Page 44 of A Match Made in Hell
‘You don’t want to sort him, do you?’ Sath continues. ‘You know where he needs to go. What they’ll do to him there.’ There’s a strain in his voice now. This wasn’t part of the plan.
He’s scared I’ll fail.
People always are.
I tug the lever down and watch the body sink into black flames.
‘I’ll sort whoever I have to,’ I say, resolute. ‘I am not failing his task.’
Why not? You’ve failed everything else.
‘Give up now.’ He cuts across my path before I can take the next board. ‘Where there’s one, there’s another. And another. Until the end of time. There is no end of the row.’
My shoulders sag. ‘There has to be. You’re lying. I won’t quit.’ My voice is scratchy. ‘I won’t. Not this time.’
I push him aside. Push the next lever. Tears stream down my face. I push the next.There is no end of the row.You can’t do this. You’re not good enough. I keep going. And going. And going. Sath needles me the whole time.
‘You can try all you want; it won’t work,’ he says, barely more than a whisper, like this is as draining for him as it is for me. ‘It’ll never be enough. I’ll never –’
I ram another lever, take a step forward, and hit a wall.
I blink at it. It’s metal, just like the slabs, stretching from floor to ceiling. A dead end.
An end.
My face erupts into a smile. This is the nicest, prettiest wallI’ve ever seen. If I thought it’d respond, I’d wrap my arms around it and give it a hug, but I settle for patting it instead, my touch almost reverent, like I’m caressing a long-sought-after relic. ‘Is this . . .’
‘Congratulations.’ Sath’s smile doesn’t meet his eyes. ‘You passed sloth.’
I sag against the wall, aka my new best friend. ‘I did it.’
I actually did it. I didn’t quit, and Ididit. In this moment, I feel invincible, like I could jump off any cliff and survive because I’m that strong.
Smoke plumes from Sath’s jacket, tiny wisps indicating a displeasure he can’t hide. What’s he got to be upset about? I’m a champion. A victor. There is no task I can’t win.
He holds out a hand. ‘Let’s go.’
I allow him to portal us out of the room so I don’t have to retrace my many, many steps. It also means we don’t have to say goodbye to the Sorter, wherever she may be. Probably lazing on a hammock somewhere and laughing while I do her job.
Outside the morgue, we lean against opposite walls of the corridor. Some of the vines growing here have died since I last saw them, leaves curling and shrivelling around Sath’s head. Red glows through a small crack behind them.
Sath assesses me. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Peachy,’ I lie.
The past few – hours? Days? – are a blur of repetition, of one corpse after the other until they no longer resemble people at all. Despite that, the conversation I had with the Sorter remains vivid.
I can’t help staring at Sath’s chest, wondering if there’s anything inside at all. Can I ask?ShouldI ask? Sath’s always cagey whenever I question what, exactly, he is, and I have plenty of other questions he might be more willing to answer. Starting with, ‘Is Aric . . .’
‘Dealt with.’ It’s not a snap, but almost. Guess I’m not as forgiven as I thought.
‘Thanks.’ I scuff my feet on the floor. ‘I’m sorry if I . . . caused you a problem.’
‘Caused me a –’ Sath huffs a mocking laugh, shaking his head. A moment later, he’s stone-cold sober. ‘Did you find this task easy?’
‘Not especially.’
‘Well, they’re only going to get worse,’ he says. ‘Everyone faces them in a different order, depending on their particular vice, and after your performance with Aric I don’t know if you can control yours.’
