The Devil's Intern

by Donna Hosie

  I still have the Viciseometer tightly gripped in my hand. I pick up the red needle and start inputting time onto the white face.

  “What are ye doing, Mitchell?”

  “I’m taking us farther back in time.”

  “Now?” sobs Medusa. I look down at her and realize that her filthy face has long wet streaks snaking all the way down into the neck of her sweatshirt. She’s been quietly crying this whole time.

  “We need to go back another hour. We can’t stop this now.” My voice is so high it hurts my throat.

  “If you leave now, I will not go with you, my friend,” says Alfarin. He doesn’t look at me; he is watching his living self. He inches closer to the scene. The jeering mob and growling dogs are just feet away from the living Viking prince. A flaming torch has just been jabbed at him. His axe is raised. Alfarin will go down fighting, but he is going down. His death is inevitable. It’s already in the history books.

  “And ye will have to go without me as well,” says Elinor. She inhales a pathetic little sniffle but stands upright. “I am staying with Alfarin.”

  For the first time since he dragged our asses into this shed, Alfarin takes his blue eyes away from his death moment. He looks at Elinor with pure adoration and then goes back to watching. His two-handed grip tightens on his axe, but I know he won’t use it to defend his other self.

  “We have to do this, Mitchell,” whispers Medusa. “This is Alfarin’s moment in time and we can’t make the decision for him.”

  And she is right, because Medusa is always right. So I man up and step forward. Now snow is coming down thick and fast. It settles around our feet, coating the mud like a frothing sea. We’re sinking into it. The Viciseometer stays in my hand and I draw courage from its power.

  “Then we’re all with you, Alfarin.”

  The living Alfarin doesn’t look scared or clueless. He knows he’s going to die, but he’s going to take as many of the mob down with him as he can. The axe is raised. Thick, freezing rain bounces off the blade, like popcorn. Within moments the slush turns red. The living Alfarin wasn’t the first one to attack, he wasn’t even the second, but once he starts fighting back, he is lethal.

  Watching movie battle scenes doesn’t prepare you for the sound or sight of violence. It’s the cuts that aren’t clean that really test my strength to remain standing. The blood I can cope with, but it’s the flash of shattered white bone that turns my legs to jelly.

  Six of the baying mob are already down; limbs litter the ground. If it weren’t for the screaming, we could be looking at horror shop mannequins. The living Alfarin is so strong he can take on two at a time. His axe is like an extension of his arm, and the blood of his victims is diluted by the slush to make a river of red that flows like a waterfall down his arm.

  But a lot of that blood is now his. The living Alfarin has taken blades to the back, shoulders, and legs. A piece of wood is used as a club and is smashed down onto his skull three times in quick succession before he manages to decapitate the assailant. Thick blood, so dark it’s almost black, is running out of the living Alfarin’s ears and nose. Leather boots protect his lower legs from the jaws of the dogs, but then one jumps up and clamps its teeth onto the living Alfarin’s throat.

  Armed men and women could not bring the prince down, but the hound, which is quickly joined by the other snarling monster, does it in seconds.

  Elinor’s knees give way and she sinks into the mud. Medusa is choking. I have snot running down into my mouth and the tears from my stupid blue eyes are streaming fast and pooling under my chin.

  Our Alfarin does not move. His head is held high, his back a straight line. He is dying with honor—a small smile the only flicker of emotion on his round face.

  And now comes the worst moment of all, because now we can hear our friend dying. He isn’t screaming or crying for help; he is a Viking prince who will not betray his ancestors, but the roars that bellowed from his chest just minutes ago are now feeble and weak. His axe slams into one of the hounds. It yelps with a sound that could shatter glass as it flies through the air, its intestines trailing like the ribbons on a kite. The other hound immediately backs away.

  A man, small but heavily built, with a bowl haircut, steps forward. He has a hatchet in his hand. The dull, rusty blade is a quarter of the size of Alfarin’s weapon. The man holds it in both hands and raises it above his head.

  My chest is rattling; something is trying to force its way out. “No!” bursts out of my mouth and I make to rush forward. Our Alfarin’s huge arm is thrust in front of my chest.

