Devils Inc.

by Lauren Palphreyman

  He’s strong too. I felt it when he caught my fist.

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I told you last night, that’s my job.”

  I glance out the window, then at the door handle. The traffic means we’re moving slowly—I could probably make a run for it.

  The locks click.

  “Unlock the doors,” I say.

  He holds my gaze a moment longer. “Just messing,” he says, turning his head back to the cars in front of us. “I’m not a threat to you. Not on this contract, anyway. I just meant I might ditch you. You’re not exactly worth very much.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He laughs again. “There you go. You’re still amusing. You’ll be fine.”

  I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and lean back against the headrest. “You’re a dick.”

  “I know.”

  We fall into silence, and it gives me a chance to get my thoughts in order.

  Everything about this guy screams untrustworthy. But ever since last night, things have been weird. A mysterious guy claiming to be an Angel somehow got into my room, I’ve been offered a mysterious internship, and—oh, yeah, I was attacked by dead people.

  I glance at my knuckles, which are pink from the fight. If it was some kind of prank, there’s no way it would have gone this far.

  So what does that mean? I’ve actually sold my soul to the Devil?

  And I was worried about telling my parents I wasn’t sure about law school. . .

  “Is this real?” I say.

  “Aye.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Uh-huh.” Crow taps the steering wheel with his thumbs, apparently without a care in the world.

  “Right. So then how does me signing away my soul equal dead guys coming after me?”

  “Some smart-arse created an app,” he says.

  “Can you stop speaking in riddles, please?”

  He shifts on his seat, head brushing the ceiling as he rummages in his jeans pocket. A moment later, he produces his iPhone.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” I say when he hands it over.

  “There’s an app on the home screen,” he says. “Afterlife.”

  I find the icon—a black “A” on a white background—and tap it. A white screen materializes.

  Hello, recently deceased! What are you looking for?

  Below are four black buttons. They read, “MORAL DEFENSE,” “SOUL INVESTMENT,” “SOUL RATING,” and, “OMENS.”

  I must be pulling a “what the hell?” face, because Crow chuckles.

  “It’s like one of those insurance comparison apps,” he says. “You know? Where they compare prices across all the companies and give you your best options?” He snatches it from me and taps the screen a few times, one hand resting on the wheel. “It asks you a series of questions based on what you’re looking for—whether you’re good or bad, where you’re based, where you died, etcetera. Then it shows you your best bet,” he says. “Here.”

  He hands it back, and I almost drop it. There’s a map on the screen now, one with moving red, white, and black dots intended to represent “Ethereal forces near you.” But that isn’t what catches my attention. There’s a pair of dots—one red, one black—approaching downtown Los Angeles. Next to the red