Page 68 of A Match Made in Hell
‘I didn’t . . .’ I bite my lip. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I meant . . . not being in control.’
‘And what if you had been in control?’ He takes the bottle from my hands and does what I’ve been too distracted to do: pour two shots. ‘Would you have danced with me then?’
Are we playing? This seems like he’s accepting the conditions of the game. Truth or shot, Willow? My mouth is dry, but I don’t drink. ‘Yes,’ I whisper.
The air around us stills. He holds my gaze, and swallows. I can’t quite catch my breath.
‘My turn,’ I say. My voice comes out squeaky, and I fake a cough in an attempt to hide it. ‘How did you become the Devil?’
Without hesitation, he takes a shot. My eyes narrow. ‘It’s no fun if you don’t tell me anything.’
‘It’s no fun if you ask questions I can’t answer,’ he shootsback. ‘If you’re not planning to return to Noah, do you still intend to do the final tasks?’
‘My life doesn’t revolve around Noah.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ His smile is taut. ‘Are you as motivated now as you were the day we made the deal?’
‘That’s another question. Wait your turn. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-six.’
Is he really gonna make me do the wholeTwilightthing? ‘And how long have youbeentwenty-six?’
His lips twitch. ‘A while.’
I regret ever dragging him to the cinema.
‘So,’ Sath says, ‘doyou remain committed to the tasks?’
I open my mouth to say yes, and nothing comes out. Fuck. I run my finger round the rim of my shot glass. Of course I’m committed. Ipromised. And I’m close now, close to proving I can do this, that I can be more than the Willow Who Always Screws Up.
Changing my mind would be running away, and I’ve done too much of that already. The back of my throat feels scratchy when I finally answer, ‘There’s nothing I want more.’
‘Why do you do that?’ He nods his head towards my wrist. My fingers have found the bare patch again, tracing the space where my bracelet used to be. ‘Whenever you touch that wrist you always get this far-off look in your eye.’
I’m tempted to drink, but resist. ‘I used to have a bracelet there. It was . . . important to me.’
His face tightens. ‘A gift from Noah?’
‘Noah never got around to giving me the one piece of jewellery he bought for me.’ He’ll probably recycle that ring and give it to Sasha. ‘No, the bracelet was from my mum. She . . . had a lot of expectations for me. High expectations. I was never very good at meeting them. If I came second, I should have come first. If I came first, it wasn’t to a high enough standard. Butthe more I tried, the more exhausted I became, and the more I failed. I could never get it right. And then one day I did.
‘She was desperate for me to get into her old university. When the acceptance letter came, I’d never seen her so happy. She said I’d finally done something worthwhile, and went out and bought me the bracelet. And I loved it. I loved it so much, because it was proof I wasn’t a total failure, that Icouldbe all the things she wanted me to be. But it didn’t last. I messed up. And then I died and it was gone, because Iwasa failure, and I didn’t deserve it after all.’
‘Whatever mistakes you think you’ve made, I wouldn’t say they make you less deserving of anything,’ Sath says, his thumb sweeping over my wrist. Frowning, he adds, ‘Were you wearing it when you died?’
I nod, wiping my face. I can’t believe he’s managed to turn this into a cross-examination of me. This isnotthe fun time I had planned. ‘That’s three questions you’ve had now. My turn. What’s your concession?’
He takes a shot. Maybe I need to warm up to the big stuff, so I choose something innocent next, biding my time, luring him into a trap. ‘What’s your all-time favourite meal?’
The answer is, inexplicably, lasagne. Sath accepts my change in direction and we continue like this all night, watching the bottle of tequila slowly deplete. Sometimes we drink for silly questions – like when Sath refuses to tell me his favourite colour for the sake of taking another shot – although I do establish he has a thing for musicals (Phantom of the Operais his favourite) and that Sathanas isn’t his real name, but one he chose when he became . . . this. When I press him to tell me his real one, he drinks. I can only assume it’s something old-fashioned like . . . Alfred. Or Barnabas. Oh, God, please don’t let him be an Edgar.
On second thought, let him be Edgar. Maybe it would stop me thinking about how his smile is a little lopsided, and how muchhis hair has grown out since we first met. It falls in dark waves over his eyes, constantly tempting me to touch it. I settle for wrapping my hands around the bottle instead, and taking a sip. Sath asks me another question, but I barely hear it, not over the roaring in my head. Danger alarms are flashing. I pretend I can’t see them.
At some point, his arm ends up back over the top of the booth. And then my shoulders. And then I’m tucked against his side, and it doesn’t feel like either one of us is dead, rather that this is the first time we’ve come alive. Sath is grinning. I don’t even know why. I just know everything is warm and fuzzy, and my skin is tingling because his hand is rubbing the top of my arm. He asks me some other ridiculous question and I laugh so hard tequila squirts out my nose. It must be frighteningly unsightly, and I should be embarrassed – Noah would be rolling his eyes and huffing my name right about now – but Sath hands me a tissue with a shake of his head. I guess he’s used to me behaving like an idiot.
‘Hm.’ I’m running out of things to ask. I should return to my original attempt at interrogation now his guard is dropped, but it’s nice to pretend Asphodel doesn’t exist. I’m on the surface, feeling pleasantly buzzed, pressed against my not-unattractive friend in a very unattractive establishment. The previous occupants of this booth left a large portion of their drinks smeared on the surface, and Sath winces as his jumper unsticks from the table like Velcro as he takes the bottle from me.
I sense this is some kind of measure to get me to slow down, although he’s still smiling when he wraps his mouth around the open bottle to take a swig. I try not to think about the fact my lips had been there, a few moments ago. I am not successful. I watch the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, which is weirdly mesmerising, and –
