by Brux, Boone
“Oh, right. Sure you don’t want to live on the edge and come eat some meat? I could loan you something to wear.”
She glanced at Whitney. “Positive, but thanks.”
“Come on.” Her voice raised an octave, dripping with sweetness. She puckered in a classic Whitney pout, usually directed at men, and always executed to get her way. “I like having you there.”
Faye shook her head. “I’d love to, but I’ve just got too darn much work.”
“Well, since I can’t lure you out of your cave with meat on a stick, how about tomorrow night? There’s a new dinner-dance club opening, Kapow. It’s got a superhero theme.” Her voice rose to a sing-song note. “I have V.I.P. tickets.”
Damn, I should have opted for meat night. At least she could have cut out early.
“Unless you’re embarrassed to be seen with me?” Whitney exaggerated her pout and widened her eyes to a big basset hound stare. “Then I’d understand.”
Guilt poked at Faye even though she knew she was being manipulated. As shallow as Whitney was, Faye honestly believed things like flat hair or last year’s styles upset her. After all, hardships were relative. If you’ve gotten everything you ever wanted in life, wouldn’t a zit on the day of a photo shoot be fairly traumatic, even if you were blond, beautiful, and got everything you wanted?
“Fine.” Faye silently cursed herself, hating her inability to say no. “I’ll go…if I get my work done.”
“Oh, goodie.” Whitney bounced like a beautiful jack-in-the-box. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”
“I’m sure it will be,” she lied.
“You shouldn’t let that fleabag on your bed. Who knows what kind of vermin he’s carrying?”
Flashed lifted his head and bared his teeth.
Whitney returned the growl. “Back at ya, quadruped.”
Flash barked.
“Children, no fighting.” Faye mimicked a clap. “And Whitney, nice use of a big word.”
She giggled. “Thanks, I bought one of those Word of the Day calendars. Quadruped: an animal, especially a mammal, having four feet.”
Whitney gave her ponytail a flip and turned to leave, giving Faye way too much backside view. She closed her eyes and tried to block out the barrage of insecurities that assaulted her whenever Whitney paraded around the house scantily clad. The chair creaked as she slowly pivoted to face her screen and snacks.
“Noooo.” Faye formed the word, muttering it quietly. It wasn’t difficult to pronounce. Two letters. One syllable. She looked at Flash. “Why can’t I just say no?”
He barked with doggie understanding.
She smiled and stretched out on the bed beside him. He waddled over to her, performed two full circles, and settled against her chest. What was the big deal? Lots of people preferred dogs and online relationships over real people. She stroked his soft fur. It was less messy that way.
Again, she silently formed the word no. Her lips seemed to work, but it was her nerve that always failed her. If she could just take a stand, her life would be exponentially better. She sighed, knowing it wasn’t going to happen tonight.
At least she’d dodged Whitney’s meat invitation. Just because she was shy, people didn’t seem to realize she had her own opinions. Everybody thinking they knew what was best for her got very tiring. She had dreams, and being Pierre’s slave the rest of her life wasn’t one of them.
The bathroom door slammed, followed by the squeak of the shower handle. She’d lied about her mountain of work. Besides examining some photos of an old church being demolished tomorrow, all she’d had to do was map out its location. Now with Christopher offering her a ride, she was free to spend the evening locked in the Internet’s embrace, chatting with @HopelessRomantic.
For a painfully shy and socially awkward girl, the Internet was a gift from the gods. Who needed a social life when she had Twitter? One of the perks of chatting online was that it could be done in her favorite sweatshirt, wongie-waistbands, and fuzzy slippers.
After changing clothes, she plunked into her chair and continued to scroll through Hopeless’s followers. Her arrow stopped. “What the heck?”
She scooted forward in her chair and squinted at the screen, trying to understand what she was reading.
@TheDevil was following @HopelessRomantic.
She clicked on @TheDevil’s profile.
“By following you willingly enter a binding contract to give Satan dominion over your soul, and agree to do his bidding until you are released from his service.”
