Page 52 of Interior Design for Demons
“Whatever you say, darling.” He picks me up again, carries me into a bathroom, and tumbles me into the empty tub, which is enormous, inset into the floor. It’s more like a pool. He turns on steaming water, which begins to seep around my limp, naked body.
“Why didn’t I do this sooner,” he growls. “Stupid, stupid—” He spreads a hand on my forehead, and suddenly my headache drains away. All of it, all the pounding pain, it just—vanishes. Apollyon draws a ragged breath and presses again, this time sucking all the discomfort from my skin. It’s still red and splotchy, bleeding from the places where I couldn’t help scratching—but I’m not on fire anymore. I don’t feel as if I would welcome my flesh being chewed off.
Apollyon reels a little, his breath hitching, and I remember that when Rath took my pain into himself, it affected him. He felt it.
In this case, I happen to think Apollyon deserves a share of the agony.
“Tell me something,” I say. “Did you design that room for me?”
I know the answer before Apollyon admits it.
“Yes,” he says. “I created your torture experience. I was asked to design a room for one of the contestants, and I picked you.”
Tears fill my eyes. “Why? Why did you want to hurt me?”
“I suppose I took a perverse pleasure in showing you that I know exactly how to torture you,” he says. “I’ve been fascinated with you since Rath submitted your application, and after meeting you—well, knowing you better became a little obsession of mine. It’s a compliment, really.” He forces a smile through the pain he absorbed from me. It doesn’t affect him as deeply, since he’s a demon, but it’s clear that he’s still feeling it.
“It’snota compliment,” I retort.
“Grace, listen.” He catches my hand, examining my swollen flesh with an aggrieved expression. “It’s not that I wanted to torture you. It’s that I didn’t want anyoneelsetorturing you. Torture is a very intimate experience, dove. It’s the dissection of the soul as well as the body, the skillful application of the perfect fear and pain at the right moment. For your experience, I chose trauma you’d already been through, things I knew you could survive without too much mental anguish. But it had to look convincing for Ishtar. She couldn’t think I was going easy on you. You had to scream like you meant it. But I tried to give you moments of relief, like the ice water after the poison.”
“So all this was yourmercy, then.” I stare at him, disbelieving.
“In a way, yes. Some of the other contestants are enduring much worse.”
“I thought the demons didn’t want us damaged,” I whisper. “They need us functioning at our best, right?”
“That was the idea at first, yes,” he says. “But more of the hordes of Hell are becoming invested in the show now, and they’re demanding more violence, more shock and awe. Ishtar is giving them what they want.” He grinds the heel of his hand into his temple. “This headache is vicious. And you must feel it twice as intensely as I do. How do you endure it, human as you are?”
“I endure it because I have to.” I sink lower, sighing as the hot water eases my tense muscles.
“You’re probably dehydrated,” he says, eyeing me. “I’ll get you some water.”
He leaves the room and returns with a bottle of water, which he cracks open himself and offers to me. I drink, but my stomach is still a little queasy, so I hand it back to him after a few swallows. “Do you have any bubble bath?” I ask. “Bath bombs? Flower petals, herbs, whatever?”
“I’m a lust demon,” he responds. “Of course I do. Those drawers.” He indicates a cute little piece of furniture beside the tub. When I slosh over and inspect the contents, I find all sorts of bath supplies. “This is a neat little storage unit. I love it.” Then I look around the rest of the bathroom. Stark white, not a single piece of art on the walls, not a colorful tile or a texture in sight—except the fluffy white towels in a woven basket near the tub. “This room could use some work. It’s got clean lines, a good layout—I could do so much with this. You just need a good tile, some art prints—”
“I don’t need art whenI’mthe damn art, darling.” He tosses his silken red hair, then frowns, touching his forehead. “Ow.”
“You’re such a baby. You’re ademon, and you should be used to pain.”
“Not this kind,” he grumbles. “This kind is like nails in my temples.”
“Hot water helps sometimes,” I say. “Too bad I’m mad at you or I’d invite you in here with me.”
I flush deeply after I say it, because I’m suddenly, acutely aware that every inch of me is mottled and splotched, and my hair stinks of sweat and vomit. Of course Apollyon has zero interest in being near me. He’d probably rather not look at me at all. Turning my back to him again, I toss a couple bath bombs into the water and submerge myself entirely. When I resurface, Apollyon is scratching his arm. He stops immediately as if I caught him in some naughty act.
“You’re itchy, aren’t you?” I smirk at him.
He winces. “I deserve it.”
“You do.” My voice softens. “But you did come for me, at great risk to yourself. You could get in big trouble for shortening my torture session, right? So I think I’ll let you join me—if you want. Not that I look very appealing right now—but you don’t have to touch me or come near me—”
But he’s already out of his clothes, sliding into the pool, groaning with relief. “Dagon’s balls, that feels good.”
“Will I get into trouble for leaving early?” My stomach clenches with sudden concern.
“I’ll take you back just before your time is up,” he promises. “You’ll have to endure one more cycle of torment, I’m afraid, just to keep up appearances. Then Rath will come to collect you. He’ll want to bathe and soothe you, no doubt—” Apollyon’s sharp teeth flash, a derisive smile. “And you’ll let him, won’t you?”
