Page 86 of Interior Design for Demons
I cringe down in my seat, glad that my back is to the audience. There are some cheers and “aww” sounds, some jeers and mocking phrases tossed around behind me. But the episode moves on, and the moment with my dad is forgotten by everyone except me—and maybe Apollyon. And possibly Ishtar and Rath.
Why, why would my dad say all that personal stuff about me? He had to know they’d put some of it in the episode.
Finally they show the three recreational spaces, and then the episode is done, and our chairs swivel around.
Apollyon is slouched in his seat, idly braiding a lock of his hair. He doesn’t look at me, not once. Probably a good thing, because Ishtar’s glowing eyes swivel from him to me and back again. She hasn’t forgotten what I said to her, and she’s clearly determined that the ban on my relationship with Apollyon remains in place.
Aghilas and Amanda are pronounced safe and dismissed right away. Their room was filled with beautifully designed wooden games and puzzles, and the walls were covered with glossy wooden panels. They charred slabs of lighter wood with various delicate patterns to create art prints for the walls. I can’t help but bow to the talent and skill. Their demon teammates must be incredibly gifted to make all that woodwork happen in such a short time.
When it’s our turn to defend our design, Hisae and I take turns praising each other and our demon partners. I think both she and I know we’re not in real danger, because Maksim and Zade delivered a room that “lacked polish,” as Dagon puts it. Ishtar calls it a “fucking disaster.” It’s the first time I’ve heard her curse, and it’s weirdly shocking. She’s usually so—so elegantly feral, I guess. Vicious, but in an aggressively regal way.
When my team is deemed “safe” and dismissed, I tuck my fingers into the crook of Rath’s elbow and wobble off-stage. My knees are loose and trembly even though I was pretty sure we were safe.
Maksim and Zade are eliminated.
Maksim and Zade are going to die.
I can’t fathom it. I glance back at their faces one last time. Sensing the movement, Rath yanks me hard, jerking me into the backstage room before I can make another scene like I did at the last elimination.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” I hiss at him.
“Shut up and watch the screen,” he retorts. He goes immediately to the bar and pours himself a generous drink.
“For this round,” Ishtar announces, “the losers will be devoured by two of Hell’s most powerful ancestral demons!”
The screen at the back of the stage cracks down the center, then explodes into splinters of metal, plastic, and glass as two enormous heads burst through it. One of the monsters limps onto the stage, horrifically tall, a glistening sickly white, with a myriad of writhing tentacles coiling from its maw. If it ever had eyes, they sank into its pulsating flesh long ago.
“I give you the ancient one, Asmodeus!” cries Ishtar, and the demonic crowd bellows with delight. “And please welcome the original Belial!”
Belial skitters onstage, wailing shrilly from a gaping mouth that oozes black blood at the corners. It’s part cockroach, part scorpion, with a human face and the sharp horns of a steer. Tiny arms flop limply against its flanks, and there are gills cut along its ribs, gills that leak fire and hissing black acid.
These are devolved demons, once as graceful and handsome as Apollyon or Rath—now reduced to mindless slavering mouths and ravenous bellies. When I picture Apollyon’s blue dragon as one of these mutilated, crazed beasts, the vision sends a hot blade of pain through my chest.
Several large demons take up positions along the edges of the stage, probably to control the beasts if they get out of control. Zade and Maksim have been chained by their necks to a pole in the center of the stage. There’s no way for them to pull a Padme-and-Anakin and get on top of the pole, or ride the monsters, or defend themselves in any way. It’s a feeding, pure and simple.
The other contestants and I are used to the screams by now, though they still twist up my gut into knots.
Four of us left. Such a slim margin between me and destruction—or salvation. If I can make it through the next round, I won’t die in this competition. I’ll be spared, whether or not I win the top spot.
I want to live, so badly. But I don’t want anyone else to die in my place.
Maksim and Zade are screeching—manic, desperate—sounds of raw mortal terror. I hug my knees and force myself to stare at the screen, to witness. I pray and pray, not for the contestants to be spared, because I know that won’t happen, no matter who is watching from Heaven—I pray for the deaths to be quick. Zade is sucked into the tentacled maw of Asmodeus within a few minutes, but Belial takes his time gnawing on Maksim, chewing at the feet first and working his way up slowly, slowly.
We’re all shaking, crying—Hisae is wailing, and a few of the sponsor demons drift toward her to inhale her misery. Rath stays by the bar, knocking back drink after drink.
Finally, after nearly an hour of gnawing, sucking, squelching, and screaming, Maksim is quiet.
I stand up, trembling, and immediately vomit on the carpet.
Rath curses and steps forwards, swaying heavily. Demons seem to have a pretty good tolerance for alcohol, but he’s surpassed his.
“Damn you, lil rebel,” he slurs. “Yer alwuz throwin’ up.”
I push past him and wipe my mouth on a bar cloth. Let the demons clean up my puke. They caused it.
Two more people vomit behind me as I leave the room. I don’t glance back to see who they were.
Panting, shaking, half-sobbing, I stagger along the hallways as fast as I can. I’ve never been so eager to get back to my room. I only hope I can make it before I throw up again.Don’t think about Maksim, don’t think, don’t think—
