Page 98 of Interior Design for Demons
Apollyon’s words melt me and galvanize me at the same time. “Take me right now.”
He chuckles at my whispered order. “You were hurt last time.”
“So we’ll do something different. Besides, you can heal me.” I press my palm to his groin, and he tilts his head back, a moan rippling along his pale throat. Deftly I undo his pants and crouch on the floor of bones—but I pause before slipping him into my mouth. I know he’s felt pleasure from every being imaginable, in every possible way—he’s experienced things that would probably make me cringe. My simple efforts are probably bland and vanilla by comparison.
But he’s taut with desire, tremors quaking along his limbs, and he says, with a desperate kind of delight, “You’re torturing me.”
“Not on purpose,” I say softly, my fingers gliding along his length. “Just wondering if you find me—boring. Bland, compared to your usual fare.”
“Boring?” His laugh is raw and sharp. “No, my love. You are wholesome, healing, and altogether wonderful. You’re my rest, my safety. I haven’t always been the one with the power in these experiences, and it’s a relief to know you aren’t my target or my superior, that I’m not paying for your allegiance, your favors, or your soul.” As my lips replace my fingers he groans again, gripping a bone-branch overhead to steady himself.
And that moment is only the beginning. We don’t dare strip completely again, in case someone shows up, but we work each other quickly, desperately—first my mouth on him, and then his on me, with my back against a tree of bones. And then he flies us up into one of the thicker trees, where he sits on a sturdy branch and I slide onto him with a whimper of desperate satisfaction, with the knowledge that it could be our very last time, that he could be eradicated from the universe, that our bodies could evaporate and our souls be ripped apart.
With my arms laced around his neck and his kisses against my throat, I come, tearful and shaking and incoherent. He clutches me with a hectic strength that tells me he’s just as scared as I am. We pulse and thrill in unison, emotion spiking and circling through us both and then settling, settling into a kind of resigned peace.
Afterward Apollyon finds a patchwork space of mossy—hairy?—skin where I can curl up and try to rest while he reclines on the bones beside me.
It feels as if I’ve just fallen asleep when Rath rockets into the Bone Forest in a column of flame and ash, his dark feathered wings outspread and his golden horns glinting. He’s huge, dominant, and Apollyon leaps up, growling softly in his throat.
“Shh, dragon,” I tell him. “Remember what Naamah told us? Rath isn’t a threat. Not anymore.”
Rath lands gracefully amid the trees and stalks toward us, glancing around with a kind of tight-jawed wonder. Naamah claws her way up out of the hole behind him and slinks along, watching his reaction.
“You made this?” He glances back at her.
“Yes.”
He nods, and a muscle in his cheek flexes. “I knew you were strange. A rule-breaker. But I didn’t know you were a creator.”
“You despise me,” Naamah says, baring her sharp little teeth.
“There was a time when I would have,” Rath says. “I would have been horrified at this evidence of human weakness. But now—” he nods, surveying the forest. “I think it is beautiful.”
Naamah flushes with pleasure, trying to repress a smile. She and Rath approach us, and I cling to Apollyon’s arm, waiting for word of what’s going to happen. I can hardly bear the suspense. I want to grab Rath and shake the news out of him.
He folds his arms and puckers his lips. “You two have caused quite a stir. I knew you would shake things up, little rebel, ever since you vomited in my car.”
I give him a small smile. There’s a warm spark in his eyes that gives me cautious hope.
“Don’t keep us in suspense, Razenath.” Apollyon’s voice holds a note of pleading I’ve never heard from him.
“You’ve been summoned to appear before the representatives of Heaven and Hell,” Rath says. “The Infernal Sovereign and the Creator Himself are too busy to be bothered with your case, but they have appointed substitutes, fully empowered to negotiate your fate on their behalf. The representative for Heaven is Michael the archangel, and for Hell—”
“Let me guess,” spits Apollyon. “It’s Ishtar.”
“Actually, no.” Rath smiles grimly. “I submitted some footage that revealed Ishtar’s personal bias against Grace—conversations with other demons in which she railed against Miss Labelle in the foulest of terms. So Heaven insisted that someone else represent Hell’s interest in this conversation.”
“Dagon?” I ask hopefully. He always liked my work…
“Yes, Dagon.” Rath nods.
I squeal and leap for Rath’s neck, giving him a violent squeeze. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you.”
“It’s the least I could do.” His voice is dark with regret.
“Yup. It is.” After another squeeze, I let him go.
“Don’t celebrate yet.” Naamah gives me a bladed smile. “Your judgments haven’t been handed down. You could still be sentenced to annihilation and damnation.”
