Page 24 of A Match Made in Hell

Despite my lingering foreboding, Asphodel stays still for the next few weeks, and I settle into a routine.

I spend half my nights with Sath, learning he is a terribly sore loser when it comes to games that aren’t Scrabble, which fills me with no end of joy.

The rest of the time I’m with Harper. She takes me around Asphodel during the day, and it appears she has a habit of collecting strays because every floor we visit I’m told I simply must introduce you to Fatima and oh, look! There’s Percy. I love Percy .

I’ve come to the conclusion Harper loves pretty much everyone she meets, which would explain why she’s putting up with me.

Still, it’s nice, having her attention. When we’re in Dionysus she tends to attract crowds of admirers, like the dead are moths to her flame, but she sticks to me, Amelia and Henry the most.

Despite Dionysus being twice the size of any club I went to on Earth, she is impossible to lose, her hand constantly entwined with mine.

It doesn’t stop me looking over my shoulder every five seconds like I’m expecting her to disappear.

Sasha disappeared all the time. I’d go to the bar for us both and find her missing on my return, leaving me to spend the rest of the night alone, wandering around like a stray puppy.

By the time I’d found a group to adopt me, she’d have called Noah to say I was lost and needing claiming.

As far as this new routine goes, I don’t hate it.

When I wake, I feel lighter, somehow. Every day is filled with a new possibility now they aren’t planned out for me.

I don’t have to worry about disappointing Noah and then having to worry about saying the right thing to make him stay. I can just . . . be .

It’s only when I come across Aric lurking round corners that the smile drops from my face, and I remember I do not, under any circumstances, want to stay here.

Not when at least one demon actively hates me, or when the gates could burst open at any moment.

When I’m constantly at risk of ending up in the Void listening to that all-too-familiar voice telling me I failed at becoming all the things I promised I’d be.

I have to get home and prove that voice wrong instead.

My counting is more out of whack than ever, and there are only eighty scratches on my wardrobe when a dress appears inside.

There’s a note pinned to it, written in elegant cursive, that says wear me tonight .

I swallow. It’s jet black, with thin straps and a plunging, heart-shaped neckline.

Tiny sequins are stitched into the bodice, glistening like fallen snow under a moonlit sky.

The skirt is floor-length and sheer, a thigh-high slit on one side and intricately beaded flowers trailing up the other.

My skin prickles, nerves twisting my insides into knots as I try to work out what kind of task requires an outfit like this.

Noah’s bought me several dresses over the years, a new one every time he took me to some fundraiser or gala hosted by his family – tedious things, honestly, but Noah saw them as networking opportunities, schmoozing his way through the crowd and picking up future business contacts while I smiled prettily at his side – but those dresses never looked like this.

For one, they had a lot more . . . fabric.

He didn’t like me having too much on show, saying he already knew I was beautiful, and if I cared for him at all, I shouldn’t want to catch anyone’s attention but his.

This dress, though, makes me feel beautiful without the need for his validation.

The material is cool against my skin, fitting me like a glove, gliding over my body like water rippling over rock and clinging to curves I didn’t know I had.

I run my hands over it, barely recognising the person in the mirror as I admire it from every angle.

I have to force myself to turn away in order to apply make-up: smoky-brown eyeshadow, a quick flash of eyeliner, a smidge of dark red lipstick which hasn’t quite dried by the time there’s a rap at the door.

My stomach falls to the floor.

I allow myself one final glance in the mirror, smoothing non-existent creases in my dress and patting tangles in my hair I didn’t try to tame. Another, more insistent, knock has me frowning. Maybe I’d be ready if I’d had some warning, did he ever consider that?

My palms are sweaty as they go for the handle.

I don’t feel an iota of surprise when I find Sath standing there, two glasses in his hand, one containing the green liquid he’s given me before, the other fizzing with something bright pink.

I do, however, feel plenty of iotas about the way a lock of dark hair falls over his forehead.

