The Devil's Intern

by Donna Hosie

  And then it continues in Hell. I’m telling you, there’s no escape from it.

  “Why were you laughing?”

  Crap! When the Hell did Medusa wake up? She was purring like a kitten ten seconds ago. Now she’s standing right next to me, running her fingers through her hair like a comb, trying to untangle the curls. It’s Alfarin and Elinor’s fault. The gruesome twosome is making so much noise I didn’t hear Medusa get off the bed.

  “Why were you laughing, Mitchell?” she asks again. I can feel the heat radiating off her; she’s burning up. Or maybe that’s just my face.

  “You know there’s a forty-year age gap between us,” I reply.

  “So what?”

  “If we ever dated, you’d be a cougar.”

  I swear I’m my own worst enemy. I could have said I was making plans for our death departures, or plotting an escape route. We’re only up the avenue from Tiffany’s, for Hell’s sake, I could have said I was going to buy her a diamond to make up for the leather jacket.

  No. That would be too sane. Instead I have to go and call her a cougar.

  “Then thank Hell that unfortunate situation will never happen,” she replies, but she sits down on my lap and wraps her arms around my neck. She gently places her head on my shoulder.

  I’m so confused. Why do girls do this? She says something mean but then she’s cuddling me at the same time. And her ass is really bony and is digging into my thigh. I shift her weight a little and she falls even closer against me. She smells like clean sheets, which is really nice and reminds me of my mom and my old bed and my old life.

  “You smell like sleep.”

  “I smell like sheep?”

  “What? That’s not what I said.”

  “You said I smell like sheep.”

  “Sleep, not sheep.”

  “How can someone smell like sleep? It’s a verb. Verbs don’t smell.”

  “I meant you smell like clean sheets.”

  “Are you saying I usually smell like dirty sheets?”

  “Forget I opened my mouth.”

  “You said I smell like sheep.”

  “I said you smell like sleep. I was trying to be cute. I thought girls like guys who are cute.”

  “Why are you trying to be cute? And I already like you.”

  Why is this so hard? For the love of all things unholy, someone write a manual on girls.

  “I’m trying to be cute because you’re my best friend and you’ve followed me out of Hell, breaking about a thousand laws in the process. You’re having nightmares already, and for the first time since we met, you’ve finally told me how you died. I wanted to be nice, so I thought I’d say you smelled like sleep, all warm and cozy. Not sheep, okay?”

  Alfarin grunts from the chair, but his chin continues to rest on his chest. Elinor now sounds like a jet plane taking off. At some point she’ll break the sound barrier and the roof of the Plaza will explode into the sky.

  And now Medusa is laughing. I think traveling through time and celestial domains has fried her brain. It has certainly messed with my head. She nestles back into my shoulder, but now I’m too self-conscious to wrap my arms around her. I’m bound to say the wrong thing.

  “You’re an idiot, Mitchell Johnson.”

  “And you’re a humungous pain in the ass. And speaking of asses, you need to put on some weight. Your butt is as bony as your elbows.”

  “I thought boys liked skinny girls.”

  “Nah. Girls should have a bit of meat on them.”

  “Like Patty Lloyd?”

  Don’t say the wrong thing, Mitchell.

  “I shouldn’t have kissed her, and I really regret it, Medusa.”

  “She isn’t good enough for you, Mitchell.”

  “Do you know anyone who is?”

  But Medusa just sits there, tensed like a spring. She doesn’t answer my question. Her fluttering eyelashes are the only part of her that’s moving.

  “Don’t ye two look cute?”

  Elinor is stretching on the bed. I hadn’t even realized the pneumatic drill noise had stopped. Medusa releases herself from my lap and is gone. I feel cold and empty without her sitting on me. All I’m left with are cramps in my right leg. As soon as Elinor speaks, Alfarin starts to stir as well. Her voice is his personal alarm clock.

  “You two snore so loud I’m amazed the park police didn’t burst in.”

  “Elinor does not snore,” says Alfarin indignantly. “Her dead lungs simply move heavily.”