  “This is my fate, my friend. This is how Odin meant it to be.”

  “We . . . can . . . stop this.” I can’t breathe. I’m dead, it shouldn’t matter, but it does. My hands grab hold of Elinor’s shoulders for support, but the force of my weight pushes her deeper into the mud.

  It’s too late. We were always going to be too late. The hatchet is thrust down, and what’s left of the crowd jeers and cheers as it splits open Alfarin’s face.

  A hail of thin black sticks rains down. Cheers turn to screams as those still standing collapse like dominoes. There is a roar as a mass of fur-clad men rush into the muddy circular space where the other Alfarin is now lying lifeless on the ground.

  Our Alfarin jerks out of the catatonic state he has been in for the last five minutes. He pulls me back farther into the shed.

  “My clan, my family” is all he says.

  Elinor is trying to get to her feet, but she’s like a newborn foal struggling to stand on wobbly legs. Alfarin wraps his arms around her and picks her up. Her eyes are rolling in her head and showing way too much white for my liking. They’re eerily reminiscent of the eyes of newbie devils.

  “Medusa, Medusa.” I try to pull my best friend up, but for someone so little and skinny, she has turned into a dead weight.

  “They killed him. They murdered him like an animal.” Medusa has gone into shock. Her eyes aren’t rolling like Elinor’s, but they can’t seem to fix on anything, either.

  “Mitchell, do you still have the Viciseometer?” asks Alfarin.

  “Of course.”

  “Take us forward one hour, please.”

  “What? Are you insane? We need to go back an hour. Alfarin, we need to go back several weeks and stop you from getting in the longboat in the first place.”

  “This is my death, my friend. Now take us forward one hour. It will be the last request I make of you, you have my word.”

  Cursing the stubbornness of friends, I chart time on the white face of the Viciseometer. I don’t need to change the red face, but I turn it over and pass it to Alfarin.

  “You can’t visualize what you haven’t seen, Alfarin.”

  “I am taking us into that wooded area, by the water,” replies Alfarin, pointing into the smoke-filled distance. “I can visualize that. I need to see how this ends.”

  I’m confused, but I don’t have the energy or willpower to argue about anything anymore. I feel more drained of life than at any other time in the four years since my death.

  “Hold on,” orders Alfarin. “Mitchell, take the Viciseometer with me.”

  I take Medusa in my arms. “I’m so sorry I got you into this” is all I can say.

  I make a grab for the Viciseometer, just as the invisible fire crushes me into a black hole.

  The screams of the dead are blown away by the howling wind. We have arrived amid dying trees clustered together like rotting bodies.

  The sky is black as ink, pitch dark, without moon or stars. The village is still burning, but not as ferociously as when we first arrived. The snow has dampened the fires.

  “Why are we here, Alfarin?” I ask. I’m so exhausted I can’t stand anymore. Alfarin is the only one on his feet. Both Medusa and Elinor are flat on their backs.

  “This was my final journey,” replies Alfarin. “I want to see it with my own eyes.”

  He’s standing behind a tree that has split down the middle. I force myself t
o join him. I don’t care anymore if we’re seen. I just want this day to end so we can get out of here. We should never have started with Alfarin’s violent death. We should have started with one that was more . . . more . . . Who am I kidding? Not one of our deaths was easy. We died young, which isn’t natural or peaceful. What have I done by bringing them all here?

  “Thank you, my friend. I am honored to share this moment in my time with you, my brother.”

  I rest my arm around Alfarin’s broad shoulders. We’re from different countries, different cultures, and different times, but we are brothers nonetheless.

  A longboat is beached on the shore. Six men make a solemn procession through a torchlit crowd. On their shoulders is a long, lumpy package wrapped in red cloth.

  It is Alfarin.

  His dead body is lowered into the center of the longboat. Someone I immediately recognize from Hell places Alfarin’s axe on top of the cloth. It is Alfarin’s father, King Hlif.

  There are no tears, no wailing. Just silent respect. The torches are thrown on top of Alfarin’s shroud and the longboat begins to blaze. His clan wades into the water and pushes the boat out. It is captured quickly by the choppy water, and it rocks to and fro as it burns.

