The Devil's Intern

by Donna Hosie

  I start swearing. I get louder and louder, and eventually even the couple making out in the tree stop what they’re doing and yell at me to peace out.

  “At least the great Lord Septimus hasn’t informed the HBI,” says Alfarin.

  “What are we going to do, Mitchell?” asks Elinor.

  I gaze into the red face of my Viciseometer, willing it to help me in some way. Yet it sits benignly between my clenched fingers.

  A million thoughts are racing through my head like a fast-moving film. I see Medusa in all of them.

  “We have to go back to Hell,” I announce. Alfarin and Elinor immediately start remonstrating, but I shout at them to let me finish.

  “We’re going back to Hell for Medusa’s record. We’ll break into devil resources, get her file, and come straight back here again. Even if we can’t find anything on the eighteenth of June, 1967, we’ll still have addresses, names of people she was associated with . . .”

  “Including the stepfather,” adds Alfarin knowingly.

  “Exactly.”

  “Give me the Viciseometer, Mitchell,” demands Elinor. “I’ll take us back to devil resources. I worked there for decades as a filing clerk after the Spanish influenza pandemic of 1918.”

  “Remember, we’re looking for Melissa Pallister, born in 1951, died on the twenty-fifth of June, 1967,” I say urgently. “As soon as we have the file, we come back here.”

  As Elinor moves the red needle around both faces of the Viciseometer, Alfarin takes me aside.

  “Do you think we will find her?” he asks.

  I can see the oozing pulp of mashed strawberries on my sneakers. The metaphor is not lost on me.

  “I won’t rest until we do.”

  24. Resourceful Devils

  It feels as if we’ve landed in a furnace. And we have. The biggest oven most of the living will ever know—once they’re dead, that is.

  We are back in Hell.

  Elinor has taken us deep into the heart of the devil resources department. It is spread over levels 211 to 278 and contains the devil resources details of every dead person now residing in the overpopulated Underworld.

  Bright-red, sticky-looking letters displaying the number 267 are stamped on the glistening rock walls. Brilliant, resourceful Elinor has taken us straight to the section containing all the surnames beginning with the letter P.

  The files are in towering black cabinets. All have a smiling picture of The Devil on them.

  “Should we spread out?” asks Alfarin.

  “Yeah,” I reply, blinking as my eyes stream from the hot air blowing through the labyrinth of dark corridors. “We’ll stay close to each other, though. We’ll take one row each, side by side. Holler if you find the last name Pallister.”

  We spread out and start searching. You’d think someone whose surname begins with Pa would be quick to find, but we walk for what seems like hours up and down the rows. It takes me ten minutes to get beyond all the dead Paddocks.

  Four have become three, and Team DEVIL feels unstable with one of its members missing. I keep expecting a puny little fist to punch me, or mad corkscrew curls to brush against my face. I want to hear her voice mocking me.

  I miss my friend. I miss her so much it’s like a constant stabbing pain in my chest.

  As I search the names written on the dusty black cabinets, images of Medusa being tortured by the Skin-Walkers start to flicker into my head. I can’t help it. The more I try not to think about them, the more images arrive to spite me. I see her silent scream because her tongue is missing; I see her blood bubbling on the ground; I see the inverted spikes on chains piercing her skin . . .

  Stop. No more.

  We’ll find her. I will find her. I still have ownership of time.

  Elinor yells to Alfarin and me. I run to the end of the row and turn left. I can’t see her, but Alfarin is hurtling toward me with his axe bobbing up and down on his shoulder. He’s like a freight train and can’t stop easily once he builds momentum. He runs straight into me and we collapse on the floor. His blade nearly scalps me in the process.

  “Elinor!” cries Alfarin, and my eardrum shatters. “Where are you?”

  “Down here!” she yells.

  “Down where?” I choke. Alfarin is still lying on top of me.

  “I’m here.”

  This is not helpful.

  “Get off me, Alfarin,” I grunt.

  “I am sorry, my friend. I thought Elinor was in danger.”

