Page 67 of Interior Design for Demons
When the door opens and we’re ordered out of the space, I groan. There’s more I wanted to do—some gold lettering on the mirror behind the bar, straightening the elements of the gallery wall I created this morning. The wall features a handful of framed sketches, a bronze fox head wearing broken glasses, and a hare’s head with fangs and a monocle. It’s a touch of dark whimsy that I’m not sure the demons will appreciate, but I love it. It’s “gentlemen’s lounge” chic with a hint of Alice-in-Wonderland oddity.
“See you at elimination this afternoon,” I tell Amanda.
She nods, wiping her hands on her pants. On impulse I reach out and pull her into a quick hug, and she lets me. “Let’s hope our luck holds out,” she mutters. She walks ahead with her helpers, and I follow with Slate and Rusala, who are both too exhausted to tease or torment me beyond the occasional pinch or ear-tweak. I’ve come to recognize these little tortures as signs of their devilish brand of affection, so when Slate gives my nipple a savage twist right before I enter my suite, I just pucker my lips against the pain and give them a farewell wave.
The minute I enter my room, I can smell Apollyon. His gardenia-and-lemon scent is everywhere, so strong that I’m sure he’s lurking somewhere, waiting for me. A thorough search of every corner turns up nothing, but the scent is strongest on my sheets. A little tingle of arousal shivers along my nerves at the thought of him lying in my bed. It’s a little creepy, not gonna lie, but it’s also kinda flattering? And weirdly sweet? He must be missing me like I’m missing him. Or maybe he’s just trying to absorb his “cure” from my personal space.
At that thought, my anger rises again. I suppose it’s significant that he chose me, when he could have selected any of the other humans—but forgive me for not being thrilled that he picked me over the other potential pill bottles on the shelf. I won’t be his medication, not when the very scent of him shreds my heart like azure-tipped claws.
Today there are only a handful of hours between the deadline and the judging—just enough for a shower, a nap, and some food. I pity the demons and humans behind the scenes—the ones who have to film and edit the rest of the episode in such a short time frame. Humanly it wouldn’t be possible. But here in Hell—well, I suppose they have ways to speed the process along.
I’m expecting Melek to fetch me, but instead Rath strides into my suite, dressed in a neat suit with a wasp lapel pin that looks a little too real for my liking.
“Come, contestant,” he says.
Those are the first two words he has spoken to me since he bitch-slapped me across the room after the last round.
Mutely I follow him to the auditorium where the episode viewing and elimination take place. He doesn’t speak again, but he stands behind me as I slide into my seat.
I scan the audience, mad at myself for looking for Apollyon, then even angrier because his absence makes me nauseated and anxious. As I survey the crowd, I catch Rusala winking at Aghilas. Yeah, I’m definitely not the only contestant who has had trysts with demons. Not sure why they have all singled me out as the competition slut. Maybe because I’m the youngest? Or maybe because the others have hooked up with lower-level demons, while I’ve been pursued by an Enforcer and an Orchestrator.
When the contestants’ seats swivel around for the viewing of the episode, I’m pissed, because my back is to the audience now and I can’t keep looking for a certain red-haired Orchestrator. Gripping the armrests of my chair, I try to focus only on the episode.
It’s as if the demonic camera crew read my mind, because Episode 4 contains a good deal of smut between humans and demons—and for once, I’m not featured in any salacious way. Most of the interludes took place before the work on Round 4 rooms actually started—except in the case of one particularly messy blow job. The demon involved in that session is shown being tortured horrifically for breaking the rules. But another clip shows him later on, in an interview room, grinning and laughing about his own punishment, while the female contestant who serviced him shrinks in the seat beside him, shading her face with her fingers. I hope he gave her as good as she gave him, but I doubt it.
Hopefully this episode takes some of the heat off me. The other contestants shouldn’t throw stones at me when they’re guilty themselves. But my lack of sexy snippets in this episode could also hurt me when it comes to the popular vote. Unless I get pity points for the scene of the argument with Rath, in which I’m backhanded across the bar and I limp away, bloody and tearful. Knowing these demons, they’ll despise my weakness instead of feeling any compassion.
The judges are shown on-screen, walking through each dining space—and it’s immediately clear that mine and Amanda’s room is the best. I mean, there’s no contest. A couple of the rooms are so mish-mashed that it’s obvious the designers couldn’t get along or compromise with each other. Another space is painfully bland—like the team assigned to it was too petrified to take any risks. In the episode, the judges comment appreciatively on both Amanda’s ceiling project and my whimsy wall. As the lights brighten and our seats swivel back to face the audience, I lean forward, catching Amanda’s eye, and she gives me a tearful smile. It’s no surprise when Ishtar dismisses us first, along with two other teams.
We’resafe.
When we stumble into the backstage room, I clasp Amanda in a vise grip, and she presses her face hard into my shoulder. Tears seep into the material of my blouse. We don’t speak. Two contestants I didn’t know very well are eliminated, condemned to burn alive. All of the remaining contestants sit rigid on the couches and bear silent witness to their demise.
The screams of the doomed pair are starting to fade when a storm of flame-colored hair and wild blue eyes crashes into the lounge. Apollyon’s delicate features are smudged with something that looks like lipstick, and his suit hangs askew. His teeth are bared, clenched.
When he sees me, the manic energy crackling around him dissipates, and his shoulders slump. “Grace,” he says, and that one word carries a world of aching relief.
Everyone is staring. Apollyon sags against the open door, sweeping back strands of red hair with an elegant hand.
He’s got a hickey on his neck, and his pants are partly unzipped.
Shame and rage explode through my veins. I lurch off the couch and stride over to him, catching a fistful of his untucked shirt in my hand and hauling him into the corridor outside. I slam the door to shield us from all those prying eyes, and I shove Apollyon against the wall with all the force in my slender human body. He’s so ridiculously tall—I feel like a gnat raging at a graceful praying mantis.
“What is wrong with you?” I say in a fierce whisper. “You can’t burst in there and say that to me.”
“I just said your name,” he protests.
“Yes, well—you’re not allowed to say my name likethat. You can call me ‘Miss Labelle,’ in a professional tone.”
“Ishtar sent me on assignment. She timed it so I would miss the elimination,” he says. “I thought maybe she did it on purpose because—and then I saw the corpses burning and I couldn’t distinguish their faces—no one would tell me the results—I—” He bows over me, his chest still pinioned to the wall by my fist, his long arms hanging loose, as if his very bones have gone limp.
“You thought I was one of the burning bodies,” I murmur.
Blue eyes lift tentatively, pleadingly to mine. Unfortunately for him, there’s a lipstick stain across his mouth. I wipe it off, dragging my thumb over his soft, beautiful lips.
“It was only an assignment,” he says.
“And how did she make you feel?” I whisper.
