Page 66 of Interior Design for Demons
“I suppose you have an idea for it,” Amanda says dryly.
I do. In fact I sent Slate out to get the things I wanted yesterday. “I may have an idea for a sort of darkly whimsical gallery wall,” I tell her.
“Whimsical?” She cocks an eyebrow.
“I’m thinking this place is a little too stuffy, too elegant. A lot of these demons like a surprise, something unexpected, a twist of fun. That’s what I want to do. Here, take a look.” I hold out my work tablet and flip through the images I’ve selected.
“No.” Amanda turns away and continues swabbing gold paint along the edges of the alcove shelves.
“You barely looked at it.”
“It doesn’t fit with the atmosphere we’ve created for this room. It will be jarring.”
“That’s kind of the point. I told you, demons like being surprised. Rath and Apollyon both loved it whenever I did something unexpected, and—”
Amanda whirls, nearly flecking me with gold paint from her brush. “This isn’t about your romantic flings. This is about the judges, like Ishtar. She’s not the type to appreciate wonky elements like the ones you’re trying to introduce.”
“Dagon and Sekhmet might.”
“Wake up, Grace. Ishtar runs the show here. If you were smart you’d have realized that already. She’s an Abominator, a top-ranking demon. There’s no level higher than that, unless you’re talking about Lucifer himself.”
“But the popular vote—”
“Fuck the popular vote! This is my space too, and I’ve compromised more than enough.”
She goes back to painting, and I gnaw my lip for a minute, watching her. “This is about trust, Amanda. The space is beautiful like this, and it works well, but it needs—something. I can feel it.”
Amanda snorts. “So I’m supposed to trust your gut, is that it? I’ve had two decades of experience with interior design in Europe, and you want me to trust you, a little American college student?”
“I don’t have experience. I’ll be the first to admit that. But I’ve got something—call it instinct, vision, a fresh perspective—please. Let me try this.”
She turns toward me again, pain twisting her features. “It’s not just my life on the line here, or yours. My sister—” Her voice breaks, and she sucks in a jagged breath.
“Your sister’s in the Pit,” I finish slowly.
Amanda gives a tight nod. “You want to know what she did. Of course you do. It’s human nature, right? We’re all just as hungry for pain and drama and secrets as these demons are.”
“You don’t have to tell me.” I take a step back, giving her space to dismiss me, but she shakes her head.
“No, it’s fine. She—she killed her two children, and herself. Horrible, I know. Everyone thinks of her as this unnatural monster, but the truth is she was just sick, so sick, and very depressed. After her second baby, she sank so low, and she tried to tell me, but I didn’t realize—I couldn’t—if I had known how bad it was—” Tears slip from Amanda’s eyes, and I drop the tablet, enfolding her in a hug, careless of the gold paint smearing my clothes.
“She doesn’t deserve the Pit,” Amanda sobs. “She was the most beautiful, sensitive person. Lel says the little ones are in Heaven, but my sister is being flayed to pieces every hour, every day, for eternity. Grace, I have to win this. I have to.”
I grip her tightly, tears running down my own face, my teeth gritted against the force of her pain. Maybe the agony of the Pit is justice for murdering one’s own children, but it feels like blind justice, like retribution without consideration or compassion.
“My father is in the Pit,” I whisper. “And I honestly don’t know if he deserves to get out. I didn’t know him well enough. But Amanda—I promise you that this wall idea isn’t about me being silly, or pushing your buttons. It’s strategic. And if you’ll trust me, I think it will pay off, for both of us.”
Amanda sniffs thickly and shoves herself upright, nodding. “Fine. Go ahead.”
It’s all the enthusiasm I’m going to get from her, so I murmur, “Thank you,” and move away. I catch Lel’s eye and jerk my head toward Amanda, and the patchwork demon goes into the alcove, placing a stitched-looking hand on Amanda’s back.
That simple gesture communicates such comfort and affection that I nearly choke on the bitter aching lump in my throat. I miss Apollyon. And what’s strange is that the feeling is so familiar. It’s the same hollow, wretched hunger I’ve had my whole life whenever I’ve thought about having a stable home, a normal family, and loyal friends.
Apollyon filled that hollow space. I don’t know how. I will never understand it. It’s not like I even know him that well—yet I do, on a level beyond any list of facts, beyond anything I could read in a file—and I’m sure there’s a file about him somewhere. My knowledge of him is grafted into my bones, infused into my very blood. Whatever it is that makes two people choose each other out of all the others in all the world—that mysterioussomethinghas welded us together. Impossible to carve him out of my heart without leaving sharp broken edges behind.
Clenching my jaw again, I press down the pain and I get to work on the gallery wall.
It’s been three days of non-stop effort, three days of countless stressful conversations and thousands of little compromises. We have a few minutes left until we get kicked out of the room. Rusala mounts the last of the lighting while Slate wipes down the bar and Lel helps Amanda and me with styling. Rimmon tests the window coverings we installed—slatted metallic blinds that retract or revolve with the press of a button. The restaurant overlooks a lava geyser that can be overly bright at times, and we figured even demons might want a break from the glare.
