The Devil's Intern

by Donna Hosie

  “I think El would probably settle for flowers and chocolates, Alfarin,” says Medusa. “Less messy.”

  “You should also think about not calling her a peasant, Alfarin. Girls don’t dig that sort of thing.”

  “And what would you know what girls like, Mitchell?” says Medusa with a smirk. Her pretty pink eyes are wide with interest. “You’re hardly Casanova.”

  “Well, apart from the fact I don’t know who Casanova is, I can tell you I am way more successful with the ladies than you give me credit for.”

  “Our friend Mitchell is quite correct, Medusa,” says Alfarin. “You do him no honor to doubt his manhood in such a way. Why, just seven moons ago, the buxom wench Erin Fenshawe swooned on top of Mitchell and had to be pulled away from his lips by my great-aunt, Dagmar.”

  I nod emphatically at Alfarin’s defense of my . . . what did he call it? Manhood?

  “Oh, please,” says Medusa dramatically. “He was having an allergic reaction to the feathers Erin had stitched onto her sweater. She thought he had died—again—and was trying to do CPR on him. If that girl had a brain cell she’d be dangerous.”

  Elinor reappears with four large sodas. I down mine and then Medusa’s in quick succession. I need the sugar rush to help calm my frayed nerves.

  Frayed nerves? Where the Hell did that phrase come from? I’m turning into an old woman. What is wrong with me today?

  “So what’s the plan?” asks Elinor. She sounds so eager that not one of us continues the argument. Elinor is the quiet rudder that steers our ship away from the rocks. Without her, we would be lost.

  “I want to go to the library.” The words run out of my mouth before I realize I’m saying them.

  “Did you just say library?” asks Alfarin. His enormous mouth is open.

  “When did you learn to read?” asks Medusa.

  “There’s just something I want to look up,” I reply, “and there’s no point in sitting here if there’s no food.”

  Alfarin and Elinor are the first to get up and leave. They love the library. Both arrived in Hell without much of an education, which comes down to their own times rather than choice. In the hundreds of years they’ve been here, they’ve absorbed nearly every book in the place. If ever I need a question answered, I go to my own personal oracles, so I can kind of understand their incredulity at my wanting to go to the library. I just won’t tell them why—yet. I smile as I watch Alfarin attempt to help Elinor with her cardigan. As he opens the door for her, he pulls it so hard it bounces back off the wall and the glass shatters into a thousand glinting crystals.

  “Alfarin, you brute!” yells Pedro, the manager of the burger bar. “That’s the third door you’ve smashed this month. You’re barred.”

  Alfarin is muttering about not knowing his own strength, and Elinor takes his arm to console him. He immediately brightens and the two of them walk ahead, leaving Medusa and me to follow them down the torch-lined passage to the elevators.

  “What are you planning?” whispers Medusa.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been acting really weird since we left Septimus’s office.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Mitchell. I can tell when you aren’t telling the truth because your eyes go even pinker.”

  “I’m just tired, that’s all. You seem to forget I was woken up this morning by a maniac assaulting me with a blunt object.”

  “It was a pillow, Mitchell. This is about the Viciseometer, isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “And there go your pretty pink eyes again.”

  I stop walking and lower my voice so Alfarin and Elinor can’t hear us. “So what if it is? Are you telling me that the thought of leaving Hell and changing your death isn’t in your head right now?”

  Medusa looks away, but I can see she’s biting her bottom lip. When she looks back at me I’m horrified to see tears pooling in her long lashes.

  “I don’t need a Viciseometer to think about changing parts of my life and death, Mitchell. It’s in my head twenty-four seven and has been for forty years.”

  I’ve asked the question of a hundred other devils, but have only ever once asked Medusa. Maybe the second time is the charm.

  “How did you die?”

  She shakes her head and teardrops leak down the end of her nose. I wipe them away with my knuckle; my other arm is around the small of her back. Last night I touched her bare skin and she twisted my fingers until they cracked. But now she lets me hold her. Medusa is so small she fits perfectly against my chest. Both of her skinny little arms are wrapped around my waist. Her wild, snakelike hair tickles my nose, but instead of pushing it away, I bury my face in it and somehow find the top of her head.

