Page 40 of Interior Design for Demons
My own face turns toward me from the crowd, and I nearly scream. The human masks are incredibly lifelike. I have no idea what the demons used to fabricate them, and I don’t want to know—but it’s like staring into a slightly distorted mirror. There’s Aghilas, and even though I know it’s not really him—because there are horns protruding from his skull—I still have the urge to step to his side and shrink against him, as if he could protect me.
I’m always looking for a man to protect me. I seriously have to stop doing that.
If I’m not careful, Rath is going to sense my fear and pop up, spoiling my disguise. I need some liquid courage.
There’s a bar near the wall, manned by a two-headed demon wearing theater masks—the classic smile and frown. That’s nice and familiar. Except, as I approach and lean on the bar-top, I notice that the masks are studded with bits of bone and human teeth.
“What’ll you have?” asks one of the heads.
“Um—” I did not think this through. I’m not sure how to order drinks in Hell. Will my cover be blown if I ask for a beer or an old-fashioned? I clear my throat. “You got any themed cocktails?”
“Sure. We’ve got Midnight Masquerade, with vodka, black currant juice, green chartreuse—”
“That’ll work. I’ll need a straw.” I point to the metal bars across my mouth.
The bartender—bartenders?—nod and prepare me the drink. I sip it slowly through the tiny straw, scanning the crowd. I don’t see Rath or Apollyon, or anyone else I recognize—just more weird human-contestant masks with mocking eyes peering through the eyeholes. It’s a jolt to my brain every time—until the alcohol starts to kick in and soften my nerves a bit.
Fortified, I leave the rest of my drink behind and sidle into the crowd, finding spaces where I can slip through without touching anyone. Can the demons smell my humanity? If so, they don’t give any sign of it. Maybe when I’m mingling with them like this, the exact source of my human aura becomes fuzzy and indiscernible.
The beams of light lashing through the room sparkle on countless fountains, some tinged suspiciously red. A forest of stalactites of blue rock fused with bone grows from the ceiling, but the floor beneath my feet is smooth enough. Cages hang throughout the room, some with dancing demons inside, others with humans who hump and writhe frantically, desperate to please the crowd lest they be rushed back to whatever torment awaits them. I can’t help them, so I try not to look at them.
I find a replica of Hisae who seems to want to dance with me, so I sway and slither with her for a while before moving on to a fantastically costumed Victorian queen with a mask like a porcelain doll. Then there’s a jackal-masked guy, dressed in a neat dark suit. Clawed toes protrude from the tips of his boots, so I don’t spend long with him in case he missteps and impales my foot. There’s a shirtless male with peacock wings and a bird mask, and as he swirls past I glimpse the shimmer of long scarlet hair somewhere in the crowd ahead.
There’s that quiver in my stomach again, the quickening pump of my heart, the swooping thrill low in my belly.
I freeze in place, right in the center of the dancing, swerving crowd, right in the middle of the claws and whispers. And I force myself to face what that stomach-dipping-heart-racing sensation really means.
I feel something for Apollyon. I want him, I like him—I’m not exactly sure how to define it, but there’s a tether inside me that tightens and tugs whenever he’s nearby.
It’s stupid and wrong, but soulless though he claims to be, I have a stronger tie to the red-headed lust demon than I do to my captor Razenath. There’s something about Apollyon that appeals to me, beyond his surface charms—something honest and vulnerable and real, something pained and sweet.
Closing my eyes, I shake my head, trying to correct my thinking. Sweet? Since when is a dragon lord of Hellsweet?
When I open my eyes again, a couple of demons with taloned wings and bone masks are sweeping by me, and then a pair of Victorian-looking steampunk women, followed by a skeletal demon in a top-hat with impossibly long and bony fingers.
Where did Apollyon go? Was it even really him? Surely he’s not the only demon with red hair—and wouldn’t he be in disguise tonight?
Someone else shoves past—a bulky figure in a lion mask that’s so lifelike I wonder if it’s the actual head of a real lion.
“Axel,” growls the lion in a very familiar voice. “I know it’s you in that stupid swan thing. Have you seen the contestants? Grace in particular?”
The swan he’s addressing has a mournful-looking beaked mask and bloodstained white feathers. “You’ve lost your charge, Razenath? So sad. No, I haven’t seen her.”
I shrink back, between an ogre-looking demon and a very tall figure in dark robes.
“I can feel her,” rumbles Rath from beneath his lion mask. “She’s somewhere nearby, but the little idiot didn’t wear one of her assigned costumes. She could be anyone, anywhere.”
“And you fear for her safety?” drawls the swan.
“Unmasked, she has some level of protection as a contestant,” says Rath. “In disguise, she could be prey to anyone. And I have vowed that she is to be my prey tonight. Mine only. She swore to be mine, and she will be mine. I will ruin her for anyone else.”
“Lucifer’s luck to you, then.” The swan moves on, clearly bored.
As for me, I thought Rath’s concern was kinda sweet, right up until theMyprey…mine onlypart.
I back away from him through the crowd, eager to get as far away as possible. There’s a knot of dancers gyrating near a stage where a band is playing. The band members aren’t masked, and they look human, and slightly terrified.
“Humans?” I say aloud.
