I watched Mara tick names off the clipboard, the little in-jokes and barbs ricocheting around.
“Next,” Mara continued, “the bingo rounds are strictly supervised. If at any point you feel uncomfortable, raise the red paddle and I’ll dismiss you from stage. Or at least cause a distraction so you can make a break for the parking lot.”
Lark muttered, “And if it’s the demon that’s uncomfortable?”
Mara grinned. “Then he can raise a blue paddle, and we’ll switch in some chamomile tea and a coloring book. Demons are not great with strong feelings, turns out.” She shrugged like this was a universal disappointment.
"Third, and this is no joke—if you hit the jackpot at bingo, you're contractually bound to give the whole 'demon husband' thing a whirl for at least three days. Yep, that means either shacking up with your hellish hubby for a trio of days or at least showing up and pretending to like it. Think of it as a really weird college roommate situation, but with more brimstone and less ramen."
Erin raised her hand. “What if I win and then immediately get cold feet?”
Mara didn’t even blink. “If you’re worried about cold feet, don’t set foot in the furnace. Seriously. Nobody’s making you do this.” She looked around the table, and I realized her eyes had gone hard at the edges, like she’d argued this before. “It’s not like the trial is forever, and most of them can’t cook for shit anyway, so you’re more likely to die of food poisoning than blood loss.”
Jules grinned, maybe remembering something, maybe just loving the drama. “I once made out with a demon at a KISS cover band show,” she confessed. “Tongue was forked, he could tie a cherry stem like you wouldn’t believe.” She winked at me. “You’ll be fine, rookie.”
Mara handed out name stickers and markers, then led us to the dais. “Okay, let’s get the introductions out of the way,” she said, herding us onto a little stage with a frightful lack of ceremony.
On the other side of the aisle, the demon bachelors were neatly arranged at their own folding tables. If I’d been expecting horns and red skin as the main selling points, I was underprepared for the sheer spectrum of demon types. One had skin the color of a cigarette filter and eyes like slot machines. Another was so tall he had to slouch like a parent at a preschool recital, his horns only partly filed down. The rest were variations on a theme: hands too big, expressions too naked, nerves as loud as ours.
“Ladies!” Mara called out. “Let’s introduce ourselves, starting on my left!” Jules hoisted a paper cup as if it were a microphone, and took the plunge.
“I’m Jules, she/her, I make a mean Old Fashioned and I will absolutely talk your horns off about antique glassware. Signed up for this because I’m sick of dating apps and,” she paused, “also maybe because I have a thing for guys with hooves. Noshame.” That got a ripple of laughter, even from the demons’ side, one or two shifting in their chairs with what might have been a bashful flexing of their cloven feet.
Lark was up next, chin lifted. “Lark, also she/her, I’m an apprentice tattoo artist, and if you’re gonna abduct me, at least be cool about it. I did not come all this way to get stuck with a basic demon.” She glared down the line of bachelors and winked at the biggest one, who actually ducked his head and blushed—no mean feat for someone with a face like a weathered jack-o’-lantern and tusks.
Erin simply saluted the hall. “Erin. She/her. Not afraid of the dark, not afraid of commitment, allergic to kiwis. I like long walks on the beach and existential dread.” Her smirk was a little crooked; I suspected she was the type who got funnier the more time you spent with her.
It went around the circle, quick and painless, and then Mara’s hand landed on my shoulder, steering me gently to the front.
I felt my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth, a fine paste of nerves and Burt’s Bees. The anticipation was almost enough to make me forget I had no issue with public speaking—I presented at health conferences all the time.
There it was—the whole room staring back, demons included, their eyes bright and expectant, their claws or clawlike appendages folded awkwardly in their laps. The whole setup was utterly absurd, and I couldn’t help but laugh, which made my voice come out higher than usual.
“I’m Annie,” I said, “she/her. I work as a nutritionist, but don’t worry, I’m not one of the annoying ones. I promise never to say the wordcleansein your presence. I also like bingo, obviously, and… um… I can bench one-fifteen, which is pretty good for my size. So if you’re looking for a bride who can openjars and also recommend the best snacks for a late-night crisis, I’m your girl.”
Silence. Then one of the demons let out a low, throaty laugh that seemed to ripple down the line. I tried not to stare, but he caught my eye: red skin like a warning label, black veins like lightning beneath, and horns that looked less like Halloween and more like something you’d find on a Roman statue. He was built like a brick wall with a sense of humor, and when he noticed me noticing him, he grinned—not with his teeth but with the whole languid, deliberate set of his shoulders. His name tag, printed in block capitals, said SAMIEL. I wasn’t sure how to pronounce it and was already mentally abbreviating to “Sam.”
