Devils Inc.

by Lauren Palphreyman

  I groan, face in my pillow, then I push myself into a vaguely upright position and turn it off. I feel like crap. My mouth is dry as a bone, and my head throbs. I didn’t think I drank that much last night, but the threat of a hangover lingers behind my blurred vision.

  To make things worse, there’s a message from Mom on my screen. She wants to know if I managed to get the application for my internship sent off on time, and if I’ve thought any more about heading back to New York next month. They like to visit Jonathon’s grave on the anniversary of his death, then have a memorial back at their place for friends and family. They want me to come. I know I should, but I like to remember him in my own way, lighting a candle and watching some of his favorite movies rather than being so public with my emotions.

  I quickly reply that I did, and I’ll think about it. Then I stumble out of bed to the shared bathrooms, toothbrush in hand. The stuffy air smells like shampoo, and I can hear someone peeing in one of the four stalls behind me. It’s only when I see the crack in the mirror above the sink that the weird events of yesterday come back to me.

  Omens, Demons, Angels. . . What?

  “That’s seven years’ bad luck, you know?” says Lisa over the sound of the toilet flush. She bounds over to wash her hands before smoothing her long black hair.

  “Huh?” I say, although it comes out garbled because of the toothpaste.

  “Breaking a mirror’s a bad omen,” she replies.

  “Oh, right. Yeah. So I’ve heard.”

  “Speaking of, you hear the news this morning? Seven-car pileup on the freeway into LA. Six people died, and two more are in critical condition.”

  She goes on about the wreck as she applies a creamy layer of foundation, but I tune her out, making the odd grunting noise where appropriate. Lisa’s nice and all, but she’s one of those irritatingly chirpy morning people. Josie’s like that too. I need at least a cup of coffee before I can even string a sentence together.

  I rub the smudged eyeliner from beneath my eyes, splash my face, then tell Lisa I’ll catch her later. A thought occurs to me as I reach the door.

  “Hey, did you see a guy hanging around my room last night? Red hair, good-looking in a clean-cut way, kind of socially awkward?”

  She grins. “No. Why? Got yourself a new guy?”

  “No, nothing like that. Never mind.”

  There’s no way in hell he came in through the window, so someone must have seen him. Shaking my head, I go get changed in my room, pulling on the same jeans as yesterday and a black tank top. I grab my business law textbook and laptop, then head out, checking my emails on my cell as I walk down the stairs. I stop dead on the second-floor landing, my stomach plummeting.

  One of the emails is from Jones and Smith. It’s about the internship.

  And it’s a rejection.

  Shit.

  How can they even have checked my application yet?

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I lean back against the wall, dread weighing down my chest. I needed this. An internship is a requirement for getting through this program. How the hell am I supposed to pass this year?

  My parents are going to kill me.

  Heart beating fast, I refresh the page again as if another email is just waiting to pop up and tell me it was a mistake.

  It doesn’t.

  But a different email does.

  “DEVILS INC.,” says the sender line, and when I open it, the logo at the top shows the “D” curled into a Devil’s tail.

  Dear Rachel,

  Thank you for the interest in our organization you expressed at 9:07 p.m. last evening. We are delighted to accept you into our compulsory internship program. Please report to the office at 5:30 p.m. this evening to begin your training.

  Yours devilishly,

  Adalind Gardiner,

  Secretary,

  Devils Inc.

  It’s followed by an address in downtown Los Angeles. I’m still betting on it being a prank, but if it is real, this might actually save my ass.

  Still. What kind of law firm names themselves after the Devil?

  Stuffing my phone into my pocket, I make my way outside. I’m halfway to class when I realize two things: one, that stupid crow is back; and two, someone is following me.

  After heading across the square, past a couple of girls on an early-morning run and the odd student clasping a paper cup from Lazarus’s Coffee, I disappear into the narrow alley between the library and the food hall.

  The crow is waiting for me at the end of the path.

  I stop.

  Then I turn and slam the side of my arm into the upper chest of my stalker, pushing him into the wall. He grunts, surprised, his cloudy gray eyes latching onto mine.

  It’s Crow.

  “Why are you following me?” I snarl.

  He smiles. “Following you? I’m making sure no harm befalls you, little Demon. Part of my contract. Did you know there was a seven-car pileup on the freeway this morning?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I take a step back, adrenaline surging through my veins, and look him up and down. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a white cotton T-shirt beneath a leather jacket. The shadows around him seem to move strangely, as if he’s a magnet they’re attracted to. It takes me back to the moment in the locker room last night. I convinced myself I imagined him. I convinced myself the threat in Evie’s was related to the bartender, not me.

  But here he is again. And there’s something not right about him.

  “Stay away from me,” I say.

  Raising his hands in surrender, he opens his mouth to say something, but I spin on my heel, adjusting my laptop bag and shooing away the bird blocking my path. Seconds later, I emerge from the dark alley into the morning sun.

  I hurry down the central path between seminar buildings. There are more people here, coming from all points of campus on their way to the same early class. The tension starts to ease from my body.

  Until I see a face covered in blood peering blankly from a dark window of the science building.