She sat back and smirked. Boy, some people had too much time on their hands. A low growl issued from Flash. He was perched at the edge of the bed, his front paws dangling over the side, and he was staring at her.
“What’s the matter, boy?”
He gave a high-pitched yelp.
She scrounged in his bag and pulled out a much-loved hedgehog. “Do you want Hoggers?”
He yelped again, tilting his head to the side. She tossed the animal onto her bed. He leapt on it, enthusiastically squeaking the toy. She laughed as he held it between his paws and began gnawing on its upturned nose. That would keep him busy for a while. She turned back to the monitor and scrolled through Satan’s tweets.
@gothmother Your welcome package is on the way.
@snowangel Nice try. Better luck next time.
Be daring. Join the fold.
Faye reread the last tweet. Though not sent to anybody in particular, the sentiment felt directed at her. She shook off the notion and scrolled through more messages.
Nothing says eternal Hell like a fruitcake.
She laughed.
Reruns of Who’s the Boss? I’m in Hell.
“I liked that show,” she mumbled, continuing to read.
More tweets about welcome packages. Several references to better luck next time. She scanned his stats. @TheDevil followed over a million people, but only forty-nine followed back. Three new messages appeared on his board.
Don’t think, just follow.
Don’t be boring, be daring.
Become unforgettable.
Faye slowly exhaled, mesmerized by the messages popping onto the screen. She pushed the arrow toward the top and hovered over the Follow button. Messages about being the person she wanted to be flashed one after the other onto her screen. She stared as ‘Come on, do something daring’ appeared. They were the same words Whitney had used. She suddenly felt outside herself. Her finger stroked the mouse.
“Why not?”
Flash stood at the edge of the bed, growling.
“It’s not like it’s really the Devil.”
He barked.
“But I’d have something to retaliate with when she tells me to live a little,” she argued.
Be bold appeared on the screen.
Flash’s growl turned into a whine.
Yeah, be bold. She could always Unfollow. “Why not have a laugh?”
He barked, snarling as her finger stroked the button.
“It’s not real, Flash.” She looked at him and back to the computer. “It’s no—” She held her breath. “Big—” Her finger lightly pressed against the gray plastic. “Deal.”
She clicked.
The plus sign changed to a check, turning the white Follow to a green Following tab. @TheDevil’s followers ratcheted up one to 50. A mournful howl erupted from Flash. Dread washed through her.
“It’s okay, boy.” Her words sounded unconvincing. “It’s just a joke.”
@CrispyCream Your welcome package is on the way.
She leaned back in her chair and exhaled. “I can’t wait.”
Chapter Two
Saturday Morning
Faye zombie-walked from her bedroom to the kitchen and headed for the coffee pot. Whitney cradled her favorite kitty cup and leafed through a beauty magazine.
“Morning, sunshine,” Whitney said.
How did she do that? Go out all night drinking and dancing, get home in the wee hours, and wake up looking like a�
��well, a supermodel?
Faye grunted and opened the cabinet, searching for her favorite mug. She pulled the monstrosity from the shelf and poured half the pot of coffee into it, while adding nearly as much cream.
“Have a little coffee with your cream.”
Faye turned and glared at her roommate. “I need it.”
This conversation was nothing new. You should drink less coffee, not eat doughnuts, exercise once in a while, do something with your hair. She’d gotten used to the “constructive criticism” and for the most part ignored nearly everything that came out of Whitney’s mouth.
“If you switched to a regular cup instead of that barrel, you’d decrease your intake by nearly three cups.”
Faye snagged a doughnut from the box and shuffled toward her room, clutching her bucket-o-coffee. It was way too early to get into a debate about her eating habits.
“Oh, this came for you.” Whitney shoved a Priority Mail envelope across the kitchen island and went back to reading her magazine. “It was on the top step when I got home this morning.”
Faye stuck the doughnut in her mouth and reached for the envelope.
