Page 34 of A Match Made in Hell
There is no amount of exhaustion my nosiness cannot cure. I haul myself to my feet and head towards a set of cabinets. There could be a clue here that’ll help me pass the next task, or tell me what the concession he’s getting at the end of this will be.
Perhaps I’ll find Devil-related things, torture items like whips and chains. Except he wouldn’t use those for torture, instead he’d – my gaze slides to the closed bedroom door and heat floods my cheeks. Focus, Willow. Any scenario in which Sath is wielding a whip is not one I wish to be a part of. Obviously.
I yank a cabinet open to distract myself, but when I bend to inspect the goodies inside I find . . . nothing. It’s empty.
What the fuck. How can you be immortal and not own anystuff?
I open the next one. It’s empty too. Even the book he was reading the day I arrived has gone. I can’t believe –
‘What are you doing?’
I lift my head out from inside a cupboard, aiming for an air of innocence. He’s changed into a pair of sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain black T-shirt. The difference in appearance is alarming. In that garb, he doesn’t look like the ruler of Asphodel, or someone with the power to inflict all kindsof misery on troublemakers. He looks like . . . a person. One who I’m starting to find kind of interesting.
On a professional level.
And then he goes and hands me a hoodie. I gape at the garment being waved in my face. ‘Why are you giving me your clothes?’
He flicks a glance at my threadbare T-shirt. ‘You were shivering.’
‘Oh.’ I didn’t expect him to pay me that much attention. I take it from him, and I’m briefly enveloped in darkness along with the scent of peppermint and rain, before emerging into the light feeling distinctly warmer. It’s a pity I can’t appreciate how gorgeously soft it is, because Sath is smirking at me. I scowl, fully ready to tell him I wouldn’t need his hoodie if I wasn’t suffering from the aftershocks of being attacked by the demons he’s lost control of, but all words disappear from my vocabulary when Sath reaches out and strokes the top of my head.
‘Static,’ he says by way of explanation, although that doesn’t excuse the way his fingers linger, tangling themselves in strands of red before finally dropping to his side.
This hoodie is too thick. I am suddenly far, far too hot in it.
He gestures at the open cupboards. ‘Why are you going through my things?’
‘What things?’ I ask. His lack of possessions is truly baffling. ‘It was too quiet when you left. I was trying to find . . . Do you have any music?’
I omit my whips-and-chains theory for both our sakes. Or maybe just mine. Either way, I must be a better liar than I thought, because Sath clicks his fingers and classical music begins to play. The high-pitched whine of violins swells, filling the room with a plaintive melody. I stare around in amazement. I can’t tell where the sound’s coming from. There are no speakers that I can see.
‘How does it work?’ I ask. ‘Your magic?’
Sath shrugs. ‘It just does.’
‘It just does,’ I echo. ‘That’s your answer?’
‘The underworld has been here since the dawn of time, and the magic came with it.’ Sath heads to the bar and pours two drinks. ‘It’s no easier to comprehend than anything else in existence. But I didn’t bring you here to talk about how magic works.’
‘Then what did you bring me here for?’
‘You wanted to know about the gates.’ He gestures to the stool at his side. ‘Let me enlighten you.’
I settle next to him. His arm brushes mine as he slides a bottle towards me. It’s unlabelled, and the liquid inside is a bright acid green, much like the bat venom Sath pulled from my wound. I sniff it. Apples.
This doesn’t rule out bat venom. I was in too much of a panic to sniff them at the time. I’d like to hope he didn’t save me from those bats only to make me drink their insides though, so I take a tentative sip, and the taste of sour apple, melon and something else citrusy floods my mouth. It burns my throat on the way down.
Whatever it is, I like it. I take another sip, waiting for Sath to speak.
‘Only Asphodel’s ruler should be able to open or close the gates,’ Sath tells me. ‘But as you can see, my control over them is fading.’
‘Why?’
He stares at his glass, his thumb running concentric circles around the rim, before lifting it to his mouth and draining the contents in one. ‘The why isn’t what’s important.’
Of course it isn’t. That would be too much like giving me a real answer.
‘If the gates can’t be kept shut . . . nobody deserves that kindof carnage,’ he says. ‘It would be unimaginable. The demons, of course, would love nothing more. I deal out the fastest punishments I can to appease them. If I refused to act, the demons would revolt, and the only way to kill them all would be to allow my powers to overwhelm me. That loss of control would result in the gates opening anyway. I was slower than I should have been against those bats today because of it.’
