Page 48 of Interior Design for Demons
Apollyon shakes his head. “They’ve been participating in Hell’s work. All the contestants were damned from the moment they passed through a portal into this plane.”
My hands drop from his back, and I withdraw a step, reeling.
I’m damned.
Condemned to eternity in Hell.
I never really believed in Hell, but I had the dim thought that if therewasa Hell, I probably wouldn’t be going there. I’m a decent person, a moral person. I haven’t committed any huge sins. I was pretty sure I’d get a spot in Heaven, or at least somewhere in between, like that Purgatory place my Catholic friends mentioned.
But now it’s certain. I have a soul. There’s an afterlife, and I’m going to spend it in Hell. When Rath took me from campus, he was condemning my eternal soul to Hell’s torment, forever.
I will never get out of here.
I turn away from Apollyon, and I run.
Apollyon chases me into the dark subterranean hallways, where the lights glow alien blue. He does that supernatural rushing thing and crashes against me, pinning me to the wall. “Grace, stop. You can’t go running off in Hell.”
I struggle against him, but he only grinds closer, and I hate how the firm pressure of his body makes me feel calmer and hotter at the same time.
“I’m damned,” I sob, shoving against his chest. “I’ll be here forever. I’ll never escape, never. I want to getout, Apollyon, please, please let me out. Let me go home, please.”
“I can’t do that, dove. Even at my level I can only leave Hell on official business, and I certainly can’t take passengers who aren’t assigned targets. We’d both be disintegrated trying to get through the portal.”
“What if I never get to see my world again?” My eyes are brimming with tears, making his pale elegant face swim and waver across my vision.
“Then you will have to find something to love here,” he whispers. “Something to take your mind off the inevitable. Distract yourself. I do it all the time.” His lips seal over my mouth, hot and languid, tongue slipping out to caress mine. I writhe a little, but then I melt, my bones and muscles liquefying, helpless. He wriggles clever fingers between us and finds the cleft between my legs, rubbing through the stretchy fabric of my costume. And then—riiip—he tears the fabric open right at the crotch seam, exposing me. His claws retract, and he slides a finger into me. “There,” he whispers, gently pumping, teasing the nub of nerves with his thumb. “Better?”
I murmur incoherently in response. Then he parts his robes, eases his length out, and sheathes himself in the slickness he created. He throws one of my legs up, bracing it with his hand, and pins my arm with his other hand as he glides in and out of me. He keeps kissing me with a burning, almost frantic energy, like he’s desperate to help me and this is the only way he knows how.
A few people are coming down the corridor, and here I am, splayed against the wall, being taken by the demon Apollyon. They’re going to see us, and I’ll be marked, targeted for ridicule and torment—but Apollyon stretches out cerulean wings and curves them around us, shielding me from the view of the approaching guests. Once they’re gone, I let myself release a series of tight, breathy shrieks as Apollyon pushes into me faster, thrusting with inhuman speed—unbearable delicious friction—oh ohoh—I’m over the edge again and he barks a gasp, quaking inside me, heat spilling from him and I’m clenching, spasming around him. I can’t—I can’t get a deep breath. I can barely breathe at all, I can only feel andfeel, as the most exquisite sensations ripple from the place where Apollyon is joined with me. The world darkens, dissipating into a luscious nothing where quivering bliss is the only reality.
When I regain consciousness, I’m in bed, in my suite. Apollyon is standing over me, golden mask in place, his sardonic mouth fixed in its usual derisive smile. “You passed out at the party, darling. A little too much to drink, perhaps.”
Blearily I frown at him. Why is he acting this way? Distant, and disdainful?
Then I remember—the cameras. In my room, someone is always watching.
“How long was I out?” I ask.
“Only a few minutes. Sleep well, dove,” he says. “Next round begins tomorrow.”
He disappears instantly, and all the delight and joy leaves the room with him. Well, not all of it, because I have the memories of this night to delight me. I hate to admit that Apollyon’s particular kind of sex therapy actually worked—I feel way less concerned about my eternal future right now. I snuggle into the sheets—and then I push them back to see what I’m wearing. Apollyon took me out of the costume and put me in a soft pajama set—not a scanty negligee, but something intended solely for my comfort.
He’s absolutely precious. I’m going to keep him as long as I can.
I’m floating in a dream of him when a demonic tornado crashes into my bedroom. Rath’s ashen wings fill the room, shedding live sparks on my bed and carpet. Biting back a scream, I scurry toward the headboard, away from him, but he rips down the sheets and seizes my bare ankle, dragging me closer. His eyes are orbs of living flame, and his teeth shine unearthly white and sharp.
“Where were you?” he roars. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
“I went to the party with Rusala,” I screech. “But I drank too much and had to come back here early! Why? What’s wrong?”
The flames of his eyes dim a little. “You came back early?”
“Yes.”
“And what costume did you wear?”
“A little of everything. I couldn’t decide.” My legs and hands are shaking, and my belly feels queasy. “Please, Rath, calm down. I need my sleep for the next round tomorrow.”