  “This is beautiful, Alfarin,” whispers Medusa. She and Elinor have come around, and the four of us stand and watch the longboat burn.

  “We can leave now,” says Alfarin, and he bows his head. I’ll never say a word to anyone, but I’m pretty sure I see a single tear slowly trickle down his face.

  Alfarin’s soul has returned.

  I start to map coordinates into the Viciseometer. I’m taking us back to New York.

  But then I realize there is one last thing left to do.

  “Alfarin,” I call as Medusa and Elinor loop their arms either side of mine.

  “Yes, my friend.”

  “Your clan. They’ve always claimed they saw you in death, just after your burial.”

  Medusa immediately gets it and gasps. Elinor and Alfarin are a little slower and look confused.

  I point to a gap in the trees. “They saw you, man. This is the moment they saw you. You have to go out there and show them that you’re okay.”

  “Oh, Mitchell!” exclaims Elinor excitedly. “Ye are right. They saw ye time-traveling, Alfarin. It was real.”

  That faithful axe is swung into the air and Alfarin strides out of the wood and into the open. Medusa, Elinor, and I watch from the shadows. Elinor has her fingers in her mouth; Medusa is muttering, “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.”

  We can see Alfarin’s clan bathed in the eerie flickering firelight. At first they don’t see our Alfarin, but then suddenly a cry goes up. Fingers start to point and heads start to turn. I recognize Thomason, Alfarin’s cousin. Alfarin’s uncle Magnus is standing next to his father, and splashing in the icy water is Odd, who is a second cousin twice removed or something, and who lives up to his name in more ways than one. Apparently a hundred years ago he married a banana.

  It seems wrong to witness something so private, but I keep watching anyway. Alfarin raises his hand in farewell and steps back into the shadows. Medusa and Elinor are bawling their eyes out now and clutching at each other tightly. The figures on the shoreline do not move.

  “Ready?”

  Alfarin nods; he has a serene expression on his face. He’s at peace. He died with honor and his clan passed him on to the other side with respect.

  I know we won’t be coming back.

  15. There were two in the bed and the little one said . . .

  I take us back to the hotel room, but twelve hours after we left. I want it dark. It’s safer in the dark, for us, anyway. Once the screaming of trapped souls has stopped ringing in my ears, I hear rapid knocking on the door again. The handle rattles. Someone is being persistent. Have they seriously been out there half the day?

  “Get in the bathroom,” I order the others.

  “If it is the Skin-Walkers, then we go together,” says Alfarin.

  “Do ye honestly think the Skin-Walkers are going to knock on the door?” says Elinor, sinking into a chair. I’ve never heard Elinor use sarcasm before. It suits her.

  “If it’s the Skin-Walkers, they can damn well wait until I’ve had a bath,” says Medusa. She pulls off her filthy hiking boots and drops them in a leather wastebasket.

  The door opens with a crash. A young woman, in a short dress with white cuffs and a starched collar, falls through sideways. She has a white ceramic plate of small chocolates in one hand and a set of jangling key cards in the other; she must be here to turn down the bed.

  “Careful, Mitchell,” teases Medusa. “Maid service is here to take you away to be beaten with dirty towels for the rest of eternity.”

  Elinor starts to giggle. I notice she’s shaking. It can’t be because of the cold—we have the thermostat in the room turned up to its highest level. It’s like Hell in here.

  The maid takes one look at the four of us, offers a mumbled apology, and runs, taking the chocolates with her. I can’t blame her. We’re covered in mud and we stink like the cesspit of a hospital dedicated to people with gastric issues. Medusa’s hair is now going to need its own passport because, unlike the rest of us, it’s alive.

  “I need some time alone, my friends,” says Alfarin softly. He dries the wet blade of his axe and carefully places it back in its guitar case. I nod and watch him as he leaves the hotel room. He won’t go far. We’re his family now.

  Medusa has already taken ownership of the bathroom, so I take a key card and use the shower in the other room. I lose track of time under the deathly-hot spray.

