Page 2 of A Match Made in Hell
What did you think would happen, Willow?
Where did you think you’d end up?
That’s not the point. I had a plan. I was going to fix everything; become the kind of person who wouldn’t end up inHellof all places. I just needed a little more time.
Time I need to get back.
The demon shifts on its feet, and my gaze snaps up. Its eyes glow when they meet mine, a simmering fire threatening to burn a hole all the way to my soul, but I refuse to look away. Showing fear won’t get me what I want.
Convincing it there’s been a mistake might.
Lying to a demon may not be the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but excuse me if I’m all out of bright ideas straight after dying. Besides, I do have one useful tool at my disposal – Mum always said I should be more like her, and this is my chance to shine. Mimicking her very best customer-complaint voice, I say, ‘I think there’s been an administration error. I’m not supposed to be dead.’
No response.
‘Are you listening to me?’ She’s definitely saidthatbefore. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’
Nothing.
I try one final line, clicking my fingers for added effect. ‘If you can’t help, get me a manager. Someone who knows what they’re doing.’
This is usually the point an underpaid shop assistant escapes to the back while my face burns with embarrassment, but clearly my imitation skills aren’t up to scratch because the demon makes no move to find me any assistance, and somehow my cheeks still end up warm.
I swallow a fresh wave of panic. My ankle is beginning to throb. The back of my head feels like it’s been split open. The longer I’m here, the more solid everything seems. Maybe, right at the beginning, that had been my window for escape, but I was too busy recalling my final moments to take the chance while it was there.
‘Please.’ My voice shakes this time, all traces of Mum gone, leaving me and my fear trembling in her wake. ‘I have to go back.’
Finally, the demon acknowledges I’ve spoken, waving a hand and beckoning me to follow it into the gloom. It hasn’t shown any sign it’s sympathetic to my plight, so I doubt it plans on leading me anywhere I want to go.
But if this demon won’t listen to me, I’ll find one who will.
With fresh resolve, I attempt to stand. My legs aren’t inclined to agree with my brain on this one, wobbling like jelly as I clamber upright. The demon huffs. Rude. I’m trying my best, despite the algae situation. Would shoes be out of the question? I was wearing an excellent pair of sandals when I died.
I echo the demon’s huff, just to let it know that I’m as dissatisfied by this arrangement as it is, before taking several unsteady steps and following it into the depths of Hell.
2
The demon leads me out of the darkness into a cavern lit with sconces that flicker in a phantom wind. The walls are damp, with rivulets of water trickling through cracks in emerald-green stone. Moss sprouts from various orifices. There’s enough light for me to take in the large body of water filling three quarters of the cave – around the size of a football pitch – so dark it’s almost black, like an oil spill.
On the water is what looks like a Viking ship, with an elongated prow that ends with a snake’s head carved into the wood. A figure cloaked in black stands to the side of the sail, a skeletal hand appearing from its sleeve and crooking a finger.
I can’t imagine that thing will listen to what I have to say either.
My feet trip over themselves as they try to go backwards and forwards at once. I don’t want to go to the oarsman. I don’t want to go back to the dark tunnel.
I’m only twenty-one; I don’t want to be dead at all.
I wipe my nose with the back of my hand, wishing they had the decency to offer tissues, as the demon forces me across a line shimmering on the ground. Immediately, the cavern brightens, revealing it’s not just me heading for that boat. Not by a long shot. There’s a cluster of (presumably dead) humans standing on a rocky shore, each with a demon companion of their own.
The demons are dressed in a mixture of loincloths and togas, some made of snakeskin and others of fur, but no matter how much they conceal it’s hard to avoid their less-than-human attributes. Several have the same leathery skin as the one by my side, while others glisten with reptilian scales in a myriad of blues and greens. The one nearest to me sports a tail made of bone and shaggy, shoulder-length hair that reminds me of a lion’s mane. Ginger curls are scattered over his bare chest.
‘Let go of me!’ shouts a man in a ripped suit. ‘You can’t do this. Don’t you know who I am?’
I, for one, have no idea who he is, but I admire the sentiment all the same. At least he’s doing something. The rest of the dead – ranging from a teenager in a scuffed motorcycle jacket to an old woman in a hospital gown – keep their heads down as they board the ship without argument. If they’re trying to avoid attention, it doesn’t work. Demons hiss as they pass, their beady eyes tracking the humans’ movements like they’re lizards sizing up prey. The teenager audibly whimpers as he ascends the gangplank.
At least his presence gives me much-needed evidence in my quest to prove they’re capable of an administration oversight, because this boy doesn’t even look old enough toridea motorbike. How can he have had the time to do something worthy of belonging here? Ripped-suit guy clearly agrees with me, because when I reach the end of the queue, he’s still complaining loudly while trying to tug his jacket from the lion-haired demon’s grasp.
‘Where am I?’ he says. ‘What’s happening?’
