Page 35 of A Match Made in Hell

We’re greeted by the delightful stench of sweat mixed with soured alcohol, both of which are days old if the lack of patronage is anything to go by.

My shoes stick to the floor. Sath makes a less-than-pleased noise behind me, which forces the bartender to glance up from her phone and pay us attention.

She looks as shocked to have customers as Sath is to be here.

Her mouth tilts upwards as she takes Sath in. I scowl at her. He’s obviously here with me – his hand is on my waist as he mutters we should leave for somewhere nicer – but I lean closer to him anyway, to prevent any further confusion.

‘Pick a booth,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll get the drinks.’

‘Willow . . .’

‘Trust me.’ I nudge him towards the back of the room. ‘If you don’t want anyone to spot us, this place is where we need to be.’

With a frown, Sath does what he’s told. But that’s okay; I have a plan to remove that frown.

It involves tequila. Whatever he’s drinking in Asphodel isn’t doing anything to loosen him up, and if there’s one thing Sath needs, it’s loosening .

He’s like a rusty old bolt stuck in the same position for years, and he needs me to prise him free.

I’ve never thought of myself as a spanner before, but there we are.

I am declaring myself the spanner to Sath’s bolt, and he should be thankful for it.

While we’re here, maybe I can loosen him into spilling some of the secrets he insists on keeping from me. I’m nothing if not a multitasker.

I sidle over to the bar, where the girl can barely hide her disappointment that it’s me and not Sath before her, and purchase a whole bottle of tequila. It’s presented to me alongside two shot glasses with fingerprint stains on the sides and dust coating the bottom.

Sath raises a brow when I deposit them on the table in front of him. ‘I wasn’t aware we were in Tijuana.’

‘Like you’ve ever been on spring break.’ The idea of Sath doing shooters off someone’s stomach is laughable.

The image of it, though, is not unappealing.

I shake my head to clear away the thought of Sath’s head moving down my body, his lips – I shake my head harder, as the first attempt hasn’t worked. My brain is unstoppable.

The problem, I think, isn’t that Sath’s good-looking.

I’ve met plenty of good-looking people. The problem is I know Sath.

I like Sath. Worse, despite seeing parts of me most people would deem disappointing, he acts like they don’t matter.

I’ve never felt judged in his presence, which makes him all the more dangerous.

I don’t have to pretend to be something else, which leaves my mind free to picture things it shouldn’t.

Mum always said my imagination would get me in trouble.

After a moment’s deliberation, I choose the more perilous option of sitting on Sath’s side of the booth, to stop him escaping my interrogation.

‘Let’s play a game,’ I say, twisting the lid off the bottle. ‘Truth or shot.’

Sath leans closer, his knee nudging mine. ‘Are you trying to learn my secrets, Willow White?’

Something about the way he says my name has my toes curling in my boots.

‘Nope.’ I shrug. ‘You’re free to take as many shots as you want.’

‘Ah, so you’re trying to get me drunk.’ He shifts again, the arm draped over my seat moving closer to my shoulders, before a finger lands on my neck and trails a slow, deliberate path down towards the nape. His voice is low, husky, when he asks, ‘What were you planning on doing with me?’

I shiver, flinching away before he can notice the goosebumps erupting all over my flesh. Can’t he let me suggest a perfectly pleasant game without trying to wind me up over it? I clench both my teeth and my legs before hissing, ‘Nothing worse than what you did to me during gluttony.’

I fling the words as effectively as a bucket of cold water. Sath tenses before sitting back and removing his arm from my shoulder. Instantly, I regret saying anything, because this bar is cold and my dress is too thin. A Sath-shaped furnace is definitely required.

An indecipherable emotion flickers in his eyes. ‘I hadn’t realised it was so terrible,’ he says lightly, ‘dancing with me.’

‘I didn’t . . .’ I bite my lip. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I meant . . . not being in control.’

‘And what if you had been in control?’ He takes the bottle from my hands and does what I’ve been too distracted to do: pour two shots. ‘Would you have danced with me then?’

Are we playing? This seems like he’s accepting the conditions of the game. Truth or shot, Willow? My mouth is dry, but I don’t drink. ‘Yes,’ I whisper.

The air around us stills. He holds my gaze, and swallows. I can’t quite catch my breath.

‘My turn,’ I say. My voice comes out squeaky, and I fake a cough in an attempt to hide it. ‘How did you become the Devil?’