  I kiss it.

  I hate seeing Medusa cry, so I don’t ask the question again.

  5. The Viciseometer

  I’m not a big fan of Hell’s library. It’s not that I don’t like books—I do. I just don’t like the thought of touching something that has been previously handled by millions of dead people.

  You still get germs in Hell, you know. Our hearts don’t beat, and we don’t need to breathe, but we still feel pain and we can still become ill. You don’t escape anything here, except death.

  The library in Hell is gigantic. Colossal. Easily twice the size of Yankee Stadium, with about fifty times the number of people in it at any given time. As I walk in, I’m so intimidated I consider walking right back out again. I may work on level 1 in the most important department in Hell, but right now, as I gaze at the towering rows of dusty books, I don’t know where to start. I can’t ask for help because Septimus wants discretion. If I start mouthing off about the Viciseometer, devils are going to want to know why. Rumors spread through Hell like the plague. I can guarantee Septimus would hear about his inquisitive intern before I returned to my desk.

  So now I have a choice: I can forget the whole thing, or I can stand here looking clueless as I try to work my way through an index of every book that has ever been published in the history of mankind.

  I feel a hand on my back. It’s probably security. They’re going to throw me out for pure stupidity. I turn around and see a vision in white smiling at me. I gulp, trying to dislodge a lump the size of a rock that has suddenly appeared in my throat.

  Patty Lloyd—one of the names I originally wrote down on my list for Septimus—is wearing her hair down today. She shouldn’t do that. It’s long and the ends are colored pink to match her irises. My eyes are drawn to where the tips rest on her tight-fitting tank top.

  I’m staring at her chest. Why can’t I stop staring at her chest?

  “Hi, Mitchell.” The melody of her voice goes up and down when she talks to me. She likes to lick her teeth at the end of every sentence, too, which is something a lot of the guys talk about. “I haven’t seen you for ages.”

  “Busy working,” I mumble.

  “All work and no play makes for a boring devil indeed,” she says, giggling, flicking her hair back and then immediately sweeping it forward again.

  Why did she do that? What was the point of flicking her hair back, only to bring it forward again?

  “Can I help you with something, Mitchell?”

  Now Patty’s voice is girly and high, and she smells like honey.

  She giggles and turns around. She has a Celtic tattoo inked across her lower back. It’s on display between her top and her skinny white jeans, which barely cover her bottom.

  Now I’m staring at her ass. Why can’t I stop staring at her ass?

  Suddenly, a missile hits me in the face. I look down and see a bright-blue elastic band lying limply on the ground next to my black Converse All Stars.

  I can hear her heavy breathing before she reaches me. Medusa sounds like a sleeping dragon, especially when she’s pissed.

  “What are you doing?” she seethes through gritted teeth. I get a slap on the arm for good measure.

  “I’m looking for a boo
k.”

  “Doesn’t look that way from where I’m standing.”

  “Oh, hello, Medusa.” Now Patty’s tone is lower and harsher. Patty squeezes into the small space between Medusa and me. I can see down the front of her shirt because she’s pressed up against me.

  I stare up at the vaulted ceiling. Black gargoyles leer back at me. One licks its lips.

  “I’ll catch you later, Mitchell,” Medusa mutters. Her pretty pink eyes turn away and I feel ashamed that I’ve somehow managed to disappoint her.

  “Hang on, Medusa. Stay and help me,” I call, but she doesn’t turn around.

  Now I feel sick. I know Medusa hates giggling blond devils like Patty, but I was only talking to her. She works in the library, for Hell’s sake. What was I supposed to do? Ignore her? I can’t help the fact that Patty is so hot you could fry eggs on that washboard stomach of hers. And I’m not the only one staring at her, either. A quick glance around the library entrance tells me every guy within a ten-yard radius of Patty Lloyd is panting like a dog at the sight of her. A lot of the girls are, too. She has that effect on everyone—and she knows it.