  “Thank ye, Alfarin.” Elinor beams at him and he gives her a regal nod.

  Mitchell Johnson, also known as M.J., also known as total loser when it comes to girls regardless of eye color, 0.

  Alfarin, son of Hlif, son of Dobin, Viking warrior, remains manly even when girls braid his beard, 1.

  I think it’s time to change time.

  13. 9 Harpa 970

  Right now neither Alfarin nor I are capable of making a decision on an empty stomach, so our first joint resolution is to order room service. Thirty minutes later, a guy who doesn’t look much older than me wheels a silver cart into the room. I want to tell him to get a move on and start living his life because it could be ripped away from him at any second. Instead, I hand him a fifty-buck tip and he thanks me repeatedly before quickly backing out of the room, clearly scared I’m going to take it back. Alfarin has already pulled off the silver-plated covers on the cart and is groaning in a rather indecent way at the piles of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and pastries.

  “Have ye decided on a plan?” asks Elinor. Alfarin is playing waiter and has taken a plate of food and a cup of hot chocolate over to her.

  “We have to decide which of us wants to go back to the moment of our death,” I say quietly.

  “I think I should be the first to try, my friend,” says Alfarin. He opens up the guitar case and takes out his axe. His thick fingers flex around the wooden handle.

  “I’m cool with that if the others are,” I reply, “but, just out of interest, why do you think you should be first?”

  “Isn’t it ladies first?” quips Medusa.

  “Normally I would adhere to that rule,” replies Alfarin, “but this is not as simple as opening a door and being a gentleman. If something goes wrong, you and Elinor need to be able to escape. Mitchell is our leader, the bearer of the Viciseometer, and he must be entrusted with your safety.”

  “Technically, I am the stealer of the Viciseometer,” I mutter, “but I get where you’re coming from, Alfarin. So are you two okay with this?” I ask Medusa and Elinor. “We’ll travel back to Alfarin’s time first and help him escape death.”

  “We’re really going to do this, aren’t we?” asks Medusa softly. Elinor hugs her. Suddenly my hunger is gone. I want to change my death so badly, and I want my best friends to have the same opportunity to alter theirs, but so many things could go wrong. What if we lose the Viciseometer and get stuck in the time of the Vikings? What happens if we get separated and only half of us can escape? What if the Skin-Walkers find us and take us away to become Unspeakables because of all the laws we’ve broken? The thought of Medusa, Alfarin, or Elinor being abused or tormented because of my selfishness is hard to stomach.

  “You guys shouldn’t have come,” I mutter. The Viciseometer is still on the writing desk. It looks innocuous enough. The milky-white side is faceup, but when I touch it, I can sense the vibrations humming through it. It’s as if it’s trying to talk to me, to warn me.

  I wonder if it can sense danger. Septimus said it had been used to introduce new inventions on earth, but I’m going to be abusing it. My overactive imagination—fueled by four long, dead years in which I have seen the ultimate in crazy—suddenly considers the Viciseometer a living object. If I don’t use it correctly, it could take revenge on me and my friends in ways I haven’t even imagined.

  “We are not going to have this discussion again,” says Medusa, “and you need to stop trying to be our protector, Mitchell. The four of us are here togeth
er, and we will see this thing through to the end. Team DEVIL, remember? And what do you think would happen now if we did change our minds and went back to Hell? Do you think Septimus is going to welcome us all back with a party?”

  “M is right, Mitchell,” says Elinor, casting her deep-green eyes around the room as she rubs her neck. “We know ye are more worried about us than ye are for yerself, but we made the choice to come.”

  “Then it is in Odin’s mighty hands once more,” says Alfarin, standing and puffing out his chest.

  “Can you remember the exact date you died, Alfarin?” I ask. “We’ll need to get the coordinates right. I don’t want the girls hanging around fighting Vikings longer than absolutely necessary.”

  “I’m going to change my clothes,” says Elinor. She walks over to Alfarin, who is suddenly very quiet, and strokes his back. “Don’t ye leave without me, Alfarin, or I will be very annoyed.”