  I rub my eyes, then look again. There’s no one there. Still, I quicken my pace. I need to pull myself together.

  My heart beats fast as I take my seat near the back of the tiered hall, where Professor McNeil starts to drone on about the binding nature of business agreements. When I open my laptop, I see the story about the seven-car pileup. It’s accompanied by the image of a businessman with graying hair and a blue suit. A billionaire named Richard Livingstone—he tends to appear on the news from time to time thanks to a series of alleged tax evasions.

  I close the page and pull up the email from Devils Inc. again. A horrible sense of dread creeps over me when a search for the firm reveals no results.

  I go back to the email. This time, I notice the company name is hyperlinked. I hover the mouse over it for a second. Then I click it.

  Bright red floods the screen as “Devils Inc.” curls across the page as though someone is writing it, followed by “Experts in soul-trading and moral defense.” I click on “Learn more. . .” and start to read the writing below.

  Have you broken a divine law? Are you worried your bad deeds outweigh your good? Or are you rotten to the core?

  Do you worry that at time of judgement, you will be denied access through those pearly gates?

  Or are you simply down on your luck and searching for an investment in your soul?

  Well, Devils Inc. can—

  “I’ve been looking for you,” a voice rasps in my ear.

  I look over my shoulder, irritated at being disturbed.

  And I suck in a breath.

  A man sits there in a tattered blue business suit. Sallow skin hangs from one side of his face, exposing bone, and his graying hair is matted with blood.

  I blink hard. He doesn’t disappear.

  “You’re Rachel, right?” he says, his pale lips twisting into a smile.

  The girl o
n his other side doesn’t react. She doesn’t seem to notice him at all.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he rasps again. “I’m Richard—”

  I slam my laptop closed, tuck it under my arm, and barge out of the lecture hall, away from that . . . thing. I hear people murmuring, but I don’t care.

  This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.

  I don’t look to see if he follows. I certainly didn’t need him to introduce himself. He was the semi-famous business guy, Richard Livingstone, the one who the news said was involved in the accident.

  And he was dead.

  Chapter Six

  We learned about a principle called Ockham’s Razor in class once. It’s the idea that the simplest explanation is often the most likely. In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve been visited by an Omen, an Angel, and a dead guy.

  So come on, genius . . . what is the simplest explanation for that? Hallucinogens in the cocktails last night? Some kind of fever?

  No. All leave too many questions unanswered.

  But what does that leave? That this is actually happening?

  Shit.

  When I reach the square, I rub my face and take another deep breath. I just need to head back to my room, call Josie, and talk this all through. It’ll be fine.

  The square is completely empty; no noise comes from the food hall behind me, and the ten long stone steps that lead down to it don’t have their usual crowds of freshmen drinking cans of soda between lectures. As I reach the center, a cloud passes overhead. The hairs on my bare arms stand on end.

  “Rachel . . .”

  It’s the dead guy—Richard Livingstone. He’s followed me out of the classroom.

  “Rachel,” he says, staggering forward, his hand extended. “A pleasure—”

  Before I can run, two more figures stagger out of the shadows. A hunched old woman in a torn floral dress, and a young blonde who would be attractive if she didn’t look so . . . deceased.

  “There she is!” says the old lady. “There she is!”

  I spin to the third exit by the glass-walled student work zone only to find Crow blocking my path at the top of the steps, the cloudy sky behind him making for a moody backdrop. The corner of his lip curls up.

  Shit.

  The two women across the square clamber down the steps toward me while Richard clamps a bony hand on my shoulder.

  With a cry, I bend forward and flip him onto the pavement.

  “Bitch. I was only being friendly,” he spits through bloody teeth as he jerks upright. “Don’t turn your back on me.”

  He grabs at my ankles, but I sprint toward the library that dominates the square’s fourth side, staggering to a halt as a stocky guy with a ginger beard limps out from behind it. He’s wearing torn board shorts. A bone juts out from his leg.

  Adrenaline takes over. I throw a fist into his face, feeling his nose crunch against my knuckles before he staggers back. Right into two men in suits.

  What the hell is going on?

  They push him back toward me, but I side-kick him in the chest, and he takes out one of the suits as he falls. That only leaves the other. I punch him in the neck when he surges forward, then knee him in the groin. He doubles over just as a hand clamps on my shoulder, and the heavy scent of floral perfume and blood floods my nostrils.

  I send that little old lady flying. She lands on her back, a startled expression on her bloody face. She looks a bit like my grandma.

  “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” I say, raising my hands.

  She jerks upright, popping a dislocated arm back into her shoulder. “You kids today! So violent. It’s all those video games.” She stumbles to her feet, her expression now murderous. “Someone ought to teach you a lesson.”

  When I lurch back, I hit something solid.

  Heart leaping, I turn, putting my full force behind my fist, but Crow catches it. His palm is rough and warm, and I feel the strength in his arm.

  Behind him, Richard Livingstone stumbles back to his feet.

  Crow raises an eyebrow. We’re both breathing fast, though his eyes hold amusement rather than the horror that must emanate from mine. I stare up at him, dumbfounded. Then he nods at something over my shoulder and releases my fist.