  Medusa is being unreasonable. She wants me to think I’ve done something wrong, when the fact is I’m just being human. Which is something I need to remember. I may be in Hell, but I am not a monster.

  I’m about to ask Patty for directions to the time-traveling section when my cell phone starts to vibrate. It’s Septimus. He wants me back in the office.

  “Gotta go,” I say to Patty, but she slips her hand into mine and touches her lips with my finger, which she then transfers back onto my mouth.

  “Don’t leave it so long next time, Mitchell. I’ll give you a private tour of the library when you come back. There are thousands of dark passageways to get lost in.”

  She winks at me, and I know I could kiss her right now and I’d be a hero to every guy who’s ogling in her direction. Her bottom lip is way thicker than her top one. It’s plump, like a big purple grape. Patty is the kind of girl who would wear flavored lip gloss. I bet she tastes like a big, juicy purple grape.

  Parts of my body start taking over for my brain. Why did I die when I was seventeen? This is so unfair. I’m still pumped with hormones that will always be around to haunt me, and I’ll never be rid of them because I’m dead and stuck like this for eternity.

  My hand stretches out and wraps around Patty’s waist. Her skin isn’t as smooth as Medusa’s. Her mouth reaches mine as her fingers claw into my short hair. Her uneven lips part and her teeth knock against mine. Then her tongue starts swirling in my mouth.

  I pull away. Patty still has her eyes closed, but mine were open the whole time. Mark Roberts—a new dead dude—sticks his thumbs in the air and whistles.

  “Call me,” whispers Patty before skipping away.

  Feeling utterly wretched, as if I’ve just lied to my grandmother, I leave the library. I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I know I’m blushing because my face feels as if it’s on fire. My neck, too. It’s like having a prickly shaving rash.

  Not that I ever get a shaving rash. I can barely grow stubble on my chin. It gets vertigo and dies before hitting my jaw and neck.

  Septimus is alone when I get back to the office. He isn’t sitting down. He’s pacing, which means he’s thinking.

  “Ah, Mitchell,” he says as I walk in. “I know I am being the boss from Hell today, and for that you have my sincerest apologies. I will make it up to you and Miss Pallister, I promise.”

  “Serve my head on a plate,” I reply dully. “Right now that’s the only thing that will make Medusa happy.”

  Septimus stops pacing and cocks his head slightly to the left. His bald black head glows like a marble in the flickering firelight.

  “You look unhappy, Mitchell. I would have thought a romp with Miss Patricia Lloyd, however brief, would have the opposite effect on a handsome young man like yourself.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “There is little in Hell that escapes my attention,” replies Septimus with an indulgent smile.

  “If you know about Patty, that means Medusa will know, which means my existence is going to be Hell,” I groan, cradling my head in my hands. I can still smell Patty’s flowery perfume lingering on my clothes. My stomach churns as I think about her tongue inside my mouth.

  She didn’t taste like grapes.

  “Perhaps we should concentrate on work for a moment, then,” continues Septimus. “I am most obliged to you and Miss Pallister for the list of names. It is a very impressive collection of the finest devils Hell has at its disposal. Now, I trust you, Mitchell, and you have a sensible head on your shoulders, so I am assuming that you have guessed my plan?”

  Taking a deep breath, I raise my head from my hands.

  “You plan to send devils back to the land of the living with the Viciseometer. They’ll change time and stop evil before it happens. Up There will then have to start taking more of the dead who are processed at the HalfWay House.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I have one question, though, Septimus.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Most of the dead in Hell aren’t evil. Half the time it’s just rotten luck that gets a person sent here. Take Elinor, for example. She’s the nicest person I’ve ever met. Why is she in Hell?”

  “An excellent question, Mitchell, and one that many a devil, including myself, must have asked a thousand times. One day, when I can do the question justice, I will answer.”

