Page 83 of Interior Design for Demons
“Of course. In the next episode, everyone will hear what you said to each other.” He pulls open the glass door for me. “Keep that in mind.”
The tiny interview room smells faintly of sulfur, though cold air is blasting from a vent overhead. Nothing in Hell ever smells reallyfresh, like the outdoors. Some scents come close, like Apollyon’s, and some are just plain delicious, like Rath’s. But no room or being in Hell matches the rain-soaked fragrance of damp earth and the scent of wet green grass. Nothing smells like the bright, biting cold of a sunny winter morning, or the fresh wind tossing scarlet leaves on a mountainside in the fall.
My father smells like Hell, and it breaks my heart.
I didn’t think I cared. I don’t want to care.
I avoid looking at him as I drag out the metal chair on the opposite side of the table from him and seat myself in it.
Curling my hands under the edge of the table, I press my nails into the flesh of my palms, steadying myself with pain. And then, finally, I look up and meet his eyes.
Tears moisten his gaze. His eyes are hazel, dulled with ageless pain. His lips move, but he doesn’t speak. Maybe he has forgotten how.
Maybe I need to make the first move.
“Hi—” I nearly choke on the word— “Dad.”
“I-I-I—” He draws a shivering breath, and his brows dent as he focuses on forming words. “I’m sorry.”
My anger is drowning, submerged in floods of pity. I try to claw my rage back up but I can’t. This man has been punished enough. I mean, I think he has. The women and boys sold by his trafficking ring might disagree. Even if he only handled communications and finances, even if he didn’t touch them himself, he is guilty, guilty. He knows it. I don’t need to rub salt in the wound.
He speaks again, more confidently this time. “I’m sorry you’re involved in my mess.”
I bark a short laugh. “I’ve been involved in your mess since I was born.” It sounds harsher than I intended. Truth can be brutal.
“Have you had a good day?” I ask.
“My first day of respite in years.” He nods. “Yes. It has been—heavenly. They even brought me food. I haven’t tasted food since I died. You know they give souls in the Pit small amounts of respite between torture sessions. We never know if it will be a few minutes of peace or hours. It’s to keep the pain sharp, you see. To keep us from getting used to it. Some souls learn to enjoy the pain though. They usually end up becoming torture demons themselves.”
“Do they have to go through the demon trials?” I ask curiously.
He nods.
Silence drops heavy between us again.
After a few seconds my father says, “They’ve showed us all the episodes so far—me and the other family members of the contestants. Something about raising our hopes, only to have them dashed again. Another form of torture. But I’ve enjoyed them all. You are gifted, Grace. You’re very good at what you do.”
“It helps to have unlimited resources and a pair of demon assistants.” I smile wryly. “In the Earthly plane I wouldn’t be able to accomplish anything this fabulous.”
“Don’t underestimate your own talent and creativity,” he says. “That’s something I used to do when I was young. Whenever I was praised, I’d deny and deflect. I was always apologizing for myself, afraid of sounding too confident, too proud. Maybe I learned to do that because of your grandfather. He couldn’t handle anyone else being better than him. A narcissist, I think, looking back on it. And my mother was a sex worker. By choice. No one forced her. I suppose it normalized the work for me, in a way. No excuse for what I did, though. The people I sold had no options. I think of them when the demons take me apart. What I suffer now is payback. Penance. Retribution.”
I’m having trouble following his scattered, broken bits of sentences, but I nod with mingled agreement and sympathy.
“You were all right though, growing up,” he says, firmly, eagerly. “You had a good childhood. You found a good family, you were taken care of.”
He recites those words desperately to himself—I can tell he’s repeated this mantra many times to give himself comfort.
I skipped around between foster families. They weren’t great, but they weren’t horrible either. The last family I was with, the one I stayed with the longest—they were kind, even if they couldn’t really love me. Even if they didn’t much care when I left for college, and barely contacted me after that.
“Yes,” I tell him, because it’s what he needs to hear. “I found a good family. I was taken care of. I’m good.”
His face crumples. “But you’re not, though. You’re falling for one ofthem, aren’t you? I watched the most recent elimination this morning. Ishtar yelled at you, and at that redhaired demon, the one you were with in Episode 1.”
Knowing that my dad saw me getting pleasured by a demon is humiliating beyond anything else I’ve experienced. I press my palms to my scorching cheeks. “That’s Apollyon. He and I can’t see each other anymore.”
“Anymore? Then you were involved with him?”
I shrug, noncommittal, conscious of cameras and microphones. “All the contestants have been with demons at some point during the competition. It’s just for fun, releasing some pent-up tension. Nothing serious.”
