Page 7 of A Match Made in Hell
‘Third door on the right.’ He winks. ‘Just for having the nerve to ask.’
4
He vacates the chamber without another word.
Despite the empty space around me, I may as well be stuffed inside a box. My legs won’t work. For all I know the third door on the right leads to a very specific torture chamber for those who ask questions. I’ll be strapped to a wooden board and my tongue ripped out while a demon shrieks that this is what happens to those who cause trouble.
I used to think having an overactive imagination was a good thing. It allowed me to daydream about all the places I’d never get to see. Now I think that imagination might be the cause of every nightmare I’ve ever had or will have.
But imagining the worst isn’t going to help me find a way home, away from the threat of violent demons or ending up in a Void where I’ll undoubtedly be forced to relive a night I’ve tried very hard to forget.
Finally, I enter the gold-painted corridor, squinting as I adjust to the new-found light. Vines climb the walls. They don’t have roots, they’re justthere, and the flowers twining around the stems glow brighter than any bulb.
If I pretend hard enough, I could imagine this is one long hotel lobby. There’ll be a smiling receptionist waiting for me at the other end, ready to hand over a key to my deluxe suite complete with infinity pool. Perhaps this is what the Devil meantby pleasantries.
Is that what I am?Sathanas’s words ring in my ears.
Maybe I’m wrong. Perhaps I’m not where I thought and he isn’t the Devil after all. But then there’s the demons, the boat, the man in the river . . .
I don’t get it. I don’t get any of it.
The other boat passengers linger in the hall, taking in their surroundings, pointing at the walls like they’re in a gallery, but there’s only one thing I’m interested in.
I pass one door. A second.
I reach the third.
There’s nothing about it to distinguish it from all the others. Mahogany wood. Brass knob. I don’t knock. Twisting the handle, I let it swing fully open and step inside. And freeze.
Bodies.
The room is filled with them, all lying on metal slabs that line the far wall, slab after slab, body after body, stretching down the length of the room with no visible end.
I gag. Clasp a hand to my mouth. The sight of all that bare, dead flesh has me swallowing bile, shaking from head to toe as I risk another step inside, not wanting to go any further but equally unwilling to give up on finding answers.
Up ahead, something squeaks.
My pulse skyrockets. In the distance, a cart wielding another corpse comes into view, the wheels whining loudly as they roll over the terrazzo floor. The demon pushing it is small, under five foot, with cropped white hair. Although her features are feminine, she’s decidedly not human; her ears are pointed, and there’s a tail swishing behind legs that end in cloven hooves.
Bright red eyes lock on mine.
‘Are you the Sorter?’
‘Might be,’ she says. ‘Depends who’s asking.’
She lifts the body with one arm, like it weighs no more thana feather – which is baffling when her arms are like twigs – and shoves it on to a slab.
‘I’m asking,’ I say. ‘Sathanas, I mean, King Sathanas –’ What is the etiquette here? ‘Anyway, he said . . .’
‘Sath spoke to you?’ She wrinkles her nose. Huh. Sath. Sounds like there’s no etiquette required at all. Or maybe they’re friends and I need to be careful what I say next in case it’s deemed to becomplaining, and she reports back to him. Or decides to punish me herself. The way she handled that body tells me everything I need to know: like Sathanas, with his human form and human expressions, she is something more under the surface.
‘Briefly,’ I answer. ‘He said you . . . make decisions. About who . . .’
‘Ends up here?’ She folds her arms. ‘And let me guess, you’re not happy with your lot. Newsflash, darling, no one ever is.’
The Sorter moves to go past me, dismissing me like I’m nothing. To her, I probably am. Just another number among thousands whose life – or death, I suppose – she’s ruined.
I block her path. ‘I have to go back.’