TD
666 Fire & Brimstone Way
Ninth Circle, Hell 66666
She laughed and blew crumbs across the counter.
“Gross.” Whitney brushed the doughnut bits off an article about how to stop aging.
“Sorry,” Faye said around the pastry.
She shoved the envelope under her arm and took a bite.
“Who’s it from?” Whitney asked.
Now was her chance to show just how unconventional she could be.
“Looks like it’s my welcome package from the Devil.” There. Let Whitney chew on that for a second.
“Huh?”
“The Devil. I followed him on Twitter last night. Said my Welcome Package was on the way.” She patted the envelope. “You said to live a little, so I did.”
“You’re joking, right?” Whitney stared at her as if she’d said seafoam-green was the new black. “Tell me you didn’t follow Satan on Twitter.”
“What’s the big deal? It’s just some loser with way too much time on his hands. Probably lives in his mom’s basement and spends all day playing air-guitar.”
Whitney shook her head, her ponytail swinging wildly from side to side. “And what if it isn’t? What if you really are one of Satan’s followers?” She cocked her head to the side, worry melting from her face. “Have you been using something different on your skin? It really looks good.”
Faye blinked several times, trying to follow Whitney’s conversation. “What?”
“Your skin.” Whitney pointed at her. “It looks great.”
Faye rolled her eyes and crammed the rest of the doughnut in her mouth, washing it down with a big gulp of coffee. “I’m going to take a shower.”
With an exaggerated pivot, Faye spun and marched to her room. Whitney’s words poked at her. What if it wasn’t a joke? Nah, if the Devil was trolling for souls he wouldn’t hang out on Twitter. He’d be at Disney World. Or at the mall on Black Friday. But surely not Twitter.
It didn’t matter that Whitney had freaked instead of being impressed. In her own small way, she’d proven she wasn’t afraid to live on the edge.
Faye tossed the package on her desk and sat. She wiggled the mouse, bringing her monitor to life. Her Twitter screen glowed. The Devil’s thumbnail picture of pitchfork registered at the top of her feed. Something about the way his profile dominated the rest of her list sent tiny shivers along her shoulders and neck. She glided the arrow across the screen over the word, following. Best to unfollow and get on with her day.
She clicked on the green tab. Nothing happened. She clicked again, but the button remained green. With rapid-fire, she quadruple-clicked the mouse.
Her screen froze. She double-clicked, trying to bully her computer into complying. A message scrolled across the top of her monitor.
Request to unfollow denied.
She clicked again. The same message flashed like a blinking stoplight at the center of her screen.
Why wasn’t it working? Could they really deny her the right to unfollow? This was America. She had rights. She clicked on the Start button at the bottom of her screen. Nothing happened. Something that felt a lot like, I think I fucked up, rippled through Faye. Maybe it was a glitch. The screen remained frozen, well, against everything but the Devil.
A new message appeared.
@CrispyCream Nice try. Contract is binding.
Faye dropped the mouse, trying to comprehend that this was no joke. She hadn’t really been stupid enough to bind her soul to Satan, had she? Her heart raced as she reached for the Priority Mailer and yanked on the strip. She shook the contents free and tossed the envelope over her shoulder. The cover lay face up.
Following Satan for Fun and Profit.
“What the…?”
She reached for the book, but hesitated. Maybe touching it magically activated the contract? If the rules were inside the book it would be too late by the time the follower realized they shouldn’t have touched it. Maybe there was some kind of spell, like A Touch of the Tweeter or Fingerprint of the Follower. She’d seen Harry Potter. She knew how this worked.
She grabbed a pencil and tapped the book. Nothing happened. With the tip, she slid the point under the cover and flipped the book open to the table of contents.
No sparks or hellfire seared her skin. She leaned in and read.
“Chapter One: The Rules. Chapter Two: What’s in it for You? Chapter Three: What if I Want to Cancel My Agreement?”
