Page 2 of A Match Made in Hell

The demon leads me out of the darkness into a cavern lit with sconces that flicker in a phantom wind.

The walls are damp, with rivulets of water trickling through cracks in emerald-green stone.

Moss sprouts from various orifices. There’s enough light for me to take in the large body of water filling three quarters of the cave – around the size of a football pitch – so dark it’s almost black, like an oil spill.

On the water is what looks like a Viking ship, with an elongated prow that ends with a snake’s head carved into the wood. A figure cloaked in black stands to the side of the sail, a skeletal hand appearing from its sleeve and crooking a finger.

I can’t imagine that thing will listen to what I have to say either.

My feet trip over themselves as they try to go backwards and forwards at once. I don’t want to go to the oarsman. I don’t want to go back to the dark tunnel.

I’m only twenty-one; I don’t want to be dead at all.

I wipe my nose with the back of my hand, wishing they had the decency to offer tissues, as the demon forces me across a line shimmering on the ground.

Immediately, the cavern brightens, revealing it’s not just me heading for that boat.

Not by a long shot. There’s a cluster of (presumably dead) humans standing on a rocky shore, each with a demon companion of their own.

The demons are dressed in a mixture of loincloths and togas, some made of snakeskin and others of fur, but no matter how much they conceal it’s hard to avoid their less-than-human attributes.

Several have the same leathery skin as the one by my side, while others glisten with reptilian scales in a myriad of blues and greens.

The one nearest to me sports a tail made of bone and shaggy, shoulder-length hair that reminds me of a lion’s mane.

Ginger curls are scattered over his bare chest.

‘Let go of me!’ shouts a man in a ripped suit. ‘You can’t do this. Don’t you know who I am?’

I, for one, have no idea who he is, but I admire the sentiment all the same.

At least he’s doing something. The rest of the dead – ranging from a teenager in a scuffed motorcycle jacket to an old woman in a hospital gown – keep their heads down as they board the ship without argument.

If they’re trying to avoid attention, it doesn’t work.

Demons hiss as they pass, their beady eyes tracking the humans’ movements like they’re lizards sizing up prey.

The teenager audibly whimpers as he ascends the gangplank.

At least his presence gives me much-needed evidence in my quest to prove they’re capable of an administration oversight, because this boy doesn’t even look old enough to ride a motorbike.

How can he have had the time to do something worthy of belonging here?

Ripped-suit guy clearly agrees with me, because when I reach the end of the queue, he’s still complaining loudly while trying to tug his jacket from the lion-haired demon’s grasp.

‘Where am I?’ he says. ‘What’s happening?’

The fact he’s wrestling with a demon seems like answer enough, but he looks around anyway, like he won’t believe it’s real until someone produces a ‘Welcome to Hell’ sign and shoves it in his face.

Then his sleeve tears off in the demon’s hand.

He freezes. The demon freezes. I freeze. If he was going to make a break for it, now would be his chance. My breath catches as I wait to see what happens – if he succeeds, I can follow in his footsteps.

The demon turns a fraction, its upper lip curling to reveal pointed teeth stained the same shade of copper as his hair. And still the man doesn’t move.

‘Run,’ I hiss.

He does. He gets all of a metre before the demon springs; silver flashes as claws burst from its knuckles, and then those claws are sinking into the man’s shoulders. He screams, trying to shake it off. The demon digs in with a snarl.

Fuck. Okay. In retrospect, encouraging him to run may have been another not-so-smart idea. My belly lurches as I watch them tussle, whereas the spectating demons grin like they’ve been gifted a free subscription to their favourite sports channel.

The demon tosses the man in the water.

He doesn’t make a splash. He just gets sucked under. The demons point and jeer as bubbles pop on the surface, the only sign something’s happened at all. I stare at the fluid, waiting for him to reappear, gasping for air he doesn’t need.

But the man doesn’t emerge.

I don’t know what that means for him. If breathing isn’t a necessity, can you still drown?

Is it possible to be more dead than dead?

All I know is I’d much prefer to be dead and walking than sink into those depths forever.

