Page 41 of A Match Made in Hell
‘Come on.’ His hand finds my elbow. ‘I’m only here because I was searching for you.’
‘You were?’ I have a horrible feeling I sound far too happy about that.
‘Yes.’ Sath, however, does not sound happy. His face is grim when he says, ‘It’s time for your next task.’
15
One of these days, it would be nice to get some advance warning about a task. Sath is gracious enough to let me change first, telling me the task of sloth is next and that I shouldwear something warm, which isn’t much of a clue as to what it might entail. After examining the faint scratches on my chin and chest – they’re sore, although Aric didn’t draw blood – I settle for a thick black jumper.
Sath leads me to, of all places, the Sorter’s morgue.
‘My task’s in here?’ I witnessed enough dead bodies on my first day to satisfy a lifetime’s curiosity. ‘Will the Sorter be there?’
She may have appeared less violent than some of the other demons I’ve come across, but she’s still ademon, and therefore, by definition, dangerous.
‘Don’t worry about her,’ Sath says, gesturing for me to enter first. ‘Unlike Aric, her bark is worse than her bite.’
This doesn’t fill me with confidence. The morgue is colder than I remember, and there’s a strong smell of bleach that burns the insides of my nostrils. The slabs are empty. Something in my gut clenches; what if one of those slabs is forme? What if I’m going to be forced to lie there, while the Sorter cuts me open and shows Sath all my sins, all my deepest, darkest thoughts, what if –
Sath’s hand wraps around my elbow. ‘Are you okay? You’re breathing heavily.’
‘Fine.’ I shudder. ‘What am I doing, exactly?’
‘She’ll explain.’ Sath jerks his head down the row of slabs. The squeak of her trolley indicates she’s close by. ‘I’ll be back later.’
‘You’releaving?’ The last thing I want is to be left alone with a bunch of corpses and a demon with a scalpel collection.
‘I’ll return when the time’s right.’ He bends to murmur in my ear, ‘Don’t worry. It’s only me who gets to tempt you.’
I go to jab him in the stomach, but he dodges my elbow with ease. Bastard. He winks before sauntering from the room, hands in his pockets. I resist the urge to throw something at the door, if only because I know he has Aric to deal with.
My pulse kicks up a notch. What if this supposed leverage isn’t enough?
‘Are you going to stand there all day?’ the Sorter’s voice calls from down the room. ‘There’s work to be done.’
Her trolley squeaks closer. Hopefully my work will involve oiling those wheels, because if I have to listen to them much longer my ears will bleed. She’s finally visible, her white hair bobbing behind her cart, like the moon peeking over the top of a mountain.
Every inch of me is on high alert. She stood right by Aric’s side the night that man in Dionysus died, and she acted like she enjoyed every second. She’s probably on team open gates. Also, I’ve just stabbed her friend with a pool cue. I suspect this will not endear me to her if she finds out.
‘What work, exactly?’ I fold my arms. I hope I don’t have to cut anyone up – the one time I tried to dice a raw chicken breast there was a lot of squealing involved. Shouldn’t sloth be relaxing? I suppose a nap is out of the question.
‘Sorting.’ She clicks her fingers, and the slabs are immediately full of naked bodies, their modesty preserved by thin papertowels. My heart sinks. ‘Clipboards are on the end of the bed. Read ’em, make a decision. Lever goes up for Elysium, to the right for Asphodel, and down for Tartarus. Get to the end of the row, and you’re done.’
Sounds easy, apart from I can’t see where said row ends. I could be here all night. I could be hereforever.
I stare at the nearest clipboard. More to the point, why shouldIdecide someone’s afterlife? I couldn’t get my own life right. I shouldn’t have that kind of power over judging someone else’s. My fingers hover near the paper, afraid to touch it.
The Sorter clucks her tongue. ‘Don’t dally; there’s more where this lot came from.’ She grabs the clipboard I’m dithering over and touches the body until the page is full of words. ‘Look. No crimes, but a predisposition for selfish behaviour. Ooh, and they got their sibling cut out of their parents’ will. Naughty, naughty.’
‘Maybe the sibling deserved it.’
‘Maybe.’ She shrugs and tilts the lever to the right. ‘Anyway. Asphodel it is.’ The slab tilts, and the body is thrown down the chute.
‘That’s it? That’s all he gets? And what about me? You said you saw –’
‘A river of blood,’ she finishes my sentence. ‘I remember. I stand by it. It was on your chart.’
‘Well, how do you know these charts aren’t fiction?’