  The whole room has gone very still. I sit on the carpet and rest my chin on the edge of the bed so I am looking up at Medusa. She has the clearest complexion of any person I’ve ever met. There isn’t a line or scar or spot on her. She has skin like a vanilla milk shake.

  You still get zits in Hell. Brian Molewell—the guy who is almost certainly celebrating my departure from Hell because it will mean he’ll get my internship—has acne so bad I bet Up There can see it.

  Not Medusa. She has lovely, clear skin that is completely unmarked. In fact, I think the only part of her that isn’t perfect is the small chicken pox scar on the right side of her forehead.

  She’s so beautiful, and she doesn’t seem to have a clue.

  Medusa and Elinor get changed into some of the new stuff they bought last night. I don’t know why they bothered. They’re still wearing skinny jeans and sweatshirts. The girls are disgusted when Alfarin and I say we haven’t bothered to change our underwear, but I’ve only had my boxers on for a day. Plenty of death in them yet.

  Alfarin hands me a piece of paper. On it he has written 9 Harpa 970. The thirty-eighth minute of the sixth evening hour.

  “Dude, what’s this?” I ask.

  “My death moment,” he replies.

  “Harpa is not a month.”

  “In your modern language, it is April.”

  “What was the weather like when you died, Alfarin?” asks Medusa.

  “Weather?” I exclaim. “He’s about to die and you’re asking about the weather?”

  “We need to dress appropriately, Mitchell,” replies Medusa. “Need I remind you that more than your eyes turned blue when we arrived in New York?”

  “It was cold,” replies Alfarin quietly. “I remember the snow turning red.”

  My stomach twists. Medusa swaps a frightened look with Elinor, whose hand has gone to the back of her neck.

  “Wear jackets,” says Medusa eventually, handing Alfarin his. She pats his arm lovingly.

  “Can I say something, Mitchell?” asks Elinor as the four of us stand in a square formation in the center of the room.

  “You don’t have to ask permission, Elinor.”

  “We have to see the place of death in order to understand how to change it. But how will ye be able to visualize it in the Viciseometer? Ye haven’t seen where Alfarin died. He will have to be the one to hold the Viciseometer, transfer the memory, and then press the button.”

  Genius Elinor. “She’s right, Alfarin,” I say. “You’re gonna have to do this.”

  Without a word, but with his large face already displaying tiny beads of sweat, Alfarin takes the Viciseometer from the table.

  “Talk me through it,” he says. “And hold the Viciseometer with me, my friend. I sense it responds well to you.”

  “Everyone ready?” I ask, and my friends nod.

  I show Alfarin how to input the desired time on the white face. His movements are cumbersome, and he takes much longer on his first attempt than I did. Once the time is secured with the three black buttons, he turns the Viciseometer over and starts to manipulate the date into place.

  “Hold on, everyone,” I say.

  “Don’t let me go,” whispers Medusa.

  “Never,” I reply, and I mean it.

  Suddenly we hear the sound of several fists pounding on the door. Elinor screams and Alfarin almost drops the Viciseometer. I swear loudly as angry voices echo in the hallway outside.

  “They’ve come for us!” shrieks Elinor, and she lets go of Alfarin and starts pulling at her neck.

  “Alfarin, quickly, you need to picture the image. We have to go now!” I shout. “Elinor, hold on with both hands.”

  “Is it the Skin-Walkers? I can’t believe Septimus would actually send them after us!” cries Medusa.

  The door handle is shaken violently, and Medusa starts hopping from one foot to the other.

  “We have to go now, now, now, now!”

  “I have it!” shouts Alfarin.

  My eyeballs are once again pulled into the back of my skull as a blaze of fire washes over my skin. I swear I can smell the acrid scent of burning, and this time I hear screams in the darkness as the shadows of the dead travel with us.

  Our landing in 970 AD is not graceful. Everyone, with the exception of Alfarin, falls into squelching black mud. It is sleeting. Although it’s dusk, the sky is alight with fire. Alfarin hauls Medusa and Elinor to their feet and drags them into a small shedlike building: pieces of wood stacked like a one-layer house of cards. Screams and jeers and deep-throated cries fill the air.

