Page 82 of Interior Design for Demons
“He didn’t say, ‘enjoy eating together,’” Aghilas points out. “He said ‘working.’ ‘Working together.’ Do you think that was a clue? Will we be working in teams again?”
“It makes sense,” Hisae says quietly, finger-combing her black hair absently. “There are six of us. That divides perfectly into three teams of two.”
“Last time we worked in teams, there was a double elimination.” Amanda’s voice is thin, thready. “Do you think two of us will be killed this time?”
If that’s the case, my chances of surviving this round are even slimmer.
I set down the beautiful roast beef sandwich that I suddenly have zero appetite for. I want to tell my fellow contestants what I’ve learned—about the possibility that our souls will wind up in the Better Place after all—but I can’t. Our conversations in the dining mall are always recorded, and I can’t reveal the secrets I know, or their source.
After lunch I’m unable to focus on anything. I pace the hallways of the Hell-building until Rath finds me and takes me to the interview rooms.
“How come you can disappear and poof yourself to wherever, but you don’t take me with you when you do that?” I ask. “It would be a lot faster.”
“It would,” he admits. “But my powers don’t allow for transporting passengers. Some other demons can do it, including Apollyon, as you know.”
“Who assigns the powers to the demons?”
“Every demon receives the powers of his predecessor,” Rath says. “When I took the name and role of Razenath, I was assigned his powers. The same for Apollyon. When we enter our role, we begin at the lowest rank regardless of where our predecessor ranked. We must earn our own rank and privileges. As Hell has grown and more souls have flooded in, brand-new demons have been introduced—and in those cases I suppose the Infernal Sovereign assigns their names and powers.”
“So if a human goes through the demon trials, for example, and becomes a demon, Lucifer will assign their new name and abilities?”
“Yes.” He side-eyes me. “Humans have many reasons for participating in the trials. The most common is their deep, true love for a demon, a desire to be the demon’s spouse or mate. But lust demons are not allowed to take mates.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“I suppose. But their human targets are usually so enamored they cannot tell lust from love. And lust demons must continue their work of seduction, which typically makes their mate jealous, so it rarely works out well. The law against lust-demon mates has only been in place for a century or so. But it was enacted with good reason.”
“You should have told me about it sooner,” I grumble. “Orheshould have.”
But of course I know why they didn’t tell me. I kept stringing Rath along, confusing him and everyone else about how serious I was with Apollyon—so he had no reason to explain it. And Apollyon needed me to be his, for cure purposes—he didn’t want to scare me off with talk of mates and spouses and laws.
Still, I’m unreasonably pissed that I didn’t know about the rule. Knowing wouldn’t have kept me from falling in love with Apollyon—but at least I’d have been more aware of what I was getting myself into.
Who am I kidding—I always knew it wasn’t going to work between us. This law is just one more reason for me to forget about Apollyon and move on.
Rath and I traverse a hallway with rooms on either side—rooms with glass walls and doors that let us see right in. We’re not the first to arrive. Hisae is slumped over a metal table in one room, her shoulders shaking. Across from her sits a tall man with sharp cheekbones and expressionless eyes. Some distance ahead, Amanda is being ushered into a room. She glances down the hall at me, and gives me a tiny nod before passing through the door.
“Here we are.” Rath stops by another wall of glass.
I look through it, and there’s my father, sitting at a metal table, facing me.
I suppose he’s been given a body like the one he had right before he died. I never saw pictures of him from those years—my foster parents wouldn’t allow it.
His belly swells out his white tee, pushing between the unbuttoned edges of his plaid shirt. Pink bags bulge under eyes bloodshot from hours of typing. During those final years, he spent nearly all his time writing crime thrillers, self-publishing them, and donating the profits to women’s charities and anti-trafficking organizations.
That’s what he told me in the few emails I was allowed to receive.
Rath’s bulk at my back is solid, reassuring. I want to lean into him, because now that his desire for me has abated a little, now that we’ve talked, now that he’s trying to do better, I feel less scared of him. I’m more frightened of that stranger waiting for me behind the glass.
“You and Apollyon—you traffick human souls,” I say quietly. “You’re no better than he is. Worse, in a lot of ways.”
“There is a difference,” says Rath. “The souls we target must choose their own path. We can introduce obstacles, pressures, and incentives, but in the end, they always have a choice. They always have free will. His victims did not.”
After pondering that, I venture, “You say your victims have free will. But is it really free will when you’re choosing under pressure, under duress, faced with the offer of everything you think you want?”
“Some people endure unbelievable hardship or irresistible temptation and still have the courage to say ‘no’ to us,” Rath replies. “It comes down to a kind of strength that few possess. An unerring morality. A pure sense of right and wrong. The ability to discern morally gray areas from the truly Hellish path.” He presses a broad hand between my shoulder blades. “Go, little rebel. Speak to him.”
“You’re going to listen, aren’t you?” I glance back, meeting his dark eyes.
