Page 13 of A Match Made in Hell

Trouble has a habit of finding me whether I go looking for it or not.

The first week, I keep to my room, scratching off the days on my wardrobe.

It’s safer that way. I stare at the four walls with nothing better to do than dwell on all the things I miss about home.

The days where Noah’s in a good mood and he brings me pastries in the morning.

Where we spend hours lying in the park, hands entwined, and evenings in crowded bars filled with laughter – Sasha’s loudest of all.

On day eight, I risk going to Dionysus again.

Being driven mad by boredom and longing is just as dangerous as entering that dance floor.

If a distraction’s what I need to get through this, I don’t see how that can be a crime.

Hands caress my waist, my hips – at one point I’m pretty sure a cold pair of lips skim my neck.

At first, I cringe away. Noah and his ring are waiting for me back home.

I hope he’s missing me.

I hope he’s missing me so much that, when I get home, the relief of seeing me is enough for him to never want to lose me again, and all our days turn into good days.

But that only makes me realise that missing me is not the same as waiting for me.

He thinks I’m dead and gone for good. What if, by the time I return, he’s moved on?

The idea of arriving on his doorstep to find I’ve been replaced has me letting the next pair of hands stay where they are.

Demon, human, I don’t care. Something about the music makes me too delirious to worry who they belong to.

This repeats, night after night after night, time stretching in immeasurable amounts, like the sun has risen and set above us and we’re still going in a blur of motion.

I never see the same group of humans twice – apart from one.

Harper. She always smiles and waves me over, and I always respond with a shake of my head, ignoring the yearning in my belly that wants to tug me towards her.

Friendships in the afterlife have the potential to be permanent – for everyone but me.

Time moves so strangely in Dionysus that when I do stumble back to my room, it’s hard to know whether I should be adding one scratch or two to my makeshift calendar.

I get confirmation I’ve miscounted when I open my door on what should have been day twenty-five to find Sath waiting for me, leaning against the opposite wall.

He’s dressed more casually than usual; instead of a shirt he wears a cream jumper that’s softened with age, paired with dark jeans and canvas shoes.

I guess he’s taking Not Being Devily seriously.

‘Good morning,’ he says.

‘It’s been a month already?’

‘It has.’ He glances around, checking for witnesses before holding out a hand. ‘Ready?’

As if he needs to ask. Not caring what I might be in for, I grab his outstretched hand. Immediately, his grip tightens, and he tugs me towards him with such force I slam into his chest. I let out a startled gasp, trying to push him away. ‘What are you –’

He flashes a wicked smile. ‘Hold on tight.’

Everything goes black, similar to when he took me into my memory, only this time we’re spinning, my feet lifting from the ground while air rushes past my ears, and we drop into a tunnel with a pop.

I stumble from the force of the landing, careering straight into a wall and scraping my palms on rough stone.

‘You could’ve warned me.’ I whirl on him. ‘I get carsick.’

‘Good job we weren’t in a car,’ Sath says lazily. He looks immaculate, not a hair out of place or wrinkle on his clothing to be seen. ‘Come on. There’s still a way to go; I can’t portal us directly into where we’re going.’

We’re in a darker, danker part of Asphodel than I’ve discovered on my explorations so far.

As I follow him, I get the sense we’re further underground than ever.

Water drips from the ceiling, plopping a steady beat into an ever-growing puddle beneath my feet, and the stench of damp and mould lingers in the air.

Torches are staked into the ground, but they’re dim and don’t give off any heat. I shiver, wishing Sath had thought to tell me he’d chosen a jumper for good reason. My plain white tee is not up to the task of keeping me warm.

‘Where are we?’

He doesn’t answer until we reach the end of the tunnel. A rounded door stained red with rust is inset into the wall, a set of thick bolts sealing it shut. ‘The Vaults of Asphodel,’ he finally replies.

‘Right.’ My throat is dry. ‘And what’s inside?’

‘Centuries worth of treasure. Some items the demons have pillaged, some the Sorter stole from dead bodies.’

Instinctively, my hand goes to my wrist. Sath’s gaze follows the movement, locking on my fingers as they skim the empty space where my bracelet used to be. Anger flares at the thought the Sorter might have taken it from me while I was lying there all . . . I shudder.

‘Are you all right?’ he asks.

