Page 22 of A Match Made in Hell

I don’t. The lights dim for hours before flickering back to life, like day has turned to night and back again.

I have no idea. I move on autopilot, ignoring the way my feet burn.

I go on and on until my legs buckle, struggling to hold my weight a moment longer, sending me flying towards the next slab.

My knee knocks the edge, sending a blinding pain into my already throbbing head.

I shove the lever to the right without reading the clipboard. It’s always the same.

And the row doesn’t end.

I sag. ‘I can’t . . . I need a rest.’

Nobody responds. The Sorter’s disappeared. I have no idea when it happened. I just know I’m alone and there’s nobody to hold me up, and I can’t do this.

Why did I think I’d be capable of completing these tasks?

I’ve always fallen short at everything I’ve tried to do, no matter how much I wanted it, no matter how much effort I put in.

And this, out of all the things I’ve wanted, is the most impossible thing of all.

The row of slabs stretches further and further ahead into an invisible horizon.

Slumped against the nearest one, my eyes drift shut.

I jerk.

Inhale deeply. I can’t fall asleep.

Then again –

If I’m going to fail, there’s no harm in having a lie-down first. The Sorter’s gone. No one will find out. It’s not quitting if nobody knows.

‘Getting tired?’ Sath’s voice is like a defibrillator to the chest.

Jolting upright, I find him standing less than a metre away, arms folded. Skin fresh and dewy like he’s had a refreshing night’s sleep. Well, good for him. I hope he swallowed a spider when he was snoring away.

My tongue is heavy and thick; I can’t remember when I last had a sip of water. I have to unstick it from the roof of my mouth to ask, ‘When did you get here?’

‘You can stop, if you like.’ He ignores the question. ‘Do you want to stop?’

I’m about to say yes, obviously , but I’ve enough awareness to realise this is part of the test. Clipboard. Where’s the next clipboard?

‘No, thank you.’ The words on the paper blur. I imagine one of them says liar ; the rest of them certainly have. We’re all lying about something. No rivers of blood though – I’m a special case in that regard. I glower at the lever as I send them to Asphodel. ‘I’m having a lovely time.’

The slab before me turns into a bed. Plush pillows, a sumptuous mattress, a duvet that’s thick enough to wrap around me three times over. My knees go weak.

‘You don’t need to complete these duties.’ A warm hand settles on my back, nudging me forward. ‘You can rest now. You can finish tomorrow.’

Tomorrow. That would be good. I’d sleep, then wake re-energised. I’d complete it faster then.

I said the same thing about that job application. I’ll send it after my weekend away. One final read through, like it hadn’t been proofread ten times before. Like I hadn’t said tomorrow or there’ll be other jobs, I’ll apply for the next one for all the other emails I never sent.

And then I died.

‘I’d rather finish now,’ I say.

‘Do you think you can?’ he asks. The syllables may be different, but all I hear is you’re not good enough . You’re a failure. That warped version of Mum’s voice is in my head again. Give up now, Willow. You can’t do this . Quitting is all you know .

It’s too late.

She’s wrong. They all are. I’ll show them. I know the consequences of quitting now, of giving up, and I’m not going through them again. ‘I can do this.’

‘You don’t have to,’ Sath says. ‘Get into bed, Willow.’

I grit my teeth. ‘No.’

‘It’s never-ending, this room. Carry on for miles and there’ll still be another body. More work to do. More responsibility. Wouldn’t it be easier to not do the work at all?’

It would. My eyelids threaten to close again. His hand shifts higher, and a thumb digs into my shoulder blade. The rush of pain-pleasure shooting down my spine spurs me onwards, and I sort another five bodies in rapid succession.

‘It’s impossible.’ Sath dogs my every step. ‘Being in charge of all this. All these afterlives in your hands. Why should you have that responsibility? Why should any of us?’

‘Someone’s got to do it.’ The next chart says: murderer . I freeze. What do I do? My hand wraps around the lever. It’s a man. His knuckles are bloody. Who did he kill? How many?

He must deserve what I’m about to do to him. He must.

‘You don’t want to sort him, do you?’ Sath continues. ‘You know where he needs to go. What they’ll do to him there.’ There’s a strain in his voice now. This wasn’t part of the plan.

He’s scared I’ll fail.

People always are.

I tug the lever down and watch the body sink into black flames.

‘I’ll sort whoever I have to,’ I say, resolute. ‘I am not failing his task.’

Why not? You’ve failed everything else.

‘Give up now.’ He cuts across my path before I can take the next board. ‘Where there’s one, there’s another. And another. Until the end of time. There is no end of the row.’

My shoulders sag. ‘There has to be. You’re lying. I won’t quit.’ My voice is scratchy. ‘I won’t. Not this time.’

I push him aside. Push the next lever. Tears stream down my face. I push the next. There is no end of the row . You can’t do this. You’re not good enough . I keep going. And going. And going. Sath needles me the whole time.

‘You can try all you want; it won’t work,’ he says, barely more than a whisper, like this is as draining for him as it is for me. ‘It’ll never be enough. I’ll never –’

I ram another lever, take a step forward, and hit a wall.

I blink at it. It’s metal, just like the slabs, stretching from floor to ceiling. A dead end.

An end.

My face erupts into a smile. This is the nicest, prettiest wall I’ve ever seen. If I thought it’d respond, I’d wrap my arms around it and give it a hug, but I settle for patting it instead, my touch almost reverent, like I’m caressing a long-sought-after relic. ‘Is this . . .’