Without hesitation, he takes a shot. My eyes narrow. ‘It’s no fun if you don’t tell me anything.’

‘It’s no fun if you ask questions I can’t answer,’ he shoots back. ‘If you’re not planning to return to Noah, do you still intend to do the final tasks?’

‘My life doesn’t revolve around Noah.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ His smile is taut. ‘Are you as motivated now as you were the day we made the deal?’

‘That’s another question. Wait your turn. How old are you?’

‘Twenty-six.’

Is he really gonna make me do the whole Twilight thing? ‘And how long have you been twenty-six?’

His lips twitch. ‘A while.’

I regret ever dragging him to the cinema.

‘So,’ Sath says, ‘ do you remain committed to the tasks?’

I open my mouth to say yes, and nothing comes out. Fuck. I run my finger round the rim of my shot glass. Of course I’m committed. I promised . And I’m close now, close to proving I can do this, that I can be more than the Willow Who Always Screws Up.

Changing my mind would be running away, and I’ve done too much of that already. The back of my throat feels scratchy when I finally answer, ‘There’s nothing I want more.’

‘Why do you do that?’ He nods his head towards my wrist. My fingers have found the bare patch again, tracing the space where my bracelet used to be. ‘Whenever you touch that wrist you always get this far-off look in your eye.’

I’m tempted to drink, but resist. ‘I used to have a bracelet there. It was . . . important to me.’

His face tightens. ‘A gift from Noah?’

‘Noah never got around to giving me the one piece of jewellery he bought for me.’ He’ll probably recycle that ring and give it to Sasha.

‘No, the bracelet was from my mum. She . . . had a lot of expectations for me. High expectations. I was never very good at meeting them. If I came second, I should have come first. If I came first, it wasn’t to a high enough standard.

But the more I tried, the more exhausted I became, and the more I failed.

I could never get it right. And then one day I did.

‘She was desperate for me to get into her old university. When the acceptance letter came, I’d never seen her so happy.

She said I’d finally done something worthwhile, and went out and bought me the bracelet.

And I loved it. I loved it so much, because it was proof I wasn’t a total failure, that I could be all the things she wanted me to be.

But it didn’t last. I messed up. And then I died and it was gone, because I was a failure, and I didn’t deserve it after all. ’

‘Whatever mistakes you think you’ve made, I wouldn’t say they make you less deserving of anything,’ Sath says, his thumb sweeping over my wrist. Frowning, he adds, ‘Were you wearing it when you died?’

I nod, wiping my face. I can’t believe he’s managed to turn this into a cross-examination of me. This is not the fun time I had planned. ‘That’s three questions you’ve had now. My turn. What’s your concession?’

He takes a shot. Maybe I need to warm up to the big stuff, so I choose something innocent next, biding my time, luring him into a trap. ‘What’s your all-time favourite meal?’

The answer is, inexplicably, lasagne. Sath accepts my change in direction and we continue like this all night, watching the bottle of tequila slowly deplete.

Sometimes we drink for silly questions – like when Sath refuses to tell me his favourite colour for the sake of taking another shot – although I do establish he has a thing for musicals ( Phantom of the Opera is his favourite) and that Sathanas isn’t his real name, but one he chose when he became .

. . this. When I press him to tell me his real one, he drinks.

I can only assume it’s something old-fashioned like .

. . Alfred. Or Barnabas. Oh, God, please don’t let him be an Edgar.

On second thought, let him be Edgar. Maybe it would stop me thinking about how his smile is a little lopsided, and how much his hair has grown out since we first met.

It falls in dark waves over his eyes, constantly tempting me to touch it.

I settle for wrapping my hands around the bottle instead, and taking a sip.

Sath asks me another question, but I barely hear it, not over the roaring in my head.

Danger alarms are flashing. I pretend I can’t see them.

At some point, his arm ends up back over the top of the booth.

And then my shoulders. And then I’m tucked against his side, and it doesn’t feel like either one of us is dead, rather that this is the first time we’ve come alive.

Sath is grinning. I don’t even know why.

I just know everything is warm and fuzzy, and my skin is tingling because his hand is rubbing the top of my arm.

He asks me some other ridiculous question and I laugh so hard tequila squirts out my nose.

It must be frighteningly unsightly, and I should be embarrassed – Noah would be rolling his eyes and huffing my name right about now – but Sath hands me a tissue with a shake of his head.

I guess he’s used to me behaving like an idiot.