  Alfarin hauls himself up and offers me a hand. Together we go in search of Elinor. We find her standing a third of the way down a dark corridor of files. She’s bathed in the light from a single torch, lit high above her head. Her shadow stretches behind her. It’s moving, although she is not. Alfarin and I jog toward her, but something doesn’t feel right. Of all the drawers in all the rows, why is there a single flame in the exact place we need to look?

  “I’ve found the surname Pallister, Mitchell,” says Elinor proudly. Her pale hand is splayed out across the front of a cabinet. She still has the Viciseometer in her other hand.

  Scores of drawers have that surname written on them. Without a word, the three of us stand side by side and Alfarin and Elinor start opening them. The drawers squeal and rattle, and plumes of black dust belch out as my friends rifle through files that haven’t felt the touch of a devil in centuries.

  “This is full of first names beginning with S,” says Alfarin, slamming the drawer shut. The towering cabinet rocks precariously.

  “I have the Cs,” says Elinor.

  I haven’t started opening any drawers. My eyes are trained on the single torch burning brightly above us.

  “Don’t you think this is too much of a coincidence?” I ask as they each open another drawer. “We’re looking for a Melissa Pallister, and there just happens to be a lit torch directly above the section we need.”

  “Ye are just being paranoid,” replies Elinor; she sneezes as an explosion of dust showers her. “It just means someone has been filing down here recently.”

  But I’m not so sure.

  “I have the Ms!” cries Alfarin. “Curse the gods, there are so many Melissas in Hell. Does our Medusa have a middle name?”

  “It’s Olivia,” I reply.

  “Melissa Olivia Pallister,” mumbles Alfarin; his thick fingers are searching through the files. Elinor is bouncing from one foot to the other in anticipation, but my eyes are now shooting from one end of the corridor to the other.

  Something is going on. I’m developing a sense for trouble, and I can hear the whispers of the shadows. They’re laughing at us as they continue to dance in the darkness.

  “Melissa Oliphant . . . Melissa Olive . . . who in Odin’s name would give their daughter the name of Oliphant?” mutters Alfarin. “Melissa . . . oh, no, this can’t be correct. Why in Odin’s name is this file in here?”

  “Alfarin,” I say through gritted teeth. “Now is not the time to question freak names or filing errors. Just find Medusa’s file and then we can go.”

  But Alfarin has turned white. He has a file clasped in his hand, and his mouth is open.

  “What’s wrong, Alfarin?”

  “Is that Medusa’s file?” asks Elinor.

  Our Viking friend shakes his head. “No. It is Mitchell’s.”

  I snatch the file from him. Someone is messing with us. Why is my devil resources file in place of Medusa’s?

  “Is her file in there?” asks Elinor, but she doesn’t wait for an answer. She peers into the drawer herself and starts pulling out thick, dusty files. She throws them on the floor. She doesn’t seem to comprehend the fact that my file was sitting where Medusa’s should be.

  For someone who only lived seventeen years and who died just four years ago, my devil resources file is surprisingly thick. I open the beige cardboard cover and am immediately faced with a passport-sized photograph of myself. It was taken at the HalfWay House. My eyes are white, and I don’t look human.

  It’s horrib
le.

  There are other photos in the file as well. Large color prints of my moment of death. Pathetic and crumpled, my body is lying on the road in front of the Greyhound bus that slammed into me. There isn’t any blood that I can see, but what turns my stomach is the reaction of the people on the bus itself. Several have their hands over their mouths, but two passengers have their cameras out.

  Morbid sons of bitches are taking photos of my body as if they were sightseers and I was the main attraction.

  “That is sickening!” exclaims Alfarin.

  It gets worse. The next photograph is of my gravestone. It’s made of gray marble. It has a sculpted angel on top with outstretched arms that are holding a harp. How revolting can you get? According to the file, my parents buried me in DC, instead of Rhode Island, where I lived with my mom.

  Then I read the inscription on the gravestone and I want to scream.

  My mom inscribed my grave with M.J., the nickname that was my one link to being alive. But now it’s forever linked with my death.

  No, no, no, no, no. Mitchell Johnson, that’s me. Four syllables and nothing more.