  As Crow grabs Livingstone by the neck, I spin around and block the incoming swipe from the old lady. I wince as I kick her frail form into Beardy, sending both of them toppling down again.

  I chance a glance over my shoulder to find the remainder writhing on the ground. Crow stands a couple of feet away, wiping his hands on his jeans before studying a bloody mark on his white T-shirt.

  “That’s going to leave a stain,” he grumbles.

  Before I can say anything, Livingstone grunts and pushes himself on all fours. Crow kicks him in the face with a heavy black combat boot, then pulls a set of car keys from his pocket.

  “Come on, little Demon. Let’s get you out of here,” he says, stepping over the corpses. “Unless you’d rather stay?”

  I glance at the groaning old lady, who sits up and straightens her wig.

  “They won’t stop coming after you, you know?” he adds in a singsong voice without looking back to see if I’m following him across the square.

  One of the suits narrows his gaze on me. I watch him pop a bone back in his arm, then look to Crow again.

  Crow is the lesser of evils.

  Probably.

  Reluctantly, I jog after him, skirting past the crumpled form of the blonde woman in the raggedy dress at the bottom of the opposing steps. Crow stops at the top, something unreadable in his expression.

  “What are you doing?” I say.

  He brings two fingers to his mouth. Then he whistles.

  The sky behind him darkens as the air fills with the sound of flapping wings. I duck, hands over my head, crying out as cold air and black feathers brush my forearms.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU BAST—?” I start to yell.

  Then they’re gone. Descending onto the weird zombie guys instead.

  “What. The. Hell?”

  Crow’s grin widens. “Can’t kill the dead. But you can keep them busy.”

  Didn’t Gabriel say something about Crow and his birds last night?

  Heart in my throat, we walk away from the crow-versus-zombie carnage happening below and head to the campus parking lot. I flex my fingers, knuckles bruised from the fight.

  “Couldn’t you have just done that crow attack thing from the start?” I ask.

  “Aye. But where’s the fun in that?”

  “Fun!”

  He shrugs. “I was curious to see how you’d fare,” he says. “Something similar happened when they recruited this jock five years ago. Huge guy. They wanted him for security.” Crow chuckles. “He threw his iced latte at one of the souls, tripped over his shoelaces, and then just lay there on the floor waiting for someone to rescue him.”

  There’s too much buzzing panic coursing through my system for me to find the right response. All I mange is: “Dick.”

  His laughter increases.

  When we reach the parking lot, he points to a black Mini Cooper in the shadow of a tall tree. It seems a little quaint for him, but I make no comment.

  “Get in then,” he says, a smile still dancing around his full lips as he opens the driver’s door and climbs inside.

  Before I can change my mind, I get in the car, close the door, and fold my arms across my chest. Crow twists the key in the ignition.

  “Good choice,” he says as he reverses.

  “Where are we going?”

  His eyes glint. “Devils Inc.,” he replies.

  Chapter Seven

  As we leave campus, I can still see big black birds plummeting in and out of the square. They look like they could be fighting over a dropped sandwich. But they’re not.

  They’re fighting over zombies.

  I should be scared. That would be the logical response. Truth be told, my body emulates something like fear. My palms are clammy, m
y heart beats fast, and my body is so full of energy I find myself tapping my foot. It’s not fear though. It’s adrenaline. I’m pumped up. I haven’t had a fight like that in . . . well, ever. What with my opponents being dead and all.

  As Crow drives toward the center of town, my brain kicks violently into gear, screaming that I’m in a car with a strange creep who controls birds. I think he notices the change because I see a quirk tug at the side of his lips out of the corner of my eye.

  “What the hell is going on?” I demand.

  “I was wondering how long it would take you to freak out,” he says.

  “Yes, well. Now you know,” I snap.

  As we pass Evie’s Garden Bar, Crow waves at someone—or something—in the alley by Apocalypse. But then we’re passing by the small church at the end of the street and turning onto the road leading to the freeway.

  “I told you, there was a seven-car pileup this morning,” he says.

  “Oh. And that explains everything.”

  “It does, actually.”

  “Right. So there was an accident on the freeway, some people died. And the logical next step in that story is that they came back to life again to attack me on campus. How obvious. How—oh, shit!” I look over my shoulder as we take the on-ramp. “We should tell someone. What if they attack someone else?”

  “They won’t. No one else can see them,” he says. “Just you. And they didn’t come back to life. They’re dead.”

  “They didn’t seem dead.”

  “Really? See a lot of people with protruding bones and hanging flesh, do you?” He raises his eyebrows, gaze still fixed on the wide road ahead. “Definitely not recruited for your brains, eh, little Demon?”

  At that, all I can do is splutter.

  He laughs. “I forgot how fun these little jobs were. Fun for a while, anyway. I’m going to need you to suspend your disbelief soon, or it’s going to get boring.”

  “Oh. Well, I’d hate that. For you to get bored.”

  “You might.” He catches my eye. “I’d have to find some other way to amuse myself.”

  I stiffen. I jumped into a car with this guy because he helped me out, but what do I actually know about him? He’s been following me, I might have seen him creeping around the locker rooms, and he showed no restraint when it came to exhibiting violence.