Page 76 of Interior Design for Demons
And the episode moves on to the judges’ impressions of my suite—which are positive except for Ishtar’s standard criticisms—too overt, not subtle or unique enough, dragons and Asian inspiration are overdone, etcetera.
I drive my fingernails into my palms, trying to figure out what Apollyon really thought of the bedroom. Either he loved it so much he got too emotional to look at the camera, or he hated it with a passion and was trying not to let it show.
I can’t stand this tension.
When the episode ends and our chairs swivel back around, I search out Apollyon. He’s there in the front row, with his hair in a ponytail again, wearing a shiny white-leather jacket covered in gold zippers and embellishments. Long gold earrings dangle from his ears, and he has swept heavy eyeliner along his lashes. He’s not smiling. I can’t read his expression.
“Hisae,” drones Ishtar. “Aghilas, Maksim, and Labelle. You are all safe. Well done.”
That leaves Amanda, Zade, and Negasi as the bottom three. And I thought Amanda’s green envy-themed room was good, if a little predictable.
She can’t be eliminated. She can’t. If they tear her apart, dismantle her, body and soul—I won’t be able to endure it. I won’t let it happen. I can’t watch it.
I stop, halfway across the stage, and I face Ishtar. “My lady,” I say loudly. “I would like to send Amanda through to the next round in my place.”
A shocked hiss slithers through the demon audience. Ishtar rises, incensed, her form flickering from human to demon aspect. She wears a dress of rippling lava that oozes across the stage, sliding nearer and nearer to the pointed toes of my heels.
“That is not how it works, Miss Labelle,” she says. “You were moved on to the next round. I suggest you accept the reward for your labors and end this pointless pretense of heroism.”
“I’m not trying to be a hero,” I reply. Everything I feel, everything I’ve wanted to say wells up inside me, and I’m too tired to have a filter, too exhausted for self-preservation—in a manic self-destructive flood, I let it all spill out. “Amanda doesn’t deserve to die. In fact, none of us do. You’re killing us, for what? For creating designs that you deem less worthy, designs that are still better than anything you could invent? This whole contest is barbaric. It’s despicable. And I know that’s who you are—fiendish, malignant, demonic leeches, sucking out our creativity for your own benefit, and then tossing us aside like we’re nothing. Well, let me tell you something—on my worst day, I’m worth more than someone like you.”
Fire rolls beneath Ishtar’s dark skin, flickering against the surface as if it’s trying to burst out. Her eyes are flame, from corner to corner, and when she speaks, her words are a fiery, malevolent hiss. Two of her four hands grip her hips, while the others tighten into fists. “Flee my presence, human worm,” she says. “Before I incinerate you on the spot.”
Apollyon rises in his seat. “Grace, go. Please.”
Ishtar whirls on him, and in that moment she grows to twice her usual height, a towering furnace that dwarfs him. “Andyou,” she snarls. “You know the laws for your kind. Lust demons do not take mates. They do not pair with humans permanently. This connection between the two of you has gone far enough—it is no longer amusing to me. You will not speak to her or see her again beyond what is necessary for your role in this competition. Understood?”
My own fists are clenched, sweating. My knees tremble, and even the silent presence of Rath at my back is no comfort. I want Apollyon to speak out, to defy Ishtar—but now that I’ve seen her power, I know he can’t. With all his own skills and slyness, he’s helpless in the face of her raw, fiery majesty. She is an Abominator of the highest rank, right under Lucifer himself.
Apollyon’s face is salt-white. He bows his head in assent.
Rath leads me off-stage. Tears slide hot down my cheeks, and when we reach the back room I throw myself into the corner of a sofa and sob, heedless of the other humans and demons watching me.
Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? Why didn’t I just toddle backstage like a good little human? If I’d done that, if I hadn’t defied Ishtar, I would still be able to see Apollyon. But now—now the fine line we were walking has been cut. She has decreed that we cannot be together.
I didn’t realize lust demons weren’t supposed to take mates or spouses, weren’t supposed to get serious about any one human. I mean, I kind of knew it—I knew that Apollyon wanted to conceal the depth of our connection. But hearing it straight from Ishtar’s mouth is different. It’s harsh. Final. Brutal.
Someone slides their arms around me, gripping me tight. Through my tears I see Amanda’s face, just as wet as mine. “They took Negasi,” she croaks.
I collapse into her, and we sob together.
“Thank you for what you did, you stupid, stupid girl,” she mutters into my hair. “I don’t think it helped, but it was very brave.”
“It’s what we’ve all wanted to say.” Aghilas’s deep voice is soothing. “But none of us have had the courage to tell them to their faces.”
“And you said it to Ishtar herself,” adds Hisae.
I groan, pressing my fingertips to my temples. “It’s like when it’s late at night, and you’re drunk and tired, and you post something you know you shouldn’t on social media but you do it anyway and then it’sout there, and even though you still believe it, you know it was dumb to say those words at that time, in that way, to those people. Oh god.” I can feel another tidal wave of tears coming, but I force it back with a Herculean effort. “But it’s not about me right now, okay? We need to witness Negasi.”
And so we do. It’s evisceration this time, and the demons have the process down to an art. They know how to keep the victim alive and sentient until the last possible moment.
Amanda and Zade both throw up, and I’m fighting to control my stomach. Good thing I didn’t eat before this.
When it’s finally over, Rath picks up the sopping, limp mess of me and strides right past the other demon sponsors. When one of them sneers, Rath fixes the demon with a look, his golden horns skating out and his muscles enlarging, heating. The threat is enough to make everyone else back off.
In my room, Rath runs a bath for me and kisses my forehead. There’s a faint pull at my skin as he siphons away some of my anguish and sadness. And then he leaves me to enjoy the hot water for a while. There’s another party tonight, and I have to make an appearance, even though it’s literally the last thing I want to do. I’d rather stay soaking in this bathtub for hours—the water here stays supernaturally hot—and then sink into bed and sleep for like, five days.
When I finally force myself to leave the bathroom, I see a dress lying on the bed—a Roaring-Twenties flapper dress, with a dazzling headband, stockings, and heels. When I pick up the dress, a note falls out of it.
