Page 79 of Interior Design for Demons
“I’m afraid of what will happen to me—what I am becoming,” I murmur. “Afraid of the future.”
“Perhaps your fears and Apollyon’s are not so different,” suggests the angel. “I may be able to offer you a bit of hope. Only a little, and nothing certain.”
I nod grimly. “I’ll take it.”
“This contest has become quite popular among some of the angels and ransomed souls of Heaven as well,” says Karaziel. “We watch it secretly, of course—it is not the approved fare of the Celestial Plane. There are relatives of the contestants in heaven, the redeemed from various faiths, the pure of heart—such as your mother, Grace—and they are advocating before the High Throne, requesting that participation in the contest be forgiven, since the contestants were not brought to Hell of their own free will. They are requesting that all the human participants be reclaimed and judged again, without their design services for Hell counting against them. And the Merciful Fatheris inclined to grant their request.”
“He is?” A bolt of dreadful hope throbs along my limbs.
“Yes.”
“So—the contestants who have been eliminated—they might still get their chance at Heaven?”
“Negotiations are being initiated,” says Karaziel. “It is a delicate matter. But I thought the news might give you hope for your friends, and a morsel of comfort for yourself. We saw you today, defying Ishtar. Trust me, there were many shouts of support and tears of compassion shed for you in the Heavenly Plane.”
After the four days of non-stop work on Apollyon’s suite, and then the dramatic elimination, the news that my mother is interceding for my soul to God Himself is—too much. I cave under the dazzling weight of that concept, crumpling onto one of the velvety couches.
Karaziel tilts their head, appraising me. “You should sleep, little human.”
“I really should,” I whisper.
Then angel bends and kisses my forehead, and into my mind rushes a blissful flood of hope and light. “There now. You will have sweet dreams tonight. And as you leave, take note of our fine pianist this evening. I would escort you myself, but I must leave this plane before my absence is noted in the Heavenly Realm.”
“Thank you,” I say. “For your words, and your help. I’m sorry I called you despicable.”
“You spoke only the truth as you see it.” The angel dips a bow to me and points the way out of the room.
Somehow I manage to rise, and to shuffle out into the speakeasy.
This time, I don’t escape undetected. Karaziel isn’t there to sweep in and spirit me out of sight—it’s just me, wandering dazedly back the way I came. As one of the contestants, my face is highly recognizable.
“Grace Labelle?” calls out one demon, and another echoes, “Grace, Grace! Come sit with us. Tell us how Ishtar looked when you defied her!” More voices— “Sit on my lap, Grace!” “Kiss me, Grace!”Grace, Grace, have a drink, come to the back room with me, my dick is bigger than Rath’s, care for a ride, a smoke, a lay, a shot…on and on it goes, a dizzying buzz in my head.
Suddenly the piano switches from its rippling melody to an upbeat dance tune, and the demands change to offers of a dance. I’m not getting out of here without giving the demons a bit of attention, so I take the hand of a brown-skinned female demon. “I can’t dance whatever this is,” I protest, half-smiling, and she begins to teach me the steps.
They can be so charming when they want to be, these demons. They can fake human form and mannerisms, hide their devilish qualities and conceal their darker traits. Right now, the ones in this room are role-playing, dressed as 1920s gangsters and crime lords and molls. They look perfectly human, except they have an air of confidence no captive human in Hell ever possesses. Humans in Hell always look a little skittish, a shade panicky, even when they’re enjoying themselves. They’re dancing on the edge of death and they can’t forget it. Demons, though—they ooze a careless, comfortable belonging.
The musician must be demonic as well—no human can play that fast. I angle my head, trying to catch a glimpse around the back of the upright piano. But I can’t see whose fingers are dancing so maniacally over the keys.
“A duet!” shouts one of the demons. “Lawrence, join him!”
From a darkly draped corner a man rises. He has ebony skin and sparkling dark eyes, and his jovial smile encompasses everyone. He holds out placating hands to those calling his name.
“All right, all right,” he says. “If my student doesn’t mind.”
“Apollyon, move over! Make room for your human!” someone yells.
A jolt sizzles through me, and I swing my partner around in a wide arc so I can see that piano bench.
Apollyon sits at the piano, wearing a seersucker suit. His long red hair is tied in a low, loose ponytail at the nape of his neck. He scoots over, never breaking rhythm as the human moves into place on the bench beside him.
This Lawrence guy must be Apollyon’s composer, the indentured human who was doomed to die young until Apollyon secured him an eternal gig in Hell. That explains why Lawrence is the exception to my “all-humans-look-scared” rule. This is Lawrence’s second life—he gets to compose and perform, to be constantly praised for his creative genius. He’s the first human I’ve seen who looks truly, honestly at home in Hell.
I thought Apollyon was good, but when Lawrence begins to play, I forget to dance. I almost forget to breathe. Sure, Apollyon can move his fingers a bit faster, and his technique is crisply perfect—but Lawrence has a wonderful freedom about his music, a natural grace to the phrasing, a unique flair for improvising little curls and colors throughout the melody.
The pair put their heads together—Apollyon’s scarlet locks and Lawrence’s tight black curls—and they plunge into a glorious flood of chords and ripples—I can’t even describe it. I let my partner’s hands fall and I lose myself in the sounds.
All around me, the demons are doing the same thing. They are drinking inbeauty—not fear, anger, or pain. Their eyes are ravenous, their lips parted. They lean forward a little, drawn into the song like flotsam to a whirlpool. They have a surprising appreciation and capacity for beauty. No wonder, I suppose. They were all either angel or human once—except for those born of demon parents.
