Page 75 of Interior Design for Demons
I can’t talk to him about it now, because someone could be listening. There aren’t microphones everywhere—many of the video clips in the show episodes don’t have sound—but the major areas like meeting rooms and project rooms and backstage lounges are always miked. A little lascivious teasing from Apollyon won’t raise any red flags, but if we start talking about angel trysts and escaping through portals, somebody is going to take notice.
Apollyon narrows his eyes at me. “What is going through that clever brain of yours, dove?”
“Plans,” I say cryptically. “And when this round is over, you and I are going totalk.”
“If it’s dirty talk, I’m in.” But his smile slackens when I give him a firm glare. “You’re going to keep me in suspense? Delightful. More torture.”
“That’s right.” I brush against him on my way out of the room, letting my fingertips graze the front of his pants. “Get used to it.”
Apollyon’s suite consists of a reception lounge, a bedroom, an immense bathroom, and a walk-in closet that dwarfs mine. I know there is more to it, because he brought me here during the torture round and took me through a hidden door into an entirely different section of the suite. The bathroom I’m decorating for the contest isn’t the same one where he and I secretly bathed together. But as closely as I peer at the walls, I can’t figure out where the hidden door is. Apollyon must have some fool-proof method of concealing it from everyone, even other demons.
Apollyon likes robes and sweeping garments, with the occasional luxurious suit. He enjoys decadence and sensual textures. But I want to go deeper than that with the design of his rooms. I want to show him that I really understand him. For him, I reach deep, drawing on my most fervent wells of inspiration, working longer hours than I’ve done throughout this entire competition.
In the reception lounge I indulge in a feature wall of “Florika” wallpaper from House of Hackney—it’s rich and exotic like Apollyon, jewel-toned and floral to suit my taste—perfection. A golden cobra lamp with a fringed shade sits on one of the brass end-tables, and I bring in a myriad of textured layers—embroidery and appliques, velvety chairs with rolled arms and ornate backs, luxurious rugs across a floor of gleaming dark tiles. There’s an Haute House Santiago Peacock sofa with old-gold nailhead trim and decadent pillows—one of my favorite pieces to date.
The bathroom is navy, with gold-foil vines and thorns and florals climbing all over the walls and gilt-edged mirrors strategically placed to indulge Apollyon’s vanity. The smooth white marble, faintly traced with silvery gray, reminds me of the planes of his body, his pale skin. And the gold tiles of the shower are spade-shaped, overlapped like the scales of a dragon.
In the bedroom, in the private space where his worst fears and most exquisite pleasures occur, I let myself go, and I don’t worry about the judges, or what they will think. I use the same navy on the walls, and I bring in benches of white tufted leather, thick creamy rugs, pillows and bedding of ivory and gold and cerulean. Blue enamel accents, white stone sculptures, tall cobalt porcelain vases—there’s no budget, so I go wild with my requests from the Earthly plane, and Slate brings me everything I ask for, including a light fixture of golden leaves, a Marrakesh dresser, and tables with Quatrefoil motifs.
But here and there, across doorways and windows, and between the hand-painted paper screens, I hang veils of thin chains, spiked gold and thorny black. A hint of pain, a touch of prison. An acknowledgement of how trapped he feels. I surround the brass canopy bed with the same slim chains; when I run my hand along them they feel like a waterfall of delicate metal, prickly wherever the spikes erupt.
At the foot of the bed I gather the chains like a curtain, and bind them with a Celtic-style true-lover’s knot in gold. It’s an odd touch, admittedly, especially in a room with Asian influences like this one—but it feels right. And it’s a sign, from me to him—a silly sentimental note, something about my love overcoming his chains—I barely want to voice it in my head, but I feel it deeply, urgently. I include the knot subtly in several places throughout the room, in different textures or media every time.
Since there are so many rooms to decorate and we’re not in teams, this round takes four days. On the final day I’m struggling to finish the walk-in-closet, which I left for last. I sketched out built-ins for Rusala to make, and he has done admirable work, as usual, which makes my job easier. But Apollyon has so many damn clothes, and while they’re all beautiful, getting them to fit neatly and prettily into the spaces I allotted is no easy task. I have to jam the last chunk of hanging clothes onto the end of a rack because Slate and Rusala are grabbing my arms, saying, “Time’s up.”