  “Medusa’s file isn’t in here!” screams Elinor, and she slams the drawer shut and then kicks the cabinet in frustration. She runs to the end of the row, turns left, and then, after an absence of a few seconds, reappears. She’s like a headless chicken. She runs back to us and, seeing the look on my face, immediately apologizes.

  “I’m so sorry, Mitchell. I wasn’t thinking. Are ye all right? Is yer death coming back to ye now?”

  Then Elinor doubles over and pukes her guts up. Alfarin immediately goes to her aid, and I am left with my file and my memories.

  But nothing new is coming back to me. Any repressed thought I may have had about why I ran out into the road fails to materialize. I am as clueless as before.

  In fact, my devil resources file poses more questions than answers.

  On the cover, in neatly typed, bloodred lettering, is a form. It shows the file subject’s current status. Most of it is self-explanatory. I live in the H1N1 accommodation block—The Devil had all the blocks named after dreaded diseases—and I am employed as his intern in the accounting office on level 1. I am noted as a musical prodigy unsuitable for manual labor. It evens lists my hobby as eating. Medusa, Alfarin, and Elinor are mentioned as known associates.

  But at the bottom of the page is a box that reads Earthly Status.

  In block capitals, it reads REPLACED.

  “What does it mean by ‘replaced’?” I ask Alfarin. He shakes his head. Elinor is groaning and sweating on the floor.

  Now I’m really starting to freak out. Does this mean there’s another Mitchell Johnson? Did the Fates take my soul to live in this Underworld, only to replace my broken body with someone else? Are my parents in danger?

  Is someone living my life?

  My head is going to explode. I sink to the floor and put my head between my knees. I clamp my temples tightly.

  I can hear Alfarin whispering to Elinor. They’re talking about Medusa. I’m filled with self-loathing because now I want to forsake my best friend and travel to Washington.

  “It’s your call, Mitchell,” says Alfarin gently. He places a huge hand on my shoulder. “Elinor and I will follow you into fire itself. You know that.”

  I gaze into Elinor’s freckled face. She looks pale and clammy and is biting her bottom lip. Her eyes are welling with tears, and already her irises are turning pink. I guess that means my girly-pink eyes are coming back as well.

  Medusa has a tummy ring that matches her eyes.

  “I don’t know how to find her,” I whisper.

  “We have time,” says Alfarin.

  I slowly rise from the floor. My entire body clicks and twinges and aches. Elinor passes me the Viciseometer, and I start moving the red needle around the dial.

  I look up to the rock-hewn roof of level 267. The flaming torch is licking at the black ceiling. If I were a superhero, I would use my X-ray vision to see all the way through to level 1.

  This was Septimus’s doing. I’m sure of it.

  Why is he so desperate for me to go back to the time of my death? Does he want me to change it? Is he so sick to death of working with me that he would sacrifice Medusa to get me to go back? Why doesn’t he just fire me?

  I don’t understand any of this.

  “Are ye ready, Mitchell?”

  “I’m forgetting what Medusa looks like. What she sounds like.”

  Alfarin opens my backpack and takes out the photo of Team DEVIL. I take it from him.

  It’s still in my hand when we arrive in modern-day Washington, DC.

  25. The Replacement

  We arrive in daylight. Most of me is past caring whether we’re suddenly seen popping out of thin air. The rest of me is just sick of the darkness.

  Although I saw my gravestone in the file, I took a guess at the location of the cemetery. I didn’t know Washington very well when I was alive—it was just the place my dad lived and the place I happened to die. I wonder why my mom agreed to my being buried here. Then again, my parents were never the traditional kind, even when they divorced. They were nice to each other, for a start.

  So I take Alfarin and Elinor to the only cemetery I know in this city besides Arlington: Glenwood. It’s a pretty place, and I can understand why the living choose it, even if the site does reek of death. I can certainly smell it. It isn’t the stench of rotting corpses, six feet under the ground. It’s the smell of fire and salty tears and earth all mixed together.

  Like all cemeteries, it’s a little piece of Hell on earth.

