Page 68 of Interior Design for Demons
“Grace—”
“Don’t.” My other hand slides to his crotch, drawing his zipper slowly back into place. “Don’t bother. I hope you succeeded in damning that poor woman’s soul. You’ve certainly lost whatever scrap of yours you had left.” My fingers cup between his legs. “You feel things here, sure—but you feel nothinghere.” I touch his chest again. “Nothing real, anyway—except maybe fear.”
His face changes, revealing a furious agony that mirrors mine. “You don’t understand me at all. I thought you did. I thought what we had was stronger than this.”
“I guess not,” I retort.
“So it’s really over.” He draws himself up, his careless grace returning, the veil drawn across his face again. “Well, that’s good to know. I think I might try for a personal record tonight—seven conquests in seven hours. Think I can do it?” He grins, bitterness and knives.
“I think you’re the biggest slut in Hell, so yes.”
He clicks his tongue reprovingly. “I thought you didn’t care for slut-shaming, dove.”
“Go away,” I hiss.
“Gladly.”
He disappears, just as the doors open and my fellow contestants emerge. They are sober, sorrowful, but they can’t help casting curious glances my way.
“Hey.” Amanda squeezes my arm. “Want me and Lel to pick you up for the party later?”
“Sure.” I’ve lost Rath and Apollyon. Might as well go for a girls’ night.
The Round 4 celebration is relatively low-key; I suppose the demons think we need a respite after the wildness of the carnival. The venue is decked out like a human nightclub—lots of smoky glass and neon and quivering shadow. And music—heart-stopping, nerve-jangling music.
In a padded circular booth, tucked amid velvety cushions, with a drink in my hand, I finally spill the truth about my relationships with Rath and Apollyon—except for Apollyon’s gradual deterioration and his view of me as “the cure.” I can’t bring myself to tell that secret, so I give vague reasons for our breakup, while Amanda, Lel, Rusala, and Slate listen sympathetically and ply me with drinks. Well, at least Amanda seems sympathetic. The demons drink my sadness eagerly, their eyes hungry for more. They can’t help it—it’s their nature.
“Anyway, Apollyon and I are done for good,” I finish.
“Bastardo,” says Amanda, and follows the label with a lot of other Italian words that sound nice, but I’m fairly sure they’re not complimentary.
“Tell us more about the sex,” breathes Slate, leaning in.
“Um—I think I need another drink to do that.” I sidestep the question with a light laugh. “I’ll get us another round.”
When I stand up, I waver a bit, but I find my balance quickly. I probably shouldn’t get seriously drunk—it’s dangerous to do that in Hell when I don’t have a demon protector. Rath won’t be coming to my aid if I get into trouble, and neither will Apollyon.
“Apollyon.” When I whisper his name, the tug is fainter now. But it’s still there. We’re still connected.
Maybe I shouldn’t be so mad at him. Sure, he kept a secret from me—he’s a demon, and it’s in his nature to lie and lust, just like it’s in Slate and Rusala’s nature to torment me and consume my negative emotions.
He was worried about me today—deeply, heart-wrenchingly worried. That much was clear from the way he tore into the backstage lounge with that panicked look on his face.
Maybe I should talk to him—give him another chance. Or maybe it’s just the alcohol muddying my thoughts, warming my belly, tingling over my skin.
“Apollyon,” I whisper again.
I want him.
I wheel away from the bar, staggering a little, and I follow the tug in my heart. If I keep pulling at that cord, it will lead me to him—I know it.
Dizzily I wander through blue smoke and purple dancing figures, past arched wings and black horns, stumbling over cloven feet and spiked heels. The tug is getting stronger. Hands outstretched, I fumble against a thick velvet curtain, pushing it aside, ducking into the heavily scented space beyond—a room lined with couches, a room that smells of florals and wine and sex.
And there is Apollyon.
He’s sprawled naked, leaning back on the chest of a dark-skinned male demon. Apollyon’s legs are spread wide, and two female demons kneel between his thighs, tending to him with their tongues. Another demon is slipping needles beneath Apollyon’s neatly formed toenails, and a fifth demon is slicing Apollyon’s pecs with his talons, carving intricate patterns. Blood rolls in dark ruby drops over the curve of his breast, tracing scarlet ribbons along the ridges of his stomach.
Our eyes lock. His breath quickens, but he stares me down, defiant.