  When I get back to the main room I realize Elinor has also left. I’m hoping she’s gone after Alfarin. She may be the oldest member of the team, but Elinor has a naïveté about her. Someone needs to look out for her, and Alfarin won’t go far if he knows Elinor has followed him.

  Alfarin was amazing today. I just hope he won’t regret his decision not to change his death. Then again, maybe he never intended to change it. He seemed to just want to witness it.

  I look around the room. It’s gotten very dirty since we arrived. A thin layer of pale dust, like fine ash, covers every surface. It wasn’t there before we left, and in real time we were only gone half a day.

  I curse as I run my finger along a polished mahogany table.

  It’s us. We’re contaminating the room simply by being here.

  The bathroom door opens and a blast of swirling steam gushes out. Medusa is wearing short pajama shorts—with sheep, of all things, printed on them. I can see her pink diamond tummy ring glistening in a small pool of water around her belly button, although I probably shouldn’t look that closely because I’ll get a slap around the head if she realizes.

  “I thought you had an aversion to sheep,” I tease.

  “I have an aversion to someone telling me I smell like one.”

  “Did you seriously bring your pajamas with you?”

  “I was prepared.”

  “Freak.”

  “I don’t care what you think,” she replies, sticking her little button nose in the air. She makes a little humph noise and climbs onto the bed and sticks her skinny legs under the white covers.

  “I think Elinor went after Alfarin.”

  “Good,” replies Medusa. “He shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I’m getting room service. Want anything?”

  “BLT with fries, blueberry cheesecake and ice cream, and see if they can bring up some Diet Coke and coffee, and a basket of dinner rolls, and lots of butter, and maybe some jam . . .”

  Once Medusa has finished listing enough food to feed Hell for a week, I order for both of us. Alfarin and Elinor still haven’t returned by the time the cart is wheeled in by three staff members. I only give one tip, which doesn’t go over so well. They’ll probably spit in my next order.

  “Do you think I should go look for them?”

  “They’ll be fine, Mitchell,” says Medusa thickly. She has shoved a han
dful of fries into her mouth.

  “Alfarin and Elinor don’t know this city, Medusa. Anything could happen to them.”

  “Will you stop worrying for one second? Alfarin and Elinor have probably read every book in the library. They’ll know more about this time and city than we do, and anyway, what could happen to them here that could possibly be worse than what we witnessed today?”

  She has a point. Medusa is amazing in the way she can think ahead and back at the same time. My head aches just thinking about the now.

  “Whose death do you think we should see next?”

  “I’m not sure I’m quite ready to visit mine yet,” says Medusa softly. She’s sliding her finger through the topping of the blueberry cheesecake. Previously I would have made a smutty joke, but now all I can think about is her death.

  “Who was he, Medusa? The one you wanted to take with you.”

  She pauses and extracts her finger from the cheesecake. Her face looks pained, as if she has something trapped in her throat. “He was my stepfather,” she says eventually.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Medusa smiles. It isn’t her openmouthed, dazzling-teeth, happy smile. It’s sad and thoughtful.

  “Not right now.”

  I wish Medusa wouldn’t keep secrets from me, but I don’t push it. I have the Viciseometer, so I have all the time in this world and the next, and I can put it on hold until she’s ready.

  Medusa is yawning. Our internal body clocks are all over the place. It’s like celestial jet lag, which has got to be worse than living jet lag. Now that she’s started, I can barely keep my own eyes open.

  “You take the bed, I’ll take the sofa,” I say, placing the now-empty platters of food back on the cart. I open the door and wheel it out. I jog along the carpeted corridor and have a quick look around, but there’s no sign of Alfarin or Elinor. I hope they’re all right. They still haven’t washed off the thousand-year-old layer of mud we were soaked in, and more worryingly, they don’t have any money. They may think they know this time from reading books, but it’s not the same as living it.

  As I walk back along the corridor, I notice that a huge arrangement of flowers has started to wilt. Pink-and-white petals are falling like a ticker-tape parade. I reach out and touch something that could be a lily, I’m not sure, and it disintegrates into ash between my fingers.