I miss the way it was when I first met him. Short, cropped too close to his head to be this distracting. Now it makes me want to reach out and –

I ball my hands into fists at my sides. Sath, meanwhile, is running his gaze up and down my dress, drinking in every inch of me, giving no indication whether it’s to his satisfaction or not.

It seems safer not to look at him at all, so I jerk my head at the two glasses instead. ‘One of those for me?’

‘Your next task. Gluttony.’ He hands the pink drink over to me. ‘One drink, and no more.’

I take it, sniffing cautiously. ‘What is it?’

‘Wine, containing snake venom,’ he says. ‘It can be . . . addictive. Among other things.’

That sounds wholly unappealing. ‘What other things? And how addictive?’

‘It’ll make you thirst.’ His tone stays bland, but I do not like that word choice. Thirst , not thirsty.

Knowing he won’t elaborate, I take a deep breath, and bring the glass to my lips. Indecision keeps it hovered there, the rim chilling my lower lip. I have no idea what this is going to do to me.

‘You’ll need to resist another drink for three hours,’ Sath adds.

Three hours. It sounds manageable, if it weren’t for the lingering threat of what a thirsting Willow might do.

If I want out of here, I haven’t got a choice. I drink it in one.

It tastes like sugar and strawberries, and it’s thick, almost like cough medicine.

Despite that, it goes down easily and, immediately, I’m tingling.

My fingers buzz like they’re connected to some sort of electric-shock machine, and my legs are weightless, like I could simply float and float forever.

I swish the skirt of my dress around. It’s lovely and breezy.

Sath should give it a go; he must be hot walking around in tight pants all the time.

What if he’s got a tail like Aric’s hidden down there, and it gets crushed?

I burst out laughing, beaming at him, because he’s really very pretty, but Sath merely raises an eyebrow and holds his own drink to his mouth.

I want it. I take a step towards him. His eyes flare gold, halting my tracks. ‘This doesn’t have the venom, I’m afraid. You don’t want this one.’

How does he know what I want?

If it tastes the same, I want it. I’m parched already. My throat is empty, my stomach a cavern. Why can’t I have it?

Sath drinks before I can snatch the glass from him. I pout. His gaze flicks to my lower lip, to the way it juts out in protest, before taking my arm and portalling us to the balcony on Dionysus’s level.

He keeps his distance as we head towards the entrance and the area grows busier, which is a pity, because walking is proving difficult. My head spins. The cavern’s fuller than usual, packed with bodies, the music barely louder than the buzz of chatter.

‘I’ll find you later,’ he murmurs, fingers brushing my lower back so quickly I might have imagined it. Then he melts into the crowd as though we’re perfect strangers, as though entering at the same time was by chance and not design.

I bite down a smile. I like the idea of him being my secret, the King of Hell who talks to no one but his demons, whose only interaction with the humans is when they need punishing.

Not me. I’m special. Unable to contain it any longer, I grin at a nearby demon.

It flutters its wings in response. They’re like cobwebs, made of fine silvery strands, and I want to touch them, to strum them like a harp, they’re beautiful –

The moth flies away. Rude. Where did it go? I want it. I want to touch the moth, its wings, they’re pretty, and I’m special, why won’t it let me touch it when I’m Sath’s friend? Maybe that moth should be bowing to me and not him.

I stumble into a pillar.

Fuck.

That drink did a lot more than make me thirsty.

I clutch the pillar, dizzy now, the lights in the cavern too bright.

My pulse is erratic, and my tongue feels fuzzy.

I want another drink. That would be best. I’d feel better after that.

One more drink, then another, and another, and then I can touch the moth and – ooh .

Another demon prowls past me. Maybe I’ll touch that instead.

I can yank on its tail; that would be good fun.

It roams out of reach. Everything’s out of reach.

The music is too loud.

I try to focus. Sath watches proceedings from his throne, situated on a dais high above the dance floor.

A waterfall of lava streams behind the seat, bathing him in an orange glow.

He’s unfairly beautiful. Why have I never noticed before?

It’s not like I was unaware he was attractive, but now it’s as though I’ve been seeing him through a misted lens and the drink has stripped away the fog.

It’ll make you thirst.