  The chapel is a funny-looking building; it looks as if a child built it out of enormous bricks: a rectangular base and a wide-bottomed triangle on top. There are trees everywhere. This isn’t like Arlington cemetery with its regimented rows of white tablets. Glenwood is a smorgasbord of monoliths and angels and crosses.

  And there are thousands of them.

  “Where do we start?” cries Elinor, clearly horrified at the size of the cemetery.

  “I’m guessing there must be an office or something,” I suggest.

  “Cremation on a longboat is easier, my friend,” says Alfarin, looking around.

  “Yeah, but longboat cremations aren’t really done nowadays,” I reply. “There are probably health and safety regulations and a million bylaws against it. Plus, I hate to break it to you, Alfarin, but I wasn’t a Viking.”

  Elinor jogs over to an office building that is partially hidden by towering green firs that look like stretched broccoli florets. A narrow rainbow arches above it, stretching as far as the eye can see. The sky above us is as blue as Alfarin’s normal eyes, but to our right the sky is bruised purple. The grass beneath our feet is wet and bouncy.

  Where am I?

  Where is Medusa?

  “We will find her, my friend,” says Alfarin, guessing my thoughts.

  I apologize for the millionth time. “I’m sorry I got you all messed up in this, Alfarin.”

  “We are immortal friends,” replies Alfarin, gazing across the grass and a bank of gravestones. “If I were not dead already, I would die for all of you.”

  “Do you think Medusa is being hurt?” The words haunting me somehow make it out of my mouth.

  Alfarin snorts. “I have been trying to understand this thing you call a paradox. And so now I believe in one thing. We have the power to corrupt time. We can stop her from doing whatever it was that alerted the Skin-Walkers to her presence.”

  “We’ll save her?”

  “You would follow Medusa’s trail until the end of time, my friend. We all know that.” Alfarin fixes me with a solemn stare. “We will save her.”

  I like talking to Alfarin. He’s so calm. It doesn’t matter whether we’re traveling through time or deciding what to eat next. His voice alone is enough to stop my idiotic panic attacks.

  Elinor skips back out of the office building. She looks like a little girl, with her red hair fly
ing in the breeze. There’s a large piece of paper in her hand.

  “You aren’t far from here, Mitchell,” she calls, coming to a sudden halt next to Alfarin.

  “Lead the way,” says Alfarin, and he heaves his axe onto his shoulder. Should we have brought the guitar case with us? Too late now. We left it behind, along with traces of ash, a stinking pile of clothes, and pulped strawberries.

  And yet the living will never really know we were there.

  It isn’t as cold in Washington as it was in New York, although we’ve arrived on the same day, month, and year. As Elinor leads us along the dewy grass, I can’t help looking at the gravestones. I wonder if I know any of these dead bodies in Hell. Chances are I work with some of them.

  Many of the older graves are weathered, but nothing seems neglected. Glenwood looks after its dead as if they were still alive.

  We pass a creamy-white sculpted angel blowing a trumpet. I get the feeling it’s mocking us. A man is standing next to the sculpture. He doesn’t look much older than me, but he’s dressed in a worn brown uniform that looks like old-school army. He can’t seem to take his eyes away from the angel, but he looks weary.

  A girl with light-brown skin and long, wavy black hair calls to him, and she sounds really pissed off. She’s standing about a hundred feet away from us, next to a glistening white cross. She’s the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever set eyes on. She doesn’t look real. She’s wearing a short orange sundress under a pale-pink cardigan. A golden haze surrounds her, like a full-body halo. You’d think the sun was setting behind her, but it isn’t. If the girl is cold in this November weather, she doesn’t look it.

  “Owen,” she calls with an accent that I think is French, and then she catches sight of me staring at her. For some reason, her demeanor quickly changes to one of absolute loathing. Her eyes narrow and her top lip curls into a snarl.

  Elinor and Alfarin don’t notice any of this, as they’re carefully following the map that’s supposed to take us to my grave.

  The guy called Owen looks at the gorgeous girl and then follows her gaze directly to me. I stop walking. Owen’s eyes are twinkling like stars, and the same delicate halo surrounds him. I get goose bumps on my arms as I realize what these two are.