  Septimus walks to the door of the antechamber and closes it. It locks with a solid thump.

  “You’ve seen the figures, Mitchell. You’ve worked on the accounting ledgers and answered the phone calls of devils demanding payments for salaries and invoices and expenses. We like to think of ourselves as a celestial superpower, equal to Up There, but the truth is that we are more like Britain, or France, or even Russia these days: small fry trying to keep up with the USA or China, and failing miserably in the process. Up There was created first. It has formulated a myth around itself that has made it virtually untouchable. It is impervious to supervision, and it is the first choice of every single person who dies. Up There has created an elite among the dead. They are the only superpower, and now we have to challenge that.”

  “But even if Hell stops people from being evil while they’re still alive, the Grim Reapers at the HalfWay House can still send people here when they die. I don’t understand how—”

  “Because we will show intent, Mitchell. When the residents of Hell see that we have first exhausted all diplomatic avenues open to us, we will find it far easier to create a following that will rise up and challenge that power with force.”

  This is it: Operation H, which The Devil and Septimus were discussing before the Masquerade Ball. Septimus—a former Roman general—is talking about creating an army. I can tell he’s excited about it, too. His fiery red eyes are pulsating, as if they’re filled with blood, and a glistening sheen of perspiration has now appeared over his entire face. But I don’t feel the same way. I don’t want to go to war.

  Septimus loosens his navy tie.

  “It is time for me to show you something, Mitchell.”

  He walks over to a wardrobe in the corner. It’s carved out of dark oak. An archaic language, all symbols and runes, is chipped into the wood. The single door creaks as Septimus opens it. I’ve always assumed this wardrobe is where Septimus keeps his suits. I’ve certainly never touched it in the time I’ve been working in accounting.

  Inside, displayed on a single wooden hanger, is a dark-brown leather cuirass with thick, studded strips falling in a fringe at the front. Beneath the cuirass hangs a simple white tunic edged with gold thread. A tarnished sword, bent and dented, lies at the foot of the wardrobe, along with a rectangular shield with curved edges. It’s maroon, with a golden eagle imprinted on the face.

  “My deathday outfit,” whispers Septimus. “My armor and helmet were removed by the healers before I passed
on. Shame, really. I would have liked to keep the entire set.”

  “How did you die, Septimus?”

  “Infection,” he replies. His long black fingers caress the studs on his cuirass. “Although a sword to the stomach didn’t help, of course,” he adds with a reminiscent smile. “It was the Second Punic War, when Hannibal led Carthage into a bloody battle against the Roman Republic.”

  “Hannibal, wasn’t he the one with the elephants?”

  Septimus roars with laughter. “The very one, Mitchell. Oh, you have no idea how much that annoys Hannibal. Probably the greatest commander in history, and yet he is best remembered for traveling with elephants.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend,” I say quickly. “It’s just I read about it in one of the books in Alfarin’s collection of warrior tales.”

  “Offend me?” replies Septimus. “Nothing makes me happier than to see Hannibal brought down a peg or two. Trust me, Mitchell, that man is no friend of mine.”

  “Do you miss it?” I ask.

  “Living?”

  I nod.

  “I miss . . . some aspects,” he replies thoughtfully, “but death brings with it a certain amount of stability, and after a while, you realize that isn’t such a bad thing.”

  My wallet is in the back pocket of my jeans—it’s one of the few belongings I brought with me into death. I pull it out and remove the scrap of paper I keep where a photo would normally be.

  Living.

  My writing is really messy. My parents used to say it looked as if a drunken spider had fallen into an inkpot and then staggered across the page. At least I don’t draw balloon circles over my I’s. Medusa does that.

  Why did I kiss Patty?

  “I have something else to show you, Mitchell.”

  Septimus walks over to the accounting office’s safe. It’s taller than both of us, although we’re both well over six feet. It has been forged into the black rock, and my first week as an intern was spent practicing and memorizing the combination. We weren’t allowed to write it down, for obvious security reasons, although I did have it on a scrap of paper until I could remember it.