A thin shred of optimism twined through the pit of her stomach. That’s what she was looking for. Still using the tip of the pencil, she poked and flipped through the pages until she found chapter three. Hope evaporated at the two words staring back at her.
You can’t.
She turned the page, searching for something more, but that was all there was about canceling the contract. The pencil slipped from her fingers and fell to her lap.
“Shit.”
She stared at the monitor, her mind grappling to comprehend the reality of her situation. Reality? She was following the freakin’ Devil. Eternal damnation was her reality. She shook her head.
“No, it can’t be so cut and dry.” There had to be a way out. She tapped her fist to her forehead. “Think, Faye, think.”
Maybe it was divine intervention. She jogged to her closet and scanned the top shelf. The bejeweled shoebox she searched for sat just out of reach. Manhandling her desk chair, she pushed it back to the closet. The chair slowly spun when she stepped onto the padded seat. Despite her precarious perch, she managed to twist and grab the doorframe to pull herself around until she faced the closet.
Braced like a small crucified Jesus, she ratcheted onto her toes and tugged at the shoebox. With sudden momentum, the base of the chair rolled from beneath her and smashed into her bed. She flailed for the doorframe, racking her fingers along the wood and ejecting her box of treasures skyward.
The clatter of metal spilling across the wood echoed through the room. The chair shifted, catapulting Faye forward into a belly-flop pose. Suspended between clutching the doorframe and her feet pressed against the back of the chair, she found it nearly impossible to move without falling face first into her closet.
Bending her knees, she eased to a kneeling position. If she could just get one leg out from under her. Yoga would have come in handy right about now. After performing a move any contortionist would be proud of, Faye stood and darted to the box, scooping up the large cross she’d made when she was ten.
“Ha!” She spun toward the computer and held the tin foil and dowel-rod crucifix in front of her. “Be gone, evil spirits.” A pink plastic jewel she’d used as Jesus’s face dropped to the floor. She crouched and picked it up. With a quick lick she reactivated the decades-old glue and pressed it back into the center of the cross. She crept toward the computer.
“You’re not
welcome here.”
The computer sputtered but continued to glow.
She inched forward. “I disinvited you.”
Flash growled but the Denied message continued to blink across the screen.
“In the name of all that’s holy—” She slammed the cross against the front of the monitor. “Be gone, Satan!”
She waited but nothing happened. After a few seconds, a new message popped onto the screen.
@CrispyCream Valiant effort.
Faye lowered the cross and stared. The one thing she knew from all her years of Catholic school, Satan couldn’t be trusted. Nothing was ever as it seemed. Her tinfoil cross might not be strong enough to exorcise the Devil from her computer, but she’d not give up that easily.
Maybe Twitter could unfollow him for her. Right?
She grabbed the mouse. Satan must have been feeling pretty confident because her arrow moved freely across the screen. She scrolled to the bottom of her list and found the tiny blue Help link. Reporting a Violation—that might work. She combed through the suggestions. Would it matter if she blocked Satan? If she couldn’t unfollow, she probably couldn’t block him.
After several minutes of scrutinizing every possible violation, her head hurt. Nothing quite fit her situation. She clicked on the Support request link, filled out the general form, and submitted it.
Your request has been received. Due to the high volume of support requests, our response time is 24-48 hours. We appreciate your patience.
“Two days. Crap.”
What was she going to do until then? She squared her shoulders. Look for another way out. Live. Pretend she wasn’t the Devil’s chattel. She doubted Pierre Shogun would give one lickety-split that she was locked in a battle for her eternal soul. His needs came first; ruler of the Underworld be damned.
She glanced at the clock and sighed. Better get ready to go to the chapel. There would be hell to pay if the deconstruction was delayed due to her idiocy.
The hot shower helped ease some of the tension, but the knot in her stomach wouldn’t budge. The weight of her predicament pressed on her. She grabbed her green cargo capris and the brown Krispy Kreme T-shirt hanging closest. Photos, a file, her wallet, keys, and her iPad were deposited into her messenger bag.
