Page 13 of A Match Made in Hell
Decidedly, I call out, ‘Wait!’
He whirls round. I pretend not to notice the way his hand clenches into a fist.
‘I need to talk to you,’ I say. My eyes aren’t brimming with tears, not yet, but it’s only a matter of time. I pinch my leg when he’s not looking to speed the process along.
My words earn me an eyebrow raise. ‘I see. And I’m at your beck and call, am I? Here to service your every whim?’
It only takes him two paces to stride back down the corridor, stopping a hair’s breadth away from me, gripping my chin between his fingers and tilting my head to face his. His breath ghosts my mouth. ‘Perhaps I need to remind you how this works.’
My heart stutters. I have no doubt he has more strength in those two fingers than I do in my entire body.
But I also think that if he wanted to hurt me, he would have by now. I shove his hand away and poke him in the chest. He gapes at my finger like it’s shocked him. ‘Perhapsyoushould have been clearer,’ I tell him. ‘You didn’t mention where the Void was, so how was it my fault I ended up there? Plus, you haven’t defined what bothering you means, which –’
I’m silenced by Sathanas wrapping his fingers around the one I’m trying to dig through his shirt. I should have removed it when I had the chance.
‘What it means,’ he says through gritted teeth, ‘is not wasting my time when I could be –’
‘What? Sitting on your throne, glowering at people? You’re immortal. You haven’t got time for a chat?’
He drops my finger. ‘You and I have nothing to discuss.’
I flex some feeling back into the digit as I consider how to get him into a more sympathetic mood.
‘Please,’ I say, trying to convey contrition. The word grates on my tongue. I hate asking for anything, and yet all I’ve done since I’ve arrived is beg for help, for answers, for someone to save me. ‘Five minutes, that’s all I ask.’
He stares at me for a long while, gaze roaming every inch of my face, before turning without another word. I assume it’s an invitation to follow, so I can only hope it’s to where I want to go, and not into a demon’s arms.
I’m in luck.
He leads me into a large sitting room with a bar stretched across the far side. There’s a mirror behind it, which, frankly, I could do without. My red hair is tangled beyond belief, and I’ve got mascara smudged down both cheeks. Dad’s eyes stare back at me, a vivid jade green I’ve grown to hate. They’re just a reminder that I hardly ever saw the real thing. As I got older, his business trips became longer and longer, until the day he announced he wasn’t returning at all. It was all my fault.He wouldn’t have left us if you’d turned out how we wanted.I snatch a napkin from the bar, muttering about mascara stains as I wipe my eyes.
Notepaper is scattered across the coffee table alongside an old book. Sathanas gathers it in a bundle, shoving it all in a drawer before gesturing towards the velvet couch – a darker shade of emerald than the walls – and I plop down while he busies himself decanting a bottle of whisky into a glass tumbler. I, apparently, am not going to be offered one.
‘Five minutes,’ Sathanas says, taking a sip. ‘Go on.’
That’s four minutes more than last time. He must be warming to me. ‘You sent me to the Sorter.’
He sighs, and drains the rest of his drink. ‘A mistake.’
He pours himself another. This time, I clear my throat, andhe glances at me, eyebrows raised, before snorting and opening a cabinet to retrieve a second glass. He pours a dram and hands it over without a word.
Perhaps he’s at my beck and call after all. I hide my smile behind the glass.
‘So,’ he says, dropping on to the couch beside me. I’m hit with that sensation of power again, that aura of rippling darkness that clings to him like a shroud. Immediately, my smile falls, and I scoot to the far end. I shouldn’t let one drink fool me into thinking he’s anything other than the Devil. ‘What did she say?’
Revealing I know there’s an exit probably isn’t my best move here. Deflecting, I ask, ‘Why was it a mistake to send me to her?’
‘It seems to have led you to the unfortunate impression we could be friends.’ His arm is draped over the back of the sofa. Another inch and his fingers would be grazing the tip of my shoulder. He’s the epitome of relaxed, which makes me all the more tense. ‘I had hoped conversing with one of the demons would make you realise asking questions is futile, and yet, here you are, asking more.’
‘Aw. And I thought you did it because you’re a nice guy.’
‘I’m many things, but nice isn’t one of them.’ His gaze grows hard, and his hand tightens around his glass. ‘Is there a reason you’re still here?’
‘The Sorter didn’t tell me anything true,’ I complain. ‘She said she looked into my soul and saw a river of blood.’
‘Then it sounds like you’ll fit in nicely.’
‘It’s not fair.’ Shit. Do I sound whiny? I definitely sound whiny. I place my glass on the dark coffee table and fold my hands in my lap in an attempt to appear serious. ‘She’s punishing me for something that may or may not have been in my future.’