‘Fine.’ I crack my neck. I can’t think about my bracelet right now. The task. Focus on the task. ‘What do I have to do?’

Sath merely smirks, and blows the door off its hinges.

I gasp, stumbling as the blast buffets me backwards. The door falls at a ninety-degree angle, first with a groan and then with an almighty thud as it crashes to the ground. The whole cave reverberates with the impact. I gape at him. ‘You couldn’t have used a key? What if someone heard?’

‘Demons don’t come down here any more, and I’ve made sure the Sorter’s occupied.’ Sath shrugs. ‘The door’s easily repaired.’

I’m not convinced the theatrics were necessary, although I’m intrigued by how he did it.

First fire, then portals, then door ripping.

With his mind. My stomach knots, but it’s not fear.

It’s . . . want. Life would be easy if I had that kind of power.

Nobody would judge me or tell me what I can or can’t do, too blinded by my abilities to notice all the shortcomings hidden behind the smokescreen.

The interior of the vault hums, and there’s a sense of magic in the air, so powerful it feels like I’m walking into a room with excess gravity, the pressure slamming into me, making me dizzy.

The ground is streaked with sand as golden as the bullion stacked from floor to ceiling.

Glass cabinets hold a collection of sparkling diamond necklaces, jewelled rings, bracelets and earrings.

My focus is on the tiara.

Silver, studded with rubies, it sits on a plump purple cushion in the middle of the vault.

My mouth salivates. How powerful would I feel if I had that ?

For a fleeting second, I picture myself wearing it on the snake throne Sath occupied the day I arrived.

The image sends a thrill through me I can’t explain, but I push it aside.

I don’t want to sit on a random throne in Asphodel. I want to go home.

With that tiara. The tiara is important.

Why do you never bring me anything, Willow? That’s Mum’s voice. The prize money would have been yours if you’d tried harder .

I swallow. I’d come second in a science competition and she’d been furious when I’d returned empty-handed.

Never mind the bags under my eyes because I’d been working on my project until midnight for weeks, or that the winner had the advantage of being the son of an actual physicist. All I heard at dinner was that I’d failed, and failure wasn’t an option, not in this household.

I’d shrunk into my seat as the mantra played on repeat, my clenched fists shaking and teeth biting my tongue to stop myself rising to my own defence, knowing my defences weren’t defences at all, but excuses. If I’d tried harder, I could have won.

Dad left soon after that.

Now look what you’ve done .

The next award I lost out on, I reached into the winner’s bag when they weren’t looking and fished out the trophy along with the envelope of prize money.

You’d think I’d have brought home this tiara, the way she reacted, calling her friends, blowing up Dad’s phone telling him there was finally something worth coming home for.

He never responded. Then I got found out, and the screaming started anew.

Well, you can make it up to me now, can’t you? It’s still her voice, but it’s been twisted somehow, turning deeper and more guttural, like something demonic has corrupted the sound.

Take the crown. Bring it home. You’ll be sensational.

I would be. I picture it now. Mum always said working hard was meaningless if you had nothing to show for it, nothing tangible to prove your success, but nobody would question how hard I worked if I returned home drowning in gems. They’d take one look at me and assume I was capable of anything. I’d be Willow the Failure no more.

The thought has me salivating harder.

I’d surpass Mum, even. That tiara is better than all her possessions combined. I could plant it pride of place in her collection of things, outshining every crystal ornament until it succumbed to dust like the rest of them.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Sath murmurs.

It is. The force of magic in the air intensifies and I can’t move away, not from him, nor the tiara.

It’s mesmerising, the way it glitters. It looks bigger, now.

Heavier. The gems are like fat teardrops.

My arm outstretches. I want to touch it.

Hold it. Place it on my head. Maybe I’ll take some coins too, and build my own throne of gold.

Nobody can judge me if I own everything .

Sath’s hand is on my back, nudging me forward, urging me on, on, on.

I don’t need his assistance. This is exactly where I want to be. Here, with my shinys. I sway a little. Then swallow. I’m definitely drooling.

‘It would be lovely on you, don’t you think?’ His voice is like a lullaby.

He’s right. It would.

Sath trails a finger down my arm. ‘Why don’t you put it on?’ His finger stops on my wrist, right over my fluttering pulse point, and I frown.