Page 4 of Interior Design for Demons
It’s too much. First the thing with my roommate, and now this? My stomach churns, and I gag.
“Oh hell no.” Rath pushes a button, and a drawer slides out of the back of one of the seats. “No puking on the upholstery. This is a work vehicle. Use the bag in that drawer, there’s a good girl.”
I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror, rebellion rising along with the acid in my throat.
“No. Oh no.” He shakes his head. “Don’t you dare.”
My stomach lurches again. I turn deliberately away from the drawer and vomit all over the back seat.
I regret not throwing up in the bag Rath offered. The stench of my vomit is spreading through the car. I have no idea how far we have to travel, but if I have to stew in this smell the entire way, I am going to be sick again, and I’ll probably get a headache on top of it.
“Bitch,” hisses Rath softly. The way he says it is almost admiring. “You have an evil streak, don’t you? I guess it runs in the family.”
Rage floods me instantly, mingled with horror and pain. “Don’t you ever say that to me again.”
“You can’t stop me from saying anything I want to you, Grace. I’m a demon. I’ll say what I want to you and do anything I want to you.”
I’m desperate for a way to hurt him. Puking on his upholstery gave me back an iota of power, but it’s not enough.
A stray lock of his wavy blond ponytail has worked its way between the gaps in the metal grate behind his seat. I pinch the hair between my fingers and yank hard. The lock rips free, a flake of bloody scalp attached to the ends.
Rath doesn’t flinch. “Demons are used to pain,” he says. “I’ll heal in five seconds. Please keep in mind that anything you do to me will be revisited on you sevenfold.”
“Sevenfold?” I manage a shaky laugh, though my heart twists with terror at the idea of demonic retribution for my misdeeds. “Who uses words like that nowadays?”
Again he looks at me in the mirror, letting his eyes flare orange for a second. The sight steals my breath and my spirit. I curl into the corner of the back seat, as far from the vomit as I can get, and I tuck my knees up under my chin.
Several minutes later Rath says, “Almost there.”
“Almost where?”
“There’s a portal point nearby. It will take us to Hell.”
“I don’t want to go to Hell. I don’t want any of this. Why me?”
“We’ve chosen a variety of designers from all over the globe—different styles, different ages. Just so happens we need another North American representative and someone around nineteen or twenty—someone driven, with high grades and unique ideas. And there are other requirements—desperation, a sense of social isolation, and most importantly, personal motivation. You fit the profile, and you were easy to grab last-minute. So there you have it. The chance of a lifetime—of many lifetimes, in fact.”
“Put me back. Please.” I’m begging, and I don’t even care. “Pick someone else. It’s not too late...there must be others who fit your demographic or whatever.”
“Others who would be missed. You won’t be missed. You’ll disappear, and there will be a brief, half-hearted inquiry. Everyone will believe you cracked under the pressures of school and personal shame. They’ll think you killed yourself, or ran away. There will be a few online news blips about you—well, mostly about your father—and then everyone will forget you existed. Your foster parents might wonder about you for a few years, but you know you were never as dear to them as their own blood.”
The truth of it drives jagged into my soul. Lots of foster families and adoptive parents love the kids they take in with all their hearts. Mine weren’t that type. They were kind, generous people who wanted to do good and help unfortunate children, but they just didn’t have enough love to go around. I was the last child they took in—an afterthought, a pity case. When they hugged me, it was a performative kindness.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
“Of course you do.” Rath’s voice is a melodic croon. “I thrive on that hate, Grace. It feeds my very existence.”
“Demons live on hate?”
“Like a vampire lives on blood. We need human hate and fear to survive. The more evil we do, the more hate and fear we soak in—the more powerful we become.”
My brain works over that bit of knowledge. There’s a weakness in there somewhere, I know it. But to figure out how I can really hurt him, I need to know more about him. He said the back seat of this car was crafted to hold low-level demons, so he’s not one of those.
“What level of demon are you?”
“I’m a mid-level demon, an Enforcer. Not usually drafted for these little fetch-and-carry missions, but they needed someone fast and reliable. The ranks below mine are Inciters and Facilitators, and next rank above me is Orchestrator, and then Abominator. And finally, there is the Infernal Sovereign himself.”
Okay, that was a lot more information than I asked for. Mentally I review the list:Inciter, Facilitator, Enforcer, Orchestrator, Abominator. I stifle a hysterical laugh at the insanity of what I’m facing right now. “You’re very chatty. Should you be telling me about your demon hierarchy?”
