Page 55 of Interior Design for Demons
I swing the door open and press the button for the overhead light. It gutters to life—but it’s wrong, refracting differently, brighter than I intended—because its cage and glass panes have been smashed. The light glares on broken glass, on splintered wood. The storage units Rusala built have been smashed to pieces. The monochromatic track lighting is shattered, and the walls have been sprayed with curse words and wild slashes of black. The torture table has been hammered and dented.
Everything I’ve worked on for this round, ruined. With only four hours to go until the deadline.
A hissing scream from behind me tells me that Rusala and Slate have arrived. “Who did this?” cries Slate. “I’ll rip their spine from their body, I’ll fry their spleen for a snack, I’ll tear out their vocal chords—”
“It’s over.” Rusala slumps to the floor, disconsolate. “We’re done. Goodbye, Grace—it was nice knowing you. You’re tolerable, for a human.”
I’m choking on my own fear and disappointment, but his words wake a rebellious fire inside me. “No,” I tell him harshly. “Don’t be a wimp, Rusala. Get your ass up. We are fixing this, right now.”
“How?” he wails. “I can’t rebuild everything in that time frame.”
“And I can’t get a new chair and table fabricated in a couple of hours,” Slate protests.
“You’redemons,” I tell them. “You can bend the rules, use super-speed, call in favors—something.”
“And why should we call in favors foryou?” Slate’s facial tattoos jitter rapidly, and her teeth tug at her lip piercing.
“Because you want the benefits you’ll get if I win,” I tell her. “And because—” the words spill out before I can think better of the bargain— “and because I’ll let you two pierce me if I make it through this round. One piercing each, and I have to approve the placement.”
Rusala and Slate exchange savage, delighted looks. “Two piercings each,” Rusala says slyly.
“Fine,” I groan. “Done. Now let’s get to work.”
They fly into action, working at a frenzied pace that makes me realize they’ve been holding back on me this whole time. I mean, when demons want to get a thing done, they can reallymove.
I set to work repainting the walls, seething as I lay on swaths of rich red. Someone sabotaged me, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess who it was.
Four hours later, my torture room is done. It’s not as seamlessly finished as I’d hoped, and we’re going to have to pretend wewantedthe surgical table to be all dented and shit—but I had time to add a few special touches, including a set of statues—black writhing figures that ride the line between tortured and sexy. The mirrors and lights throw the statues’ shadows at odd angles, reflecting and multiplying them until it looks as if the room is filled with a crowd of inky black observers, each caught in the throes of pain or passion.
I’m proud of the room. It’s horrific art, with moments of rest and wonder for the eye of whoever’s being tortured there. When the demon conducting my post-round interview asks me about it, I tell her as much as I can without revealing my personal agenda of hidden mercy. “I couldn’t put in any of my signature florals,” I say to the camera, with a laugh, “but I stayed in tune with my personal aesthetic, inspired by the amazing Abigail Ahern herself, and I feel like my work so far has been really consistent.”
“And what about your romantic relationships during this competition?” the interviewer asks.
I hesitate, biting my lips. “You don’t usually ask that question.”
“It’s new, straight from the show-runners,” says the demon. “You were filmed in the shower with lust demon and show-runner Apollyon, and you appeared to be humping your sponsor Razenath a few days ago, while on your way to your torture experience. Some demons and contestants believe you’re sleeping around in order to stay in this competition. Care to comment?”
My mouth opens to protest, to deny it—but then I think about what Apollyon said, how the demons watching the show want more drama. They don’t care about fair play. They welcome backstabbing, savagery, and seduction strategies.
Maybe they’re looking for a bad guy. And in reality TV shows, the bad guy often gets to stick around until the very end, purely for the sake of heightening the conflict.
They want a bad guy? Fine. I can be that.
“Am I sleeping with both of them? Is that what you’re asking?” I give the camera my best Megan Fox smile and hope to hell it comes across as mysteriously sexy, not vapidly dumb. “Let’s just say I’ve got more game than I thought. I guess it took a visit to Hell to wake up my inner siren.”
“So you’ve seduced them both then?” The reporter demon leans forward eagerly. She seems just as invested as the audience. “What’s your secret?”
“How do I keep two beautiful, powerful demons hovering around me?” I give her a secretive smile. “If I get to stay for a few more rounds, I’ll tell you.”
She gives me an approving, confidential nod, and leans back. She’s about to end the interview when I say, “One more thing—I just wanted to congratulate whoever sabotaged my room this round. You inspired me to work harder than ever, and my wonderful demon partners, Slate and Rusala, really pulled through and helped me nail this assignment in spite of the setback.”
“You were sabotaged?” The reporter demon’s eyes widen.
“All’s fair in Hell, right?” I grin broadly at the camera. “No hard feelings. Whoever did it must have been desperate.”
After the interview I stalk out into the hallway, fairly pleased with myself.
Amanda is waiting for her turn—and I almost walk right past her. But I can’t. I spin around and tap her shoulder as she’s heading into the interview room.
