Page 90 of Interior Design for Demons
“But you heard me call,” I whisper, and I don’t know how he hears it under all the wretched screaming music, but he does.
“I will always hear you,” he says, low and tight. Then louder he orders, “Now get up, sniveling human.” He grips my wrist and wrenches me to my feet—and as he does it, I feel a sudden sucking pull, and my agony lessens by half. My vision clears, and the headache isbearable, thank god.
He's already gone. Whatever that was—a moment of pity, the remnant of his feelings for me—it’s over.
But it was enough that I manage the trolley ride back without puking, and when I collapse into my bed, I’m able to fall asleep.
Round 8 is announced in grand style, in the auditorium where we usually have episode viewings. Amanda, Aghilas, Hisae, and I stand on the glossy, reflective stage, shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the thirteen empty chairs.
“For this round,” Ishtar intones, “you will design four intake rooms. Souls are taken to these rooms after death to wait until they can be sorted into their eternal spaces in Hell.”
“Like the Sorting Hat in Harry Potter,” whispers Amanda out of the side of her mouth.
I swallow a horrified, hysterical giggle.
Ishtar’s golden eyes are on us, and they flash with infernal purpose. I can practically read her latent triumph, the sinister threat of her thoughts. It’s like she’s saying,Just you wait, Grace Labelle. Your time is up.
“Each of these rooms will represent one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” Ishtar says. “War, Famine, Death, and Pestilence.”
I’m familiar with them, only because I read this romance series with the Four Horsemen as hot supernatural love interests. “Ever read Laura Thalassa’s work?” I whisper to Amanda.
She gives a tiny shake of her head.
Ishtar raises her voice, a strident core of steel and anger in her tone. “You’ll be given an envelope with your Horseman’s name and information.” She’s definitely not happy about our whispering, and while her anger scares me, it also gives me a twinge of rebellious satisfaction. She’s the principal, and Amanda and I are the troublesome students. Except instead of detention, this Hellish principal gets to deal out far worse punishments. It’s a small consolation that she can’t oust me from the competition all by herself. But if she can get either Dagon or Sekhment to agree with her, and if she can sway the audience to vote against me, I’ll be toast.
Apollyon rises fluidly from a seat in the front row of the audience, bounds onto the stage, and hands each of us an envelope. I steel myself against his grace, his scent, his smile, the dazzling blue of his eyes. When his fingertips brush mine, there’s a tingling chime along my nerves.
When he comes to Hisae, Apollyon pauses and ducks close to her ear, murmuring something to her quickly before relinquishing her envelope. The burst of jealous pain in my heart shocks me with its intensity. Why am I so weak where he’s concerned? It’s infuriating.
I tear open the envelope more roughly than necessary. Inside is a card bearing the image of a black-clad figure on a pale gray horse. Above him curves the word “Death” in elaborate script.
Raising my eyes, I meet Ishtar’s gaze, and she smiles with golden pointed teeth. It’s no accident that she assigned me this Horseman. It’s a promise of my inescapable fate.
We’re dismissed, and Rath escorts me to the intake room I’m supposed to design. Slate and Rusala are there, lounging against the bare drywall. When Rath leaves, Rusala holds out my work tablet, already loaded with the information I’ll need for the assignment. “Slate and I made you a new playlist.”
“Thanks.” I take a long look at them both—the piercings and the teeth and Slate’s jittery facial tattoo, the claws and the wild hair. I’ve come to like all of it, but I’m not interested in their personal style right now. I’m looking deeper, wondering if there’s something human inside either of them, or if the camaraderie we’ve developed is as artificial as their human-aspect bodies. Are their emotions just hollow imitations, or do they really care about me?
“What will you two do if I lose this round?” I ask.
Slate glances at Rusala and hisses softly.
“We’ll get nothing for all our work,” he says darkly. “So don’t lose.”
The question is a foolish one, but I ask it anyway. “Will you be sad if I die?”
“Sad, sweetling?” Rusala cocks his head.
“I’ll be a little pissed at you, to be honest,” says Slate. “To come this far and then lose? The least you can do is get into the top three. Then we’ll getsomethingfor our trouble.”
“But would youcare, about me?” My voice shrills a little. “I mean—I’ll be dead.”
Rusala shrugs. “Death is the future of every human. It makes no difference to us whether it comes sooner or later in the course of your paltry life.”
“And when you’re dead, you’ll still be here with us.” Slate trails sharp nails down my bare arm. “We’ll come and torture you sometimes. It’ll be fun.”
“You think I’ll be tortured?” I frown. “What about the Abeyance? I thought maybe I’d go there. I’m not a terrible person.”
“That’s not for us to decide, sugar-bits,” Rusala says. “After your execution you’ll be brought to an intake room like this, and you’ll be judged based on the severity of your sins.”