I look away from the water, ignoring the guilty churning in my gut – the man was in trouble before I urged him to run; his unfortunate end was not my fault – and stare at the boat, digging my nails into my palms. I’ll need to be extra careful about the next person I plead my case to.

I take a deep breath. Careful. I can do careful. Maybe.

My legs tremble as I climb the gangplank.

The boat reeks of decay, floorboards so soft with damp I’m petrified my foot might sink through when I step aboard.

Barnacles cling to the mast, but these must be demons too, because they’re far too active.

They swarm around the wood, scurrying like white spiders newly hatched from their eggs.

Shuddering, I avoid sitting anywhere near them and settle next to a woman who’s quietly sobbing. I can’t say I blame her. Weirdly, the sound’s almost soothing. Her tears are so undeniably human; a reminder not everyone here is a monster.

The vessel rocks as the demons join us – I avoid making eye contact with the lion-haired one – and the cloaked figure dips an oar in the water. We glide smoothly over the liquid towards a pitch-black tunnel.

As we pass under the arch, I fight the urge to hold on to the stranger next to me, curling my fingers around my seat instead, gripping it with such force I’m afraid it might splinter between my hands.

And then there’s nothing.

There’s the boat, and everyone on it, but around us is just . . . empty.

The darkness presses on me like a weight slamming against my shoulders. Every now and then there’s the faint slosh of liquid as the oar spurs us forward, but it’s not enough to drown out my thoughts now I’ve got no distraction from them.

You’re throwing your life away.

Those were Mum’s last words to me. Words I’ve replayed over and over since her death, promising myself – promising her – I’d be better from now on.

My chest tightens. I was so close to making her proud.

If only I’d paid attention to the drop below I’d still be at the top of the cliff right now; I wouldn’t have –

One choked cry manages to escape my throat before I swallow the rest and stash them away.

My palms are clammy by the time the tunnel opens into another cave.

Water tinged with a violet light cascades down the walls, crashing into the rock below.

Spray buffets my face as we dock. The lion-haired demon disembarks first, leaping from the side of the boat and bounding up a gloomy corridor in the distance (at this point, I can only assume every corridor is going to be gloomy).

The demons escort us up that same corridor and into another large cavern. Maybe this is the part where someone confirms where we are, as if it wasn’t obvious. What language do demons speak anyway? Something guttural like gurh ragh urgh .

At the far end of the room, a carving of a snake’s head protrudes from the rock, twin fangs dropping from its mouth. A throne is nestled between them, skulls lining its base.

I gulp.

Well, if I want to speak to a manager, I guess that throne’s owner is exactly who I need.

Marching over there probably doesn’t fit in with the dictionary definition of careful though, so I move with the rest of the humans to stand elbow to elbow in the centre of the room.

It doesn’t make me feel any less alone, not with the noticeable absence at my side.

Sasha and I met the first day of high school and have been inseparable ever since; she even applied to the same universities as me so we could move from Guildford to London together.

I’m not used to navigating new surroundings without her, and now I’m in a room full of demons where my only potential allies are a bunch of dead strangers.

For the first time in my life, I don’t wish I was taller – being five foot five allows me to shrink into the crowd, at least a little.

I’d be invisible if it weren’t for the way my red hair glows like a distress flare in the dark.

A winged demon standing near the throne clears its throat. It turns out I was right about the way they speak: it is low, and rough, and guttural, but I’m able to understand every word when it says, ‘Kneel for King Sathanas.’

The demons drop immediately.

My fellow passengers and I follow a little more slowly. We’re unsure what – or who – we’re kneeling for.

But I have a fairly good idea.

With my head bowed in faux deference, I peer through the curtain of hair draped over my eyes in order to study him when he enters.

King Sathanas. The Devil. It must be. I wonder what he’ll look like.

Bigger than the rest, probably. Scalier.

Extra horns. Holding a pitchfork, perhaps.

A wooden door to the side of the throne swings open, and my stomach swoops at the sound of footsteps, brisk and sure and growing closer.

I steel my shoulders, bracing myself for whatever atrocity those footsteps belong to.

But when the figure walks out, I have to fight to hold back a gasp. Because it’s not a demon at all.

It’s a man.