‘Congratulations.’ Sath’s smile doesn’t meet his eyes. ‘You passed sloth.’

I sag against the wall, aka my new best friend. ‘I did it.’

I actually did it. I didn’t quit, and I did it. In this moment, I feel invincible, like I could jump off any cliff and survive because I’m that strong.

Smoke plumes from Sath’s jacket, tiny wisps indicating a displeasure he can’t hide. What’s he got to be upset about? I’m a champion. A victor. There is no task I can’t win.

He holds out a hand. ‘Let’s go.’

I allow him to portal us out of the room so I don’t have to retrace my many, many steps. It also means we don’t have to say goodbye to the Sorter, wherever she may be. Probably lazing on a hammock somewhere and laughing while I do her job.

Outside the morgue, we lean against opposite walls of the corridor. Some of the vines growing here have died since I last saw them, leaves curling and shrivelling around Sath’s head. Red glows through a small crack behind them.

Sath assesses me. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Peachy,’ I lie.

The past few – hours? Days? – are a blur of repetition, of one corpse after the other until they no longer resemble people at all. Despite that, the conversation I had with the Sorter remains vivid.

I can’t help staring at Sath’s chest, wondering if there’s anything inside at all. Can I ask? Should I ask? Sath’s always cagey whenever I question what, exactly, he is, and I have plenty of other questions he might be more willing to answer. Starting with, ‘Is Aric . . .’

‘Dealt with.’ It’s not a snap, but almost. Guess I’m not as forgiven as I thought.

‘Thanks.’ I scuff my feet on the floor. ‘I’m sorry if I . . . caused you a problem.’

‘Caused me a –’ Sath huffs a mocking laugh, shaking his head. A moment later, he’s stone-cold sober. ‘Did you find this task easy?’

‘Not especially.’

‘Well, they’re only going to get worse,’ he says. ‘Everyone faces them in a different order, depending on their particular vice, and after your performance with Aric I don’t know if you can control yours.’

Well. My sense of victory didn’t last long. Now I’m a superhero that’s just been shrunk by a ray gun. ‘Why? What do you think my vice is?’

‘You’re impulsive. Hot-headed. Angry.’

Everything we’ve worked towards, gone, all over some tantrum about –

‘I am none of those things,’ I say loudly, over the memory.

‘Really?’ He arches a brow. ‘The demon with a cue in his eye would beg to differ.’

‘That was different.’

‘Always an excuse. If you can’t stop yourself lashing out, what’s the point in doing any of this?’ His eyes simmer, and maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear I catch the smell of burning.

‘Maybe you should get yourself under control first,’ I throw back at him. ‘Aric was a lapse of judgement. If a task was involved, I wouldn’t have . . .’ I break off.

I’ve no idea what I would have done.

But I’ve just proven I can do impossible things, and this is not the motivational pep talk I was hoping for. Would it kill him to say well done, Willow, good job today ?

Sath sighs, and the fire in his gaze goes out. ‘Let’s hope you’re right.’

‘I am right,’ I inform him. ‘Maybe if you weren’t determined to be grumpy, you’d see that.’

‘I’m not grumpy.’ He rakes a hand through his hair, suddenly looking as exhausted as I feel. ‘Sloth is . . . difficult for me. Having to tempt you, it sets me on edge.’

I peer at him. ‘The idea of being lazy sets you on edge?’

‘Sloth isn’t about laziness. It’s . . . dereliction of duty, neglecting to take care of what one should.’ He laughs bitterly. ‘Something I know all about.’

The floor beneath us rumbles.

‘What’s happening?’

‘Nothing,’ he mutters, shoving shaking hands into his pockets. ‘I should go. I’ll see you next month.’

My chest constricts. I don’t want to wait another month to see him. I’m not sure what that says about me as a person. He’s possibly a demon and definitely a murderer. The Sath before me now could all be an act – and I don’t care. He’s the most interesting person here.

I should want to curl into a ball and sleep after the task, but standing near him has me wide-awake again, alert to every shift of his body as he tries to abandon me. Which can’t be good for him either, honestly, if he’s going to spend the whole time brooding.

Really, I’m doing him a favour.

‘Sath,’ I call after him. ‘Wait. Do you want to . . . Are you busy?’

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. This happens several times. Finally, he says, ‘Willow . . . that day in the cinema . . . I got caught up in the idea of being someone I’m not. I can’t make that mistake again.’

‘I’m not asking you to be someone you’re not. I’m asking to hang out with you, just as you are. Is that such a crime? We can go to your rooms if you’re worried about anyone seeing.’

Sath licks his lips. ‘It’s a bad idea. For many reasons.’

‘You’re talking to a girl who jumped off a cliff for fun.’ I check no one’s around before stepping into his space, forcing him to press against the wall for a change. Flames spark along his skin. ‘What’s one more bad idea?’

He makes a show of studying me, as though deciding how bad an idea I am.

Despite the fact that every inch of me is covered in thick clothing, he makes it feel like all of me is on show.

My stomach tightens. Other parts of me tighten.

The more he looks, the more I’m free-falling towards something I shouldn’t be, only this landing will split me open even more than the last.

‘Fine,’ he says, eyes gleaming. ‘We can . . . hang out, as you like to put it.’

His expression turns wicked, mouth curving into a dangerous smile, although not for the reasons I expect.

‘Tell me,’ he says. ‘How do you feel about Scrabble?’