Page 10 of A Match Made in Hell

Between my palms, the railing rattles. I jerk back, just in time for one of the black objects to swoosh past, not clinging to the building at all, but flying close by in a rush of putrid hot air that blasts my face and blows back my hair, like it’s powered by nothing but magic and smoke.

I’m shaking when I look over the railing again.

It’s stopped a few levels below, and several figures jump out on to the balcony, their chatter indecipherable, and then the lift takes flight again, dropping lower.

The figures vanish somewhere within before I’ve worked up the nerve to shout for assistance.

I look around. Maybe I need to call one of these things to take me to one of the rooms Sathanas mentioned.

It would be nice if someone left a set of instructions or, better yet, a map.

They could at least put a sign on the wall: Dismemberment Level Four , Demon-Viewing Platform Level Ninety-Nine , A Good Night’s Sleep on Three .

Maybe I’ll suggest it to Sathanas. I’m sure there’s nothing he’d love more than decoration advice.

For lack of better ideas, I start walking.

If I can’t go up or down, maybe I need to try and go in .

A tall iron door sits not too far along the cliff, but before I have a chance to touch the handle it’s yanked open from the other side and a girl flies out, nearly barrelling into me.

Her bleached-blonde hair is tied into space buns, the ends of which are dyed the same bubblegum pink as her lipstick and fluffy jumper. She studies me, then beams.

‘Oh.’ She bounces on her feet. ‘You must be new.’

I glance at my ruined dress. ‘What gave me away?’

‘Don’t worry, you’ll find new clothes in your room. Try down there.’ She jerks her head towards the dark tunnel she’s just come from. ‘One will open for you, when it’s ready.’

‘Right.’ I blink. It makes as much sense as everything else in this place.

‘I’m Harper, by the way,’ she adds. ‘I’ve been here for a while.’ She says it like it’s something to be proud of.

‘Willow.’

She radiates so much energy I feel like a planet being dragged into a sun’s orbit, so I immediately take a step back to lessen her gravitational pull. Making friends is pointless when I plan to get out as soon as possible.

And besides, she’s wearing too much pink. It clashes with my hair.

‘Once you’re settled, you should join us in Dionysus,’ she goes on. ‘It’s like a . . . volcano turned nightclub. Parties every night. Everybody goes.’

Her enthusiasm yanks on my stomach. I want to.

I want to so badly. To escape, to pretend none of this is happening.

But agreeing to party with a bunch of dead people would definitely be on Mum’s list of Things Willow Shouldn’t Do, and my desperate desire to escape was what got me in this mess to start with. ‘Maybe another time.’

‘Of course.’ Her smile wavers, turning sad, a little sympathetic. She wouldn’t feel that way if she knew what happened to Sasha. I’m doing her a favour. A few days with me and I’d probably send her to the Void by accident. ‘But being dead doesn’t mean you have to stop living.’

Being here must have addled her mind. That is the definition of being dead.

‘Right. Well.’ I step towards the threshold of a nearby tunnel. ‘I should go. Thanks for pointing me the right way.’

‘If you change your mind, come back to this ledge and think about visiting floor minus-two-nine-nine. A lift will appear.’

I nod, then head inside so a room can decide it likes me, or whatever.

Tunnels have been carved through the cliff, branching off in various directions, but I keep straight.

The deeper I go the more the black walls glisten with damp.

Flamed sconces light the way, but they’re not enough to mask the chill in the air.

The same vines growing near the entrance chamber climb the walls here too, but the further I descend into the cliff the more they shrivel and die, leaves turning brown and rotten, their remains breaking from their stems and carpeting the floor.

Doors are constantly opening, closing, slamming, as other dead go in and out of their rooms. Most travel in packs. A few groups give me friendly glances when they pass, clearly marking me as a newbie, but I avert my eyes. I don’t want to know them.

I hate this. I hate the way they’re carrying on like this is normal, like they’re with their friends on some awful, hellish holiday.

How can they accept they’re dead like this?

I’m about to kick down the nearest door to get away from them, to lock myself away until it’s time for my next task, when one clicks open of its own accord.

A tug in my belly tells me this one is mine.

I approach it slowly, imagining this is how an inmate must feel before entering their cell for the first time.

The room is dark when I step inside. I slide my hand along the wall out of habit, searching for a light switch, if such a thing exists here.

I reach around blindly, willing there to be light –

A bulb illuminates on the ceiling. I jolt in surprise, staring around, but there’s no switch.

The room is little more than a windowless cave with sparse furnishings; there’s a single bed with a brown quilt in one corner and a wardrobe in the other, with barely sixty centimetres between them.

It’s almost as terrible as the room I had in the first year of university, except this one, at least, doesn’t have an ominous wet patch on the ceiling.

I sink on to the bed. The mattress dips under my weight. Great. A saggy mattress is exactly what I need to help me sleep in this . . . I was about to call it a hellhole, but it doesn’t have the same ring to it when I’m not exaggerating.

The wardrobe is ajar, devoid of the clothing Harper promised, and I wonder . . . If I got that light to turn on by itself, what else can I do? I focus all my energy on the wardrobe and picture soft, comfy pyjamas.

A pair appears. I let out a delighted squeak and grab them.

Sunshine yellow, they’re almost enough to put me in a good mood, especially if it means peeling this dress off.

I change quickly, picturing bed sheets to match, and when I turn round the brown quilt has changed into a duvet with flowers embroidered on the cover.

It’s the duvet from my childhood home. Mum chose it.

A fist clenches around my heart, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

When I open them, the walls are covered in travel posters – beaches, glaciers, mountain ranges.

Pictures I collected and kept in a box under my bed.

Wedged in between the wardrobe and the wall is a violin.

Mum had been a prodigy back in her day. I’d practised until my fingers were sore and blistered, but I’d never been good enough – my music teacher once described me as enthusiastic but screechy – and I spent most lessons squashing the urge to throw it on the floor in a fit of frustration.

I hate that thing, but my vision blurs anyway, because it’s a piece of home, a place I might never see again.

Just in case, I imagine a door. A key. A tunnel. Anything . No magical exit appears, which is disappointing, but unsurprising. Sighing, I climb under the covers, and will the light off.

The room goes black.

Alone, with only the sound of my thoughts rattling round my head, I bite my lip to stop myself from crying. I’m dead . I’m dead, and the only way out is to put my trust in the Devil, aka the one person I can’t trust at all.

When my eyes finally drift shut, my vision floods red. Blood splatters on a rock. A hand lies broken and twitching.

The image is washed away by a river of crimson. It flows, fast and rushing, through a dark tunnel, like a burst pipe in a rainstorm.

Within the flow of water bobs a skull, the lights in its eyes snuffed out.