Page 31 of A Match Made in Hell

Sath sets fire to the dead demons a moment later.

Ashes pile high in the pool of blood, like dead ants congealing in poison.

He orders two others to clean up the mess and dismisses the rest with a growl before storming towards his quarters, throwing open the door with no heed to my hiding place and sweeping past me without a word.

I slam it shut before anyone spots me and watch Sath’s retreating form. My pulse races as I consider my options. His ignoring me wasn’t much of an invite, but I can’t not talk to him after what just happened, even if he is in one of his shove-Willow-against-a-wall-and-look-angry moods.

Weirdly, the thought doesn’t upset me as much as it should.

I follow him into his study, twisting the doorknob slowly so as to give him time to tell me to stop. The main lights are off, the neon glow from behind the bar the only thing illuminating Sath’s form, sat on the sofa. He’s utterly still.

I think on , and the sconces lining the walls come to life.

Sath remains a statue. I edge towards him, carefully, cautiously, like I’m approaching a wounded animal.

His eyes are fixed on a spot on the wall, a vacant expression on his face, tears running down his cheeks. Something in my chest twists.

I’ve never seen him like this before. I don’t know what to do.

I hover near the sofa, debating whether or not to leave him to whatever breakdown he’s having, knowing I am wholly unequipped to deal with it.

‘Sath?’ I risk another step. ‘I . . . Are you . . . What are you doing?’

The question is unnecessary. I can see what he’s doing. He is moping. Dark hair sticks to his forehead, while his skin shines with sweat. My feet move of their own accord, bridging the gap between us until I’m sinking into the seat next to him. I take his trembling hands in mine.

When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse, like he’s been screaming for hours and nobody heard. ‘Are you happy now?’ He tugs away from my grasp. ‘Did you enjoy it? Seeing them in pain? Watching them die?’

‘Yes,’ I answer without hesitation. ‘I don’t understand why you’re freaking out. They wanted to open the gates . Humans would’ve been hurt. They deserved everything you gave them, and more.’

He shakes his head. ‘Revenge isn’t always the answer.’

‘That wasn’t about revenge. That was reminding the demons what happens when they cross the Devil. That was about showing them who you are .’

He shudders. ‘And what if who I was out there isn’t who I want to be?’

I don’t have an answer. It’s his job. Last I checked, Asphodel doesn’t have an HR department he can walk into and hand over a resignation letter.

And I can’t sympathise with this, because I can’t fathom why he wouldn’t want that kind of power.

He can walk into a room and make anyone tremble.

Can make up all the rules and have no one tell him no.

No decision is a bad decision, because he’s the one who decides what’s good and what’s bad.

He’s oblivious to how lucky he is, having no voices in his head calling him a disappointment for always picking wrong. For me, that kind of freedom would be a dream.

For him, it’s a nightmare. Dried blood on his face strips free, like old paint peeling from a wall, as more tears slide down his cheeks.

I wipe one away with my thumb, leaving the digit resting against the side of his face.

He’s warm, feverish almost, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s upset or hot is .

. . normal for him. In every sense of the word.

Even dirty and distressed, he’s hopelessly attractive, and after last night it’s all I can notice.

He really has no business being this good-looking. It would be enough to make the saintliest girl alive flustered, and I am, by way of being here, no saint.

Fuck’s sake. I pull my hand away. ‘You weren’t this troubled over the human you killed,’ I say. ‘Is it only the demons you don’t like hurting?’

‘Who said I wasn’t troubled?’ Sath sags into the sofa. ‘You should go.’

‘Why, so you can brood in peace? How’s that working out for you?’

His gaze flicks to me, then away. ‘You shouldn’t see me like this.’

‘Because you think it makes you weak?’

‘Doesn’t it?’

I don’t answer. In some ways, it does. He’s the King of Hell – Asphodel, whatever – he shouldn’t be crying and regretting every punishment he doles out. But at least he has the guts to admit he hates it rather than carry on pretending to be something he’s not.

‘You’re upset.’ His voice startles me. My hand is on my wrist, tracing the space where my bracelet used to be.

I force myself to let go, dropping my fingers to my side.

‘No, you’re upset.’ My knees click (surely I’m both too young and too dead for this) as I get back on my feet. ‘Let me help you.’

Scanning the room for something I can use to mop him up, I’m struck by how messy it is.

When I first arrived, everything was pristine, not a cushion out of place and no clutter in sight.

Now there’s a stack of board games in the corner, a book of mine on the coffee table, one of my jumpers strewn over a chair.

I’d taken it off in a huff during a rousing game of Monopoly (I won).

It’s like my presence has infected everything, a virus spreading, slowly seeping into every corner of his life.

I wonder if he minds.

At the bar, I locate a towel along with a small bowl which I fill with water before sitting beside Sath once again.

He watches in silence as I soak the towel, the only sound the water sloshing in the bowl and dripping from the rag when I drain the excess.

And my heart. My heart which sounds impossibly loud, like a cannonball ricocheting in my chest. I’m convinced Sath must be able to hear it.

This is ridiculous. I am ridiculous. The man is covered in blood and crying, and I’m having a meltdown over the fact I’m about to touch his face.

There’s something . . . intimate about it.

The lights are dim in here at the best of times, but Sath’s distress is casting extra shadows round the room – the only thing I can make out clearly is the amber in his eyes and the paleness of his face.

He’s a star in a dark sky; the only thing worth seeing.

I don’t remember a time all I saw was Noah.

The world was a distracting place. There’s no TV or social media to divert me here, nothing I can turn to stare at instead.

I’m hyperaware of every point our bodies touch: his thigh is lined up alongside mine, our knees knocking together, my arm brushing his.

Now it’s my hands that are shaking when I place one on his shoulder to steady myself. If he notices, he says nothing.

