Page 61 of A Match Made in Hell
‘Because you think it makes you weak?’
‘Doesn’t it?’
I don’t answer. In some ways, it does. He’s the King of Hell – Asphodel, whatever – he shouldn’t be crying and regretting every punishment he doles out. But at least he has the guts to admit he hates it rather than carry on pretending to be something he’s not.
‘You’re upset.’ His voice startles me. My hand is on my wrist, tracing the space where my bracelet used to be.
I force myself to let go, dropping my fingers to my side.
‘No,you’reupset.’ My knees click (surely I’m both too young and too dead for this) as I get back on my feet. ‘Let me help you.’
Scanning the room for something I can use to mop him up, I’m struck by how messy it is. When I first arrived, everythingwas pristine, not a cushion out of place and no clutter in sight. Now there’s a stack of board games in the corner, a book of mine on the coffee table, one of my jumpers strewn over a chair. I’d taken it off in a huff during a rousing game of Monopoly (I won). It’s like my presence has infected everything, a virus spreading, slowly seeping into every corner of his life.
I wonder if he minds.
At the bar, I locate a towel along with a small bowl which I fill with water before sitting beside Sath once again. He watches in silence as I soak the towel, the only sound the water sloshing in the bowl and dripping from the rag when I drain the excess. And my heart. My heart which sounds impossibly loud, like a cannonball ricocheting in my chest. I’m convinced Sath must be able to hear it.
This is ridiculous. I am ridiculous. The man is covered in blood and crying, and I’m having a meltdown over the fact I’m about to touch his face.
There’s something . . . intimate about it. The lights are dim in here at the best of times, but Sath’s distress is casting extra shadows round the room – the only thing I can make out clearly is the amber in his eyes and the paleness of his face. He’s a star in a dark sky; the only thing worth seeing.
I don’t remember a time all I saw was Noah. The world was a distracting place. There’s no TV or social media to divert me here, nothing I can turn to stare at instead. I’m hyperaware of every point our bodies touch: his thigh is lined up alongside mine, our knees knocking together, my arm brushing his. Now it’s my hands that are shaking when I place one on his shoulder to steady myself. If he notices, he says nothing.
I am a mess. I am a mess with a stupid crush on someone I should not have a crush on. It would be easier if he was evil. Then I’d spend the tasks hating him, and not grinding against his – oh, God. I have got to stop thinking. Why did I neverlearn to meditate? The ability to empty my brain would be super useful right now.
When I leave, I’m taking up yoga.
‘This’ll be cold,’ I tell him, the towel hovering in mid-air, dripping wet down my hands. The water does nothing to cool any part of me.
‘I can take it.’ His lips twitch, and I’m so relieved to see a sign of the old Sath, ofmySath, that I sigh, audible and shaky. Sath’s gaze drops to my mouth. Oh shit. Now he’s going to think I’m panting all over him. Focus, Willow. For lack of better ideas, I slap the sodden material to his cheek. Sath winces, which makes me feel better. A distracted Sath means he won’t notice a distracted Willow.
My next wipe is a little more gentle though. I smear away blood and tears from his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, stripping away the stains and revealing the man beneath. After a moment’s hesitation, I wipe the towel over his lips, my thumb following the rag’s path and tracing a line of its own as it clears away the remnants of blood specks. His mouth parts beneath my touch.
Well, he won’t notice me panting and gasping and breathing hysterically any more. I’m not sure I’m breathing at all. Looking at his mouth is doing strange things to me, so I peer into his eyes instead, which is a terrible idea, because his stare is burning and intense, locking me in place. It locks my hand in place too, because I can’t bring myself to stop touching him. His breath ghosts over my thumb, and it’s quick and uneven, the same pace as my pulse.
I swallow.
I have to get out of this room. But that seems discourteous, given the circumstances. All I’ve done is clean Sath’s face, and not actually solved the problem that the Devil doesn’t want to be the Devil. I toss the towel on to the coffee table and sit back.Away from him. No thigh touching, not today.
‘Can’t you get out of it?’ I ask. ‘You said you weren’t always the Devil. Can’t you . . . not be? How did you become him in the first place?’
Sath rubs his face. Rude. I did an excellent job. ‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘Can’t, or don’t want to?’
‘Can it be both?’ The question is punctuated by a huff. ‘Let’s just say, if I’d known . . .’ He trails off. The glasses behind the bar clink as the ground beneath us trembles.
‘Was that the gates?’ I grip the arm of the sofa as tightly as panic grips my chest. ‘Sath? Have the demons –’
‘It’s not the demons,’ he says glumly. ‘Not this time. That was me.’
‘Why –’
‘To keep the divide between Asphodel and Tartarus, you need to be –’ he glances at me, and swallows – ‘good. Otherwise, the realms will bleed together. But how can I be good when I’m constantly required to do bad things? How am I supposed to control the gates when I can’t control –’ The shaking gets worse, lights wavering on the walls so violently they threaten to snuff out, my book bouncing to the edge of the coffee table and falling off. And something down the corridor rumbles, roars,clanks, like gears are churning, like the gates are opening –
‘Sath!’ I shake his shoulder. He doesn’t respond; his eyes are amber bright and smoke curls off him. ‘Sath.’ I grip his chin and force him to look at me. ‘Sath.’
This time, he blinks. The shaking stops. I exhale.
