Page 33 of A Match Made in Hell
Sath is unaffected by the heat. His shoulders are rigid as he runs a hand over the gates before bending to examine a slight gap at the bottom, barely big enough to slip a piece of paper through.
The gates rattle again, with enough force I half expect them to blow open. I picture a demon with a ram’s head launching itself at them, its horns leaving indents in the metal, and then more demons join in, a collective effort to break them down.
Sath turns to me, brows furrowed, an expression on his face I’ve never seen before. I think it might be concern. And if the Devil himself is concerned, I guess I should be too.
‘The enchantments binding these gates are weakening,’ Sath says.‘Demons have been . . . slipping through . . . for a while now.’
My insides flip. ‘And what’s the difference between the ones slipping through and the ones that live here?’
Another puff of smoke blasts from the doors, like steam from an engine about to blow.
‘Nothing. All the demons here originated from Tartarus. They were allowed through for disciplinary purposes, to keep the humans under control.’ Storm clouds gather across his face. ‘They’ve never forgotten the way they lived in Tartarus. There’s nothing they’d love more than for these gates to open and for their brethren to spill into these halls.’
The image this conjures ties a knot in my stomach. Swathes of demons in all shapes and sizes pushing through the doors like a violent sea crashing over rock, bearing down on all the humans here, tearing them apart, slicing through flesh – but always, always careful enough to keep them from entering the Void.
I see now why Sath thought it was a mercy to send that man there. I’d take Mum’s voice over that any day.
‘Why are the gates weakening?’
Sath sets off down the corridor, black smoke trailing in his wake like a cloak made of shadow. I hurry after him. I’m not sure where we are exactly, although the walls are the same as the ones near his sitting room – glittering obsidian rock that darkens as he passes, like his presence snuffs out the light. I guess it makes sense the gates to Tartarus would be near where he dwells, so he can keep them in order.
Or not, as the case may be.
‘Do you know how to fix them?’ I continue my interrogation. ‘Canyou fix them?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’ He’s the ruler of Asphodel, it should be his job to fix them. I might be heading for escape, but everyone else here will suffer if those gates open.
He runs a blood-streaked hand through his hair. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’
‘You can hardly blame me.’ I trot alongside him, trying to keep pace with his strides. He seems to think he can escape my questions by outwalking me, but if there’s anything that givesme a tailwind, it’s curiosity. ‘Besides, you didn’t have to show me those gates. But you did. Do you want to know what I think?’
‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’
‘I think you don’t have anyone else to talk to.’
He chokes back a laugh, finally stopping and turning round with a look of incredulity on his face. ‘I have plenty of people I can talk to.’
Now it’s my turn to snort. ‘Really? Who? The dead people who are scared of you? The demons who supposedly serve you, who’d secretly love those gates open? Tell me, Sath, how many friends do you have to confide in about your broken-gates woes? Poor King Sathanas, all alone –’
The whole corridor trembles, making the candles on the walls – they’re inset in skulls, of course, because if there’s one thing this place needs, it’s more skulls – flicker so violently some go out. Sath’s fists clench. ‘You’re wrong.’
‘Then why are you angry?’
His only answer is a new whorl of flame twisting around his arm as he leads me into his rooms. At least, I think he’s leading me. He’s gone, and I’ve followed, which is the same thing. If he wanted rid of me he should have been more specific.
Once we’re inside, I plop on to his sofa with a weary sigh. It’s only when I sink into the comfort of soft velvet cushions that I fully comprehend how exhausted I am. My muscles are tight and aching; my head pounds to the same beat as the lingering throb in my arm. And I’mcold. I fold my arms, shivering.
‘You’ll recover from the blood loss faster than you would at . . .’ I think he’s searching for a word that won’t send me into a spiral. He settles forhome, which is not ideal, given it’s my fault I’m not already there.
As though he’s sensed he’s made an error but doesn’t feel inclined to deal with it, Sath waves a hand in my general direction and tells me towait therebefore removing hisbloodstained jumper, which is an instant distraction from any maudlin thoughts of home. I blink at his bare back as he retreats into the next room, catching a glimpse of what looks like a large bed with silk sheets – I blink harder at the imagesthatconjures – before he slams the door behind him.
Well. Rude.
Without him, the room is vast and empty. Soundless. No traffic outside. No clock ticking in the corner. I wonder if he ever listens to music. I peer around for something that resembles a phone, or a laptop – a record player would do – and then I realise I’m missing an opportunity.
I’m alone. I’m in the Devil’s rooms, and I’malone.