  I stagger to my feet and stumble into the shed. It has no back and stinks like a toilet. Both Medusa and Elinor have gone green.

  “We will be able to see my death from here,” says Alfarin matter-of-factly.

  “Where are we, Alfarin?”

  “An English village. We did not know the name. We came for their stores of crops.”

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  “I would not be here if I weren’t.”

  Alfarin and I inch to the back of the shed. From here we have a clear view of a large patch of straw-strewn ground. Several thatched buildings, most of which are on fire, circle it. There is a ring of men and women; I count at least fifteen heads. They’re armed with an assortment of weapons, from scythes to long pieces of wood. There are two enormous, snarling wolfhounds with long, stringy-looking legs. They look like engorged rats on stilts rather than dogs, and I’m more scared of them than I am of the men with axes.

  The circle of villagers is closing in on something I can’t see. They have something trapped.

  And then I realize what, or rather, who, they are about to attack.

  I stagger back. I can’t watch this, and Alfarin certainly shouldn’t watch this. We can use the Viciseometer again. Go back another hour and get him out of trouble before it really starts. We’ve arrived too late.

  “Mitchell, my friend,” whispers Alfarin, beckoning me forward.

  “We’ll go back again, Alfarin. We messed up.”

  But Alfarin is shaking his head.

  “If you are my friends, you will stand by me in this moment,” he says slowly. “It is the moment I have longed to see from the eyes of others for so long now, but I never thought the gods would allow me the honor.”

  Medusa and Elinor have more stomach than me, and they crawl in the muck toward Alfarin. They are caked in crap, and yet they go to stand by their friend. I am ashamed of myself. Despite every sane ounce of humanity that I possess, I go and join them.

  It is beginning.

  We are about to watch the death of a Viking prince.

  We are about to watch the death of our friend.

  14. Death of a Viking

  The freezing slush is thickening. I can feel it against my face. It sticks to my mouth and nostrils and starts to layer onto my eyebrows. Thick black smoke has filled the air; the smell of burning wood seems sickly sweet.

  A rough hand has gripped mine. I’m assuming it’s Medusa’s, but I don’t look down at it. Right now I feel nothing but terror
.

  Alfarin is standing just a couple of steps in front of us. The four of us are still hiding in the back of the shed, but even its makeshift walls are shaking under the threat of medieval violence. The entire wooden structure could come down on us at any moment.

  I respect Alfarin with every bone in my body, but watching him now . . . well, I’m speechless. It’s as if he isn’t human. He looks like a statue on top of a monolith. Not a flicker of movement. He’s turned to stone. I can’t read his face because it’s expressionless. Alfarin stands tall and watches. He’s just watching, for crying out loud.

  But this isn’t a television or movie screen playing out a scene. This is real life, albeit a thousand years in the past. This is history in the present, and his placid acceptance of it scares the crap out of me. Our soul is the only thing we have left in Hell, but Alfarin’s seems to have disappeared.

  We need to go back farther in time. We need to stop whatever it was that caused Alfarin to be separated from his clan. We have to help him. I want to punch those words into his brain. WE CAN HELP YOU. That’s why we’re here in the first place.

  I know what’s coming next; we all do. Alfarin can probably still feel what happens next. My death was instant. I have no memory of the bus squashing my head like a watermelon, or of what caused me to run out into the road.

  Alfarin remembers. He’s even joked about it. We were at Thomason’s when several Vikings decided to do the Dance of a Thousand Blades. It was just an excuse for them to start throwing knives around, but Alfarin—who was laughing his head off at the time—goes and announces that this was how he died. By the time we had all the gory details, Elinor had almost passed out.

  And now Alfarin wants us to watch it for real.

  I can hear that mob from here. The surrounding structures may be burning down, but they’ve trapped the noise as well as the villagers. Everything is magnified tenfold, as if we’re in a cave. And now for the first time I can hear Alfarin. Not our Alfarin, the other one—the living version.

  He isn’t going to be that way for long.