As they hurry me through the suite, I scan everything quickly one last time. I might not have wallpapered the place with naked bodies, but I did include tasteful nudes in every room, in print, painting, or sculpture form. He’ll love that—
I’m shoved into the hallway, where the demon in charge of our deadlines is tapping her foot and looking displeased.
“Cutting it too close, Miss Labelle,” she warns. “Exit interviews are being held that way, at the end of the hall.
“Sorry,” I mutter as my helpers hustle me past her.
I’m so tired I can barely answer the interview questions, so I take a long nap that leaves me with scarcely any time to dress for the viewing and elimination. Rusala helps me prepare—which basically means he yanks a neat little shift dress over my head, pushes my feet into heels, and scrapes my hair back into a professional-looking chignon.
A yawn nearly splits my face as I settle into my seat on the stage. The demons in the audience roar for me—apparently I have some fans left, despite my lackluster performance last round. My fellow contestants trickle in, each greeted by an approving shout from their own fans.
But so many of the contestants’ chairs are empty now. A slithering rage coils in my heart, anger at these demons for their arrogance, their entitlement. They stole Earth’s best interior designers, and they’re killing us off, one by one. They’re taking beautiful things from the Earthly plane, by theft, bribery, or coercion, and putting them in Hell where only demons can enjoy them—demons whose sole purpose is to ensure that humans head for eternal torment instead of eternal happiness. What kind of a mission is that? Dedicating your existence to ensuring the perpetual agony of others?
That’s what Apollyon does. He lures and seduces humans off the path of righteousness—whatever that is—and drags them onto the Hell-path. Granted, the humans have a choice. Theoretically, they could resist him. But who could resist that body, that scent, those eyes? He’s tailor-made to be irresistible, and honestly that makes me kind of mad, because I’m not immune to him either. Whatever he says about my eyes and how I can see his soul, sometimes I wonder if I’m not just really damn shallow, a butterfly drawn to the pretty predatorial flower.
As the episode begins to play across the massive screen, I lace my fingers together to minimize their shaking. I’m starving, exhausted, and super emotional. Designing Apollyon’s suite felt like raking my heart from my chest and putting it on display for everyone to see. There’s one bit of the design that I’m especially nervous about—it could be too over-the-top, too on the nose. The judges might not like it.
As I watch the other designs roll past on the screen, I begin to worry that I didn’t focus enough on my demon’s specialty sin. Maybe I should have been more heavy-handed with the “lust” theme. Negasi’s suite for the gluttony demon incorporates food in every possible way, with a particular emphasis on sweets. It looks as if Willie Wonka’s chocolate factory threw up all over the place. And Maksim’s design for the greed demon is a study in luxury, with gold, peacock feathers, and accent pieces encrusted with gemstones.
As each room is revealed, the episode shows the reactions of the suite’s owner, the client, followed by the reactions of the judges. My back is to the audience so I can’t see Apollyon. I can scarcely stand the suspense. My knee jiggles wildly as the first clip of me appears, explaining my concept for the suite I designed.
And then there’s Apollyon on-screen, entering his suite. Of course he’s not going to say he hates it—he doesn’t want me eliminated—but I think I’ll be able to tell if he despises everything. I lean forward, drinking in the footage.
He walks through the rooms, trailing slender fingers across the textured wonderland I made for him. He touches the nude portraits appreciatively, compliments the golden dragon scales in the bathroom. When he enters the bedroom, he stops short, and his jaw tightens.
The focal point of the space is an immense blue-enamel dragon mosaic splayed over the ceiling. Its tail swirls down across the wall at the head of his bed. To represent the icy spikes along his back, I inlaid chunks of polished quartz. The entire project tookforever.
Behind me, in the audience, I hear gasps and whispers as the camera pans the mosaic, takes in the room, the chains, the artwork.
Apollyon touches the chains at the foot of the bed, and the lover’s knot holding them.
The demon who’s filming asks what he thinks. “It’s a beautiful room,” Apollyon says quietly, but he won’t look at the camera.
