Page 81 of Interior Design for Demons
“You what now?”
“Grace, you should speak with him. This is what a friend would tell you to do, yes?”
“Yes,” I growl.
“He receives a reprieve from torture for twenty-four hours. He will be fed, bathed, clothed, made to feel human again. And from two o’clock to three o’clock tomorrow afternoon, he will be in a visitation room. You may join him there, or not. As you wish.”
With a half-bow, Rath turns and strides away, his golden waves bouncing lightly on his broad shoulders.
When I wake up late the next morning, there’s a rush relief at first, because I’ve had a good long sleep and I don’t have to throw clothes on and race to work on my assigned room for the competition. I get to lie in bed for a few minutes and just breathe.
Then other realities ooze back into my brain—Ishtar’s ban on any relationship between me and Apollyon. My meeting with my father this afternoon. The upcoming Round 7, where the odds of survival are even worse because there are only six contestants left now.
I grab my work tablet and put on a peppy Spotify playlist, one that always prompts me to sing along. That way I can focus on fun lyrics andnoton my forbidden romance with a lust demon, or the upcoming conversation with my sex-trafficker father. Because I’m going to that meeting. Of course I am. I don’t want to, but I think I need to. For once, Rath was right.
In the dining mall, the other five contestants sit close together at a round table, near the giant wall of screens showing various live feeds from Earth. I focus on a news feed—some hurricanes, earthquakes, rich people spending money on stupid-ass crap instead of helping the needy, another virus—typical stuff. How much of it was incited by demons, I wonder? Do these billionaire types have demons in their offices, demons in their business circles? Maybe those demons are the ones prompting them to make selfish, dumb decisions with their wealth.
“Hey.” Amanda bumps my arm. “You’re quiet today.”
“Going to see my father this afternoon,” I mutter into my sandwich.
She nods. “I’ll be seeing my sister.”
Her sister. The one who got so depressed and mentally ill that she took her own life and the lives of her kids. I still can’t believe she’s in the Pit for that. I mean, what she did was horrific, but the woman needed help. She wasn’t herself.
I squeeze Amanda’s arm. “Do you know what you’re going to say to her?”
Amanda shakes her head. “I think mostly I’m going to listen.”
Her words vibrate through me, ricocheting in my soul.
Maybe I don’t have to say anything to my dad.
He’s been trapped in the Pit for years, enduring torture upon torture for what he did. All he’s been able to do is scream and beg, and no one around him would have given a crap even if he did manage to speak intelligible words.
If I’m not sure what to say to him, all I have to do is sit there, and listen. I don’t need to forgive him, excuse him, commiserate with him—I just have to take in whatever he wants to say.
I mean, that’s all any of us ever want, isn’t it? For someone to actuallylisten. Like Apollyon listened to my terrified ramblings on the night of the masquerade. He called Karaziel into Hell just to meet with me, to give me hope for my afterlife. When a guy summons an angel for you, and asks the denizens of Heaven to intercede with God on your behalf—that’s pretty damn romantic.
As if I summoned him with my very thoughts, Apollyon enters the dining mall at that moment, flanked by four other demons—his entourage for the day. I’ve never seen him in here before—I always assumed he dined in fancier places.
Did he decide to eat lunch here just to see me?
His blue eyes cut to mine—a single scintillating glance. He murmurs something to his companions and they move on without him while he approaches my table. My heart is hammering wild against my ribs.
“Contestants,” he says smoothly. “How are we today? Looking forward to seeing our loved ones?”
He’s not looking at me, but I feel that tug deep in my bones, in my heart, at the core of my soul. The line that connects the two of us is thickening, tremors of unspoken emotion coursing along it.
“It’s going to be difficult for everyone,” Amanda replies carefully.
“I suppose it would be.” Apollyon taps his long fingers idly on the table, a bare inch from where my hand rests. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the tiny skull ring he wears, with its blue-jeweled eyes and miniature spikes. His fragrance envelops me, sugar and citrus and sunlight.
It’s all I can do not to touch him. But we’re being recorded and monitored right now, so we have to follow Ishtar’s directive to the letter.
“I’ll see you all tomorrow at the Round 7 announcement,” he says. “I hope you all enjoy working together.”
He glides away, and we all stare at each other.
