tells me in a whisper that his name is Aghilas, that he’s from Morocco, and he mostly designs for corporate facilities in Rabat and Casablanca. His dark face is seamed with worry. Those flecks of gray at his temples—were they there yesterday?
Just behind us shuffles the man who was sedated during orientation. His heavy face sags, as do his shoulders, and he won’t speak, not even when I ask him his name.
“I heard someone call him Charlie. Charlie Wentworth,” offers another woman. She’s tall and gray-haired. Her face is timelessly beautiful, with symmetrical bone structure and eyes that still sparkle, though she must be approaching seventy. I can’t place her accent. “I believe he’s from England.”
Charlie doesn’t confirm or deny her statement. He continues shuffling along, his eyes fixed ahead.
“I’m Linnea Norberg,” says the woman. “I studied design first in Sweden, then moved to Canada to teach interior design at Ryerson University in Toronto.”
