Page 77 of Interior Design for Demons
At the party tonight, I have enlisted another human to be your decoy. You will switch places with her at midnight, behind the feathered wall. Your escort will meet you there. Be careful, this note is about to get hot.
Sure enough, the paper begins to self-immolate while I’m still reading the last phrase. How very spy-movie.
I’m not sure who left me the note, but I suspect Rath or Apollyon. Probably Apollyon. Bold of him to risk antagonizing Ishtar again so soon after our little showdown during elimination.
Despite my weariness, my pulse speeds up at the thought of sneaking around with my forbidden lover at a Roaring Twenties party. I’ve always had a thing for Gatsby—I mean, who doesn’t?
My dress is a flighty, gauzy concoction of chiffon layers and sparkly beads. The minute I put it on, I’m transported, carried beyond myself and my troubles, turned into someone who might like being called “doll” and complimented on my “peepers.” I don’t have a bob, but I braid and knot my hair until it looks short, with some waves along the temples and over the ears. Plenty of face powder and some vivid lipstick take me back several decades, and with the headband, stockings, and shoes in place, my ensemble is complete.
Rath comes to fetch me, looking dapper in white pants and a striped blazer.
“Look at you,” I crow, circling him. “Mister Snazzypants.”
He rolls his eyes. “That’s worse than you calling me ‘Angel.’”
“All I heard was that you want me to call you ‘Angel’ again.” I purse my lips and strike my best flapper pose. “You got a smoke, Angel?”
The ghost of a smile. “You’re in a better mood.” Then Rath’s expression sobers, as if he just realized something. “Did Apollyon contact you? You’re only this giddy when you’re on good terms with him. Do not meet with him outside the parameters Ishtar has set, Grace. Defying her will mean death for both of you. And not death as humans think of it, as a short, one-time passing between worlds, or the end of existence—this will be eternal death, and neverending torture. Demons are not forgiving, and Ishtar is more vindictive than most.”
“Apollyon didn’t contact me. I’m just excited about a 1920’s party.” A sort-of lie, and a sort-of truth. Rath narrows his eyes at me, but doesn’t press the issue. Accompanied by a few of the other humans and their sponsors, we leave our giant Hellscraper building entirely and walk through a glass tunnel over a chasm of lava geysers, until we reach an adjoining building. More hallways and elevators, until finally we step into a wonderland of shrilling jazz, black feathers, and shining gold.
The party room is glittery, gaudy, with two huge stages against the left and right walls. Fan-dancers are fluttering, simpering, and stepping in perfect sync on both stages. From what I can see, they appear to be a mix of humans and demons. I wonder how many humans are brought into Hell to perform each year, and how many get a memory wipe afterward. Do any of them recall the experience?
Brass chandeliers strung with webs of crystal swing overhead. They swing because there are demons actuallyswingingon them, like in the Sia song. There are towers of champagne glasses, frothing over their rims, foam cascading down to the next tier—and the fountain of champagne never stops. If someone removes a glass, another appears in its place, filling up with bubbling gold liquid. The wailing of trumpets and saxophones, the staccato kick of the beat, the heady scent of floral perfume thickening the air—it drapes me like a seductive silken wrap, drawing me in.
Part of me doesn’t want to dance, not after my confrontation with Ishtar and its fallout. But another part of me realizes that I got off easy. I mean, I mouthed off to a high-ranking demon and I’m still alive. Maybe because I’m an audience favorite, and maybe due to Apollyon’s intercession. Either way, my very existence is something to celebrate.
So I dance with Amanda, and Aghilas, and Rath, and anyone else who looks relatively non-threatening—though in Hell that’s tough to discern. And all the while the contents of that secret note play through my mind, aligning with the jazzy music, forming strange lyrics:
I have enlisted another human to be your decoy.
You will switch places with her at midnight,
behind the feathered wall.
Your escort will meet you there.
Be careful,
this note is about to get hot.
There’s no clock in the room, so I have to guess at the time. I don’t dare ask Rath for the time more than once or he’ll know I’m up to something, so I check with each new dance partner. Every single one of them has a phone, tablet, or timepiece on them. Rath wasn’t kidding when he said Hell’s denizens were sticklers for schedules and punctuality.
Finally it’s close enough to midnight—just a handful of minutes left. Rath has been keeping an eye on me from a distance, but I’m lucky, because the Charleston begins and I dare anyone to try keeping tabs on someone during that dance. In the flurry of motion, I wriggle between shaking wings and stamping feet, dodging horns and claws, making my way to the far end of the room where there’s a buffet table the length of California and behind it, a wall coated from top to bottom in feathers. Some of the feathers are black, some white, some golden—some are tinged with blood that looks a little too recent, as if the feathers were freshly plucked from angels.
The wall of feathers stands a bit further forward than the rest of the wall, but only by a foot or so. There doesn’t seem to be space for anything behind it. I lean casually into the corner where the regular wall ends and the feather wall begins, feeling among the feathers like Lucy fumbling around in the wardrobe full of coats. And just like Lucy, I find that my hand goesthrough, into a space beyond.
When the music and dancing swells especially loud, I plunge blindly through the feathers.
There’s a darkly-paneled hallway, glossy wood reflecting the glow of a golden light fixture overhead. A girl wearing my face and my exact outfit leans against the wall, a cigarette holder between her fingers. “Took you long enough,” she says, and whisks past me, headed back to the dance floor.
Okay—weird.
With a shudder I continue along the corridor. It’s so narrow there’s barely an inch of leeway between my shoulders and the walls. The carpeted floor turns into steps descending down, down. Then a weighted curtain blocks my way. I struggle past it and break out into a lounge decadent with polished chairs and leather upholstery, crystal glasses and amber drinks and clinking ice. There’s a gleaming bar stocked with bottles.
It's a speakeasy, in Hell.
Someone is playing the piano, a limpid ripple of fingers over ivory keys. A male voice croons, low and lovely.
