Page 25 of Interior Design for Demons
Apollyon’s face darkens. “He said that wasn’t a claim. He only kissed you to break my spell, because he needed to get you to the meeting. With Rath, everything is about maintaining order, meeting the deadlines, following the rules. He takes great pride in his adherence to protocol.”
“He’s a pride demon?”
“Pride and ambition, yes. That’s why he lurks around human institutions of higher learning. Lots of pride and ambition there. Me, I find that sort of thing dreadfully boring.” He picks up an ornate pewter goblet and knocks back the wine inside. His ringed fingers flit over the other glasses on the table, each one holding a different cocktail. He collects a frosty hipped glass containing ice, dark red liquid and blackberries, with a sprig of mint. “Try this one.”
I narrow my eyes suspiciously.
“Grace.” His honeyed voice makes me warm all over. “It’s harmless.”
“And I should trust you?” I reach out, touching his chest with one finger. “Hello?Demon.”
He leans in, his crystalline blue eyes glittering into mine. “You trusted me enough to let me pleasure you earlier.”
“That was a one-time thing.” I recoil, my mouth dry, my skin singing with tantalized arousal. “I’ve made some new rules for myself since then.”
His eyes drift shut, dark red lashes brushing his cheekbones. “I hate rules. Except when I’m breaking them—then they’re fun.”
He’s been slowly angling closer, until I’m pinned between him and the edge of the table. The scant sliver of air between our bodies feels magnetized, electrified. It’s all I can do not to close that gap.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he whispers, blue claws sliding from his fingertips. He rakes them through my hair, the sharp tips grazing my scalp. The cerulean wings he wore earlier have disappeared, but the horns and claws are enough to make him look dragonesque.
“Can you turn into a dragon?” I ask abruptly.
“I am Apollyon,” he says. “Of course I can.”
“Damn,” I breathe. “That’s pretty cool.”
“I prefer not to, of course. Changing form too often hastens my decay.”
“What does that mean?”
“Every demon has a shelf life, so to speak. We devolve slowly, degrading into mindless monsters, gradually losing our human aspect and becoming hideous crooked beasts who cannot follow the simplest orders. It happens over hundreds of years. Eventually we are sent to the Lower Layers to tear apart wandering souls, and new young demons are assigned the same names, titles, and powers. The previous Apollyon degraded into a horrible monstrosity a couple hundred years ago, and I took his place.”
And here’s another piece of useful info for my mental list of demon factoids and weaknesses. Was that creepy creature in the library a devolved demon? “So eventually you’ll lose your mind and become a crazed beast?”
Apollyon flinches, anxiety passing across his face so quickly I almost miss it. “Not if I can help it.” He stares into the frosty cocktail, then holds it out to me again. When I shake my head, he downs it quickly, avoiding my eyes.
The music kicks into a new rhythm, and Apollyon shakes himself. “Want to dance?”
“I don’t really feel like it. See, there’s this thing tomorrow where I might lose my soul—kinda ruins the party vibe.”
“All the more reason to enjoy this night,” he urges, offering his hand. “Dance like you’ll die tomorrow. Come on, Grace—when have you ever been a guest of honor at a party this fabulous?”
“You know the answer. You know everything about me, remember?”
“Apparently not everything, because you surprised me earlier, with your little speech.” He smiles. “Have a drink and come dance with me.”
Why not? No one is going to judge me here in Hell. And he’s right—this is my last chance to let loose and have some fun. I’m used to withdrawing into corners at events, finding quiet spots to ride out the night. But maybe I can step out of my shell, just this once, and find the bolder, braver me, the one who called Hell’s denizens a bunch a fools and basically told them to fuck off. I kind of liked that girl. I need more of her if I’m going to survive this.
“Fine.” I seize a cocktail from the table and gulp half of it down. It’s sweet and cool and zesty, sparkling along my tongue and down my throat, warming my belly and spreading heat along my limbs. “I guess a dance with the devil wouldn’t hurt.”
Apollyon and I merge with the demons who are dancing around the fire pit. I try not to look at the grotesque performers gyrating atop the black skulls. And I don’t look at Apollyon either, because watching his graceful body undulate is going to be way too distracting, and I’ll just feel like a clumsy clod in comparison. Instead I shut my eyes and let myself drift into the music, an irresistible rock song I recognize, a darkly beautiful piece from Poets of the Fall. I suppose demons can’t invent their own music either, so they have to borrow ours.
“Demons have emotions,” I say without opening my eyes, moving my body to the song. “Even though you’re not creative beings, and even though you have no souls.”
Apollyon’s voice sifts through the music. “We have emotions. But they are hollow and untrue. Our most genuine impulses stem from desire. Desire for pleasure, for station, for eternal life, formore.”
“More?” My eyes flash open. “You’re beyond death, and you have supernatural power and beauty. What more could you want?”