I am a mess. I am a mess with a stupid crush on someone I should not have a crush on.

It would be easier if he was evil. Then I’d spend the tasks hating him, and not grinding against his – oh, God.

I have got to stop thinking. Why did I never learn to meditate?

The ability to empty my brain would be super useful right now.

When I leave, I’m taking up yoga.

‘This’ll be cold,’ I tell him, the towel hovering in mid-air, dripping wet down my hands. The water does nothing to cool any part of me.

‘I can take it.’ His lips twitch, and I’m so relieved to see a sign of the old Sath, of my Sath, that I sigh, audible and shaky.

Sath’s gaze drops to my mouth. Oh shit. Now he’s going to think I’m panting all over him.

Focus, Willow. For lack of better ideas, I slap the sodden material to his cheek.

Sath winces, which makes me feel better.

A distracted Sath means he won’t notice a distracted Willow.

My next wipe is a little more gentle though.

I smear away blood and tears from his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, stripping away the stains and revealing the man beneath.

After a moment’s hesitation, I wipe the towel over his lips, my thumb following the rag’s path and tracing a line of its own as it clears away the remnants of blood specks. His mouth parts beneath my touch.

Well, he won’t notice me panting and gasping and breathing hysterically any more.

I’m not sure I’m breathing at all. Looking at his mouth is doing strange things to me, so I peer into his eyes instead, which is a terrible idea, because his stare is burning and intense, locking me in place.

It locks my hand in place too, because I can’t bring myself to stop touching him.

His breath ghosts over my thumb, and it’s quick and uneven, the same pace as my pulse.

I swallow.

I have to get out of this room. But that seems discourteous, given the circumstances.

All I’ve done is clean Sath’s face, and not actually solved the problem that the Devil doesn’t want to be the Devil.

I toss the towel on to the coffee table and sit back.

Away from him. No thigh touching, not today.

‘Can’t you get out of it?’ I ask. ‘You said you weren’t always the Devil. Can’t you . . . not be? How did you become him in the first place?’

Sath rubs his face. Rude. I did an excellent job. ‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘Can’t, or don’t want to?’

‘Can it be both?’ The question is punctuated by a huff. ‘Let’s just say, if I’d known . . .’ He trails off. The glasses behind the bar clink as the ground beneath us trembles.

‘Was that the gates?’ I grip the arm of the sofa as tightly as panic grips my chest. ‘Sath? Have the demons –’

‘It’s not the demons,’ he says glumly. ‘Not this time. That was me.’

‘Why –’

‘To keep the divide between Asphodel and Tartarus, you need to be –’ he glances at me, and swallows – ‘good. Otherwise, the realms will bleed together. But how can I be good when I’m constantly required to do bad things?

How am I supposed to control the gates when I can’t control –’ The shaking gets worse, lights wavering on the walls so violently they threaten to snuff out, my book bouncing to the edge of the coffee table and falling off.

And something down the corridor rumbles, roars, clanks , like gears are churning, like the gates are opening –

‘Sath!’ I shake his shoulder. He doesn’t respond; his eyes are amber bright and smoke curls off him. ‘ Sath .’ I grip his chin and force him to look at me. ‘Sath.’

This time, he blinks. The shaking stops. I exhale.

‘You can’t go on like this,’ I say. ‘If the gates open . . . There has to be something you can do to control it.’

His eyes flicker. Not with his flames, not this time, but with actual, human emotion, like he’s warring with himself; every movement they make is like his brain processing a new thought and putting it to one side, trying to decide which to settle on.

His gaze lands on me, properly, and it’s like he’s had a sunrise snatched from him too soon. He immediately looks away.

‘No,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing.’

I tilt my head. ‘Nothing at all?’ The gates have been here since, what, the dawn of time, and now they’re falling apart and he can’t do anything ?

‘Nothing,’ he repeats. And then he looks at me again, and it’s filled with such an unexpected longing that my lungs stop working.

I mean. They weren’t working anyway. Now they can’t bring themselves to pretend.

I’ve seen that look before. The memory’s hazy, but it’s there.

Last night, with the wine, when his hands were on me, and I was leaning towards him, wanting him, and – I grit my teeth.

I have got to stop thinking like this. I can’t let a fleeting attraction turn into something more, not when I’ll be leaving.

If I thought I could go home and forget him, I’d be tempted to suggest we start something fun, with a clear time limit and no strings on either side.

Only Sath is made of nothing but strings, and I’m tied to every one. There’s no forgetting that.

‘Well,’ I say. My throat feels scratchy. ‘You seem . . . calm now. I should go.’

His throat bobs. ‘That’s probably best.’

Oh. I thought he might at least try and offer me tea again. Well. Fine. That’s good he didn’t.

I leave with a nod, lingering in the corridor outside with my back pressed to the wall, trying to use the coolness of the stone to slow my breathing.

I have got to get myself under control. I shouldn’t be having thoughts like this at all. There’s a ring waiting for me back home. The ultimate accessory, one that declares I’m a grown-up with an idealistic future headed her way. Everything Mum wanted for me.

Think of Noah. Think of Noah. Think of Noah.

It’s more difficult than it should be. His memory has faded; I can’t get his image into focus.

He’ll keep you safe . Honestly, I think Mum was more concerned with the bank balance he’d have once he was a hotshot lawyer.

Money is safety. Happiness is irrelevant. Look at her and Dad.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to remember the last time Noah made me happy.

It’s difficult. Everything about him is far away, and I want to chase after him – I’m supposed to chase after him – but he’s out of my grasp, my mind latching onto nothing, and as the vision of his face fades entirely, I realise I’m not scared about losing Noah.

I’m scared that I’m not scared at all.