Page 59 of Interior Design for Demons
My lips are shaking, so I pinch them together. When Rusala pierces my belly-button, it’s a welcome distraction. It feels like I’m sharing a tiny bit of Linnea’s pain. “Where is she now?”
“Who, sweetling?” Rusala asks, fluttering purple sparkly eyelashes at me.
“Linnea Norberg. The one they eliminated.”
“Oh, she’ll be in the Abeyance. She was a good person, so even though she can’t go to heaven, she doesn’t get the worst of tortures. Just an eternity of perpetual aching and confusion and wandering.” He smirks at Slate. “I think we’re done, love! Two in the cartilage of the upper ears, one in the eyebrow, one in the belly button—that’s four piercings, right?”
“But why stop there?” murmurs Slate, dragging her claws along my ribs. My shirt is hiked up so Rusala can access my stomach, and she’s teasing it higher. “How about just one nipple piercing, sugar?”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “We had an agreement. Don’t make me call Rath, or Apollyon.”
“We all know Rath wouldn’t come anyway.” Slate pouts, but she steps back, and Rusala withdraws as well. They’re either scared of Apollyon, or they actually respect me enough now to listen when I say “no.”
I sit up, inspecting my new belly ornament. It’s a tiny bar with rounded ends and a miniature diamond. It actually looks cute, and Rusala must have done some healing thing on it because the flesh around it isn’t even red.
“We’ll let you dress for tonight.” Rusala kisses his claws to me, and they move toward the door. “It’s a ‘carnival freaks’ theme.”
“That's insensitive,” I mutter, but either they don’t hear me or they don’t care. Probably both.
I dress in a red bra and a tank top of ragged black lace that leaves my midriff exposed. Might as well show off my new jewelry. A mini-skirt of bunchy tulle barely comes to mid-thigh, and rows of thin bracelets decorate my arms. I add striped bike shorts for modesty, though I’m tempted to go commando just to tease Apollyon. Though I’m sure he’s already been teased in every possible way by prettier people than me. After tying my hair into big bunchy pigtails and adding exaggerated makeup, I slide into chunky platform heels and stalk out the door.
Rath won’t be coming to escort me tonight. In fact, I’m not sure I’ll see him again, and I kind of don’t want to, after the way he slapped me. That demon has serious anger issues. I’m surprised his thing isn’t wrath instead of pride. Ha—Rath the wrath demon. I smirk as I move down the hall—and unfortunately Aghilas leaves his room at that moment, accompanied by his sponsor.
“Glad you can smile, after what happened to Linnea.” His deep voice trembles a bit, and there’s a sorrowful accusation in his dark eyes.
“No, I wasn’t—I—I’m so sorry about that.” I reach out to touch his arm, and he jerks back. “I didn’t want her dead, Aghilas. I tried—”
“Do everyone a favor,” he says. “And fail the next round.”
He moves on with his sponsor, his shoulders sloped and his gait weary. He’s wearing a simple outfit, loose pants and a tunic shirt. He usually wears suits, but this must be traditional garb from his country, to comfort himself or make a statement. To reclaim a piece of home. And here I am in my garish outfit, smiling at my own mental puns. I’m the worst kind of shallow. A piece of crap who didn’t deserve to make it through this round, who doesn’t deserve a little piece of happiness with Apollyon.
Maybe I should run away. Leave this Hellscraper and try to get out through a portal. Worst-case scenario, I’ll be disintegrated, and I won’t have to participate in this stupid contest anymore. But that still won’t be an escape, because I’ll wind up right back in Hell—as a soul with an afterlife of torture or mind-numbing boredom coming her way.
There’s no escape. No penance that could ever make me feel okay about Linnea’s death.
Someone clears their throat behind me. “Excuse me, Miss Labelle. I’ve come to escort you to the party.”
It’s Melek, the tanned demon with the rose tattoo on his chest. He looks bored.
“What if I don’t want to go to the party?” I counter.
“All contestants must attend,” he drones. “It is the will of Ishtar.”
“Ishtar.” My lip curls, and I’m about to say something very nasty, but I bite it back. She’s the most powerful demon I’ve met, and I get the feeling I’m already on her bad side—though I’m not sure she has a good side. There are definitely cameras watching this hall, and maybe microphones somewhere, too, so I’d better watch myself.
“Fine,” I sigh. “Take me to the party.”
This time the festivities don’t take place in the Hell skyscraper where we spend most of our time. Instead, Melek leads me outdoors—or what passes for outdoors in Hell. There are no stars overhead, and no sun, just an endless black stretching on and on forever. It feels closely claustrophobic and dizzyingly infinite at the same time.
“Hell keeps pretty careful time, but you’ve got no sun,” I say to Melek.
“We synchronize with time in the Earthly plane,” he answers. “Central Standard time, usually, although occasionally the Infernal Sovereign likes to change it up and sync with a different time zone. That always causes a bit of chaos.”
“I can imagine. Like Daylight Savings Time.”
“I suppose.”
“So it’s evening there right now? Like in the central U.S.?”
