Page 97 of Interior Design for Demons
When she leaves, I stalk restlessly through the trees, munching one of the sandwiches she brought and hoping it’s actually chicken salad, not human salad.
“Waiting is difficult for humans,” Apollyon says, watching sympathetically as I pace back and forth. “It’s not easy for me, either, but the urgency of time’s passage is greater for mortal beings.”
“I’m not upset about the waiting,” I tell him. “It’s my father. He’s going to have to stay in the Pit now, with no hope of escape, ever. How is that fair? Why does God punish humans foreternity? Why not just for like, a century or something?”
“Because He views all immoral acts as sins against Himself, personally. And sins committed against an infinite Being deserve infinite punishment.”
I hate that it makes a kind of sense. “Why does He—or She, or They—hate sin so damn much?”
“The Heavenly Ruler has no gender, technically, but identifies as male and prefers those pronouns,” Apollyon says, with a half-smile. “You’d do well to respect the pronouns if you want His favor.”
“Fine,” I growl. “But my question still stands. Why the extreme hatred of ‘sin’?”
“Think of it like an allergy. For someone who is severely, deathly allergic to peanuts, even the slightest exposure can cause a terrible reaction. The Heavenly Ruler is that way with sin, with anything that deviates from absolute moral truth and righteousness. He cannot bear sin, even in trace amounts.”
Apollyon plucks a ragged skin-leaf from one of the trees. “Some things that humans regard as sin are not, and some things that they believe to be innocent are not. A conscience can be trained, skewed, misshapen. Sometimes that skewing of the moral compass happens to large groups—whole nations, in fact. And that results from successful demonic teamwork. Even without a push from the Devil’s side, humans tend to confuse things, and impose rules on each other that have nothing to do with the Heavenly Ruler’s law.”
“And He just lets it all happen.”
“Yes, for the most part. But He does pity, and He does care. And I’m not going to explain the proof of His pity and care, because I’m a demon, not a minister. I daresay you already know about the ICR anyway.”
“ICR?”
“Incarnation, Resurrection, Crucifixion.”
Vague swirls of memory resurface, from the church services and Sunday school classes that one of my foster families made me attend. “I know a little.” And then softly I ask the question that my philosophy professor posed on the very day that Rath kidnapped me and took me to Hell. “Can a few years of good deeds make up for a lifetime of wickedness?”
“I think you know the answer to that,” Apollyon said quietly. “There are things for which humans can never atone. But in such cases the sinner can still find Heaven, if they will accept the Mercy, and the Gift.”
I squirm, looking away, unsure why this discussion makes me so damn uncomfortable.
Apollyon chuckles and says, “Enough of this talk. Kiss me, darling, and I’ll make you forget about the glories of Heaven.”
He draws me to him with those long, elegant fingers, cups my face with his hand, and runs his knuckles down my cheek.
“You could have someone prettier than me,” I murmur.
“Of course I could, and I have. But there’s an ineffable quality to you, dearest, more precious than beauty. And beautiful you are, never doubt it. Let me suck the pout from that delicious mouth of yours, darling.” He nibbles my lower lip until I laugh, and laughter rolls from him too, unfettered and gleeful. “I feel strangely light,” he says, kissing my forehead. “Despite what will likely happen to us. Why is that, do you think? Are you magic, my love?”
“Maybe part of me is,” I tease him with hooded eyes.
He slips a hand over the inseam of my slacks, rubbing lightly, and my body yearns into his touch.
“You and I are going to sanctify so many wicked acts together,” he whispers. “But this is not the setting for a thorough exploration of our sexual future. This place is uncomfortable and gruesome.”
“But—you’re a demon.”
“A demon who enjoys beauty and luxury.” His lip curls as he surveys our surroundings. “This is just—demented. And disgusting. Much as I love Naamah, she has strange affinities.”
“You shouldn’t judge.”
“I really shouldn’t. Look at me, helpless in the palm of a human woman, giving everything I have and am for her. Strangest of affinities, this.” He trails gentle fingertips through my hair, gathers me to himself, swallows me up in the delicate effervescence of his kiss.
My fingers twist through the waterfall of his hair, and I drag him nearer with my handfuls of scarlet, arranging my hips against his. I press into the kiss, teasing open his mouth, entering and tasting the lemon-sugar sweetness of him.
After a moment I ease back. “What do I taste like?”
His eyes are dilated, foggy with pleasure, but he blinks and says, “Once, decades ago, I lay in a forest meadow with one of my targets. It was a slow, warm summer day, and the heat of the sun lifted the scent of spice from every leaf and bloom in that hazy field. It all shimmered, golden, and hummed with earthy life. I don’t remember my target’s face, but I’ve remembered that meadow every day since then.” He licks his lips, and his blue eyes ensnare mine. “You taste like that moment, like that meadow. You are the meadow.”
