Page 65 of Interior Design for Demons
“And I know you don’t mean that.” I push his arm out of the way.
“There’s something you should know about the fourth round,” he says. “There are ten contestants left, and Ishtar is going to assign teams of two.”
“Oh, crap.”
He nods at the sentiment. “Exactly. Have fun, dove.”
And then he’s gone.
It’s a relief to have a good, broken, chest-heaving avalanche of a cry. I sob, off and on, for probably an hour, partly because I’ve been incredibly stupid and partly because Apollyon’s name is a bittersweet refrain in my heart, one I can’t get rid of even though I know he used me. It’s a small comfort that he could have chosen anyone for his cure, and he chose me. He wanted a monogamous, devoted relationship withme. Still, he wanted it for the wrong reasons—to save himself from decaying into monstrous insanity.
That’s why he came to my room in dragon form that night. He must have been having trouble changing back to human aspect, and being around me helped him transform. That’s why he looked so excited and grateful, why he said, “It worked,” in that wondering tone. Why does he have to be so damncutewhen he’s surprised or awed by something? I growl and slam my face against the pillow.
Exhaustion forces me into sleep, but when I wake up I feel headachy, puffy-eyed, and off-kilter, like a sadness hangover. I pull on jeans and a T-shirt, pile my hair into a messy knot, and swipe on some mascara before Melek comes to fetch me for today’s meeting. I’ve lost both my demons now—Razenath and Apollyon. Rath’s loss bothers me vaguely, like a dissent with an acquaintance; while my rift with Apollyon is a gaping, raw chasm in my soul. Yet even though I’m furious at Apollyon, my stupid heart still trips over itself when I take my seat and see him at the head of the room with Ishtar. His long red hair is in a high ponytail today, and he wears a sparkling cuff along his ear. But his shirt and pants are black, ragged, unusually macabre and messy for him, and his blue eyes lack a little of their usual devilish sparkle.
Ishtar explains the concept of the teams round and audience voting, with the added bombshell that both members of the lowest-scoring team will be out of the contest. A double elimination.
Mentally I skim through the contestants, ranking them by how well they’ve done. I’d be thrilled to work with Hisae or Aghilas. Amanda or Maksim are my least favorite possibilities. Which means it’s just my luck and I’m not totally surprised when Ishtar announces, with a knowing smirk, “Amanda Scarlatti and Grace Labelle, you will be Team One. You’ll be designing a dining space for demons and the occasional Earthly guest or two. Have fun.”
I’d love to smack that sneer off her face. Ishtar put Amanda and me together on purpose, knowing we hate each other. We’ve both been near the bottom a couple of times, and she’s probably hoping we’ll destroy ourselves in this round and get knocked out.
Amanda and I don’t speak as we’re escorted to our assigned room. It’s immense, high up on one side of the building, with a wall of curved windows overlooking the Hellscape. The briefing video on my work tablet explains that it will be like a restaurant for mid-level and higher-level demons—a place where they can enjoy fine cuisine and each other’s company. I’m guessing some humans will be enslaved—ahem,employed—to give that special creative touch to the food.
When the video ends, I can’t put it off any longer. I have to say something to my new teammate, the person with whom I’ll be working and possibly dying. Slate and Rusala prowl at my back, glowering at Amanda’s helper demons. One of them has ibex horns and colorful patchwork skin, while the other has shimmery green skin with hints of aqua, and a mouth far too wide for his face. The patchwork demon girl keeps brushing Amanda’s arm with her own, and when Amanda hands over her work tablet, there’s a lingering graze of fingertips.
Maybe I’m not the only person in this competition who’s screwing a demon. Maybe Amanda was accusing me so loudly because she wanted to steer attention away from herself.
“Cards on the table,” I say abruptly. “We both want to live, and we’ve both found things to care about in this hell-dimension.”
Amanda’s strong features remain harsh, but she nods once.
“I’ve never designed an eatery or restaurant before,” I admit. “So if you’ve got any experience with that, it could really help us.”
“I have designed three cafés and two restaurants,” she says.
“Yes!” I pump my fist. “Then maybe we have a chance. You’re welcome to keep hating me, but just remember that Ishtar hates both of us.”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Amanda says slowly.
“Exactly. Maybe ‘friend’ is pushing it a bit far, but ally could work. Partner. Co-conspirator, maybe.”
Amanda glances at the patchwork demon girl, who nods. “This is Lel,” Amanda explains. “She’s been my rock. She helps me get through.”
Her words don’t really give anything away—we’re all conscious that we’re being recorded—but the weight of confession lies in those little phrases. There’s something between Lel and Amanda. I don’t know how far it has gone, but it’s definitely there.
“And this is Rimmon.” Amanda points to the demon with the green skin and the too-wide smile. A cloven tongue skitters between his pointed teeth as he says, “Hello.”
I introduce Slate and Rusala, who turn suddenly affable when they realize I want them to be nice. After all, they’ve got their own prizes and promotions on the line. It’s in everyone’s best interest to make this work.
Our room is all about compromise, about balance, about walking the line between two extremes. Amanda lets me go dark with the walls, bathing them in a gray so rich and smoky it’s nearly black; and I let her have the gilt-edged tables and champagne-colored chairs she wanted. There’s a nod to classic elegance in the Magis Proust armchairs and tufted leather sofas, but we edge it up with backlit art installations, Coltrane pendant lights fetched from the Earthly plane, and a crisp, glossy black bar that cuts the space with its sweeping lines. With proper lighting, the glass bottles on the shelves behind the bar become their own kind of art, an array of gold, amber, and green.
One of Amanda’s most time-consuming ideas is the ceiling. I wanted it plain, but she wants luxury, so she spends hours on her back, on top of a scaffolding, affixing textured ceiling tiles.
The dining space is an enormous project with so many details to consider—table placement, seating, traffic flow, sightlines, service paths, sound dampening, lighting—not to mention the durability and maintenance of the materials and furniture we include. Though I suppose demons can easily clean stuff with their powers, or replace the pieces that wear out with new ones from the Earthly plane. They seem to just take whatever they want from the human world. I’m not sure if they steal it outright or commission it from human makers and vendors. And honestly I don’t have the mental space to think about it, because on this project, we’re going to be working right down to the wire.
On the morning of the third day, I scan the room—dark luxury, deep gray undercut with gold and champagne. My signature jewel tones appear in trace amounts—the emerald-green bottles behind the bar, green glass vases on a couple of the tables.
“We need something on this wall,” I tell Amanda, pointing to a space by the entrance. The blank wall I’m pointing to lies between two alcoves, which we designed as places for the demons to leave their coats or equipment so they can enjoy a meal.