He caught me looking again, and this time, he stretched out his legs and propped them on the chair in front of him. I’d been trying not to gawk at the specifics, but the orientation packet did not prepare me for his feet. Not hooves, not quite, but massive, clawed, jointed in ways that made you want to Google “elk but make it demon.” His ankles hinged in reverse, like a digitigrade predator, and the toes (three? four?) splayed out into four lacquer-black talons that looked sharp enough to dissect the metal folding chair. Then he shifted, and the enormous dark red wings unfurled slightly behind him. Dragon-like, leathery, with matching talons at each joint that glinted like garnets under the fluorescents. My mouth went dry. Each movement had the casual, dangerous intent of an apex predator. I must have made a face—shock, fear, something else I didn't want to name—because his mouth twitched and he flexed both his claws and his wings simultaneously, like he was warming up for the world's most terrifying symphony.
Mara cleared her throat. “Well then! On to the main event. Let’s get our bachelors up here and let the games begin.” There was an awkward shuffle as the demons stood, which produced a symphony of tail-thwacks and the sound of dress shirts strainingat the seams. They filed up to the dais, a living wall of color and muscle, and I tried to keep my eyes away from Samiel’s feet, but the magnetism was relentless. He walked like he’d just been released from a maximum security gym, all shoulders and arrogance, but there was something else there—something almost shy about the way his eyes flicked from ceiling tile to exit sign to floor and only, very briefly, to me. The other girls took notice too, but if Sam felt the scrutiny, he hid it under a dangerous stillness.
The beauty of Bingo Brides was that it didn’t pretend to be tasteful. We were all ushered up to the stage and seated on barstools that were lined up in a row. Jules got first pick at them, then Lark, then Erin, the rest of us filtered in behind. I sat where Mara told me, and letting my legs dangle because none of the chairs fit my height unless I wanted my skirt riding up to felony levels. I undid my duffel, fished out a notebook, and started a list in the margin. “1. Tall. 2. Red. 3. Looks like he could open a can of soup just by glaring at it.” I didn’t add “4. Would trample me barefoot and leave no evidence," but the thought lingered.
The rest of the introductions blurred, but I kept my eyes on Sam, trying to parse what he was thinking. I expected him to be staring back, maybe with a glazed-over “are you prey?” look or the slack-jawed hunger of every gym bro I’d met between Tampa and here. Instead, Sam looked faintly amused, like he’d seen this all before but was still enjoying the rerun, eyes crinkling at the corners. His horns weren’t just ornamental, either—they looked thick enough to use as handles. For the first time since stepping off the bus, I felt the knot in my stomach loosen and spiral outward with every heartbeat.
Mara clapped her hands, startling the whole hall. “Alright, demons and dames, let’s get to the main event. Demons, take your cards, we are ready to start the first round!”
A scuffle of chairs, the rustle of cheap polyester and heavy limbs. I found myself escorted up onto the stage as the demons took their seats. The other women murmured awkwardly, their confidence a little brittle now that the stakes were in play. I caught Sam’s gaze. He was already looking at me, his thumbs circling slowly around the cap of his own bingo marker. If he’d ever played before, he was doing a good job hiding it.
A bell rang (actual brass, not digital), and the demons approached in formation, each one escorted by a VFW volunteer in a neon green OFFICIAL shirt. Samiel was in the first group, along with the slot-machine-eyed demon and a creature whose shirt stretched so tight across his chest it looked painted on.
Mara, now wearing a sparkly vest and the air of a seasoned cruise host, picked up the microphone and beamed. “Demons and dames, welcome to the hallowed tradition of the Hell’s Valley Bingo Bride Mixer! You know the rules: if a demon gets bingo, he gets to claim first pick of the available brides. If no demon gets bingo”—she winked—“we go to sudden death and draw names from the pit.” The pit was a literal pit, a kiddie pool painted black, full of foam balls. Lark whispered, “I hope they clean that thing.” Jules snorted.
Mara started the round. “B-12!” The room went silent as the demons peered intently at their cards, lips moving in silent prayer or calculation. There was something almost sweet about the way they hunched over, concentrating, like they’d spent the week rehearsing for this and didn’t want to let down their friends back home in Hell.
Jules tapped her heel, humming under her breath. Lark cracked her knuckles, then her toes, which was more impressive. Erin rolled her eyes at each number, but she was the only one who looked genuinely at ease. Me? I watched Samiel. Every time Mara called a number, he’d mark it, then glance up at me, a slow,deliberate motion that made it feel like the two of us were the only ones in the room.
The tension ramped up with every B and G and O. Once or twice, I thought I heard the sound of someone’s fangs grinding. A couple of the bachelors looked near bursting, their faces darkening from anticipation or blood pressure. I started counting how many numbers Samiel had left, as if I could will him to win by the force of my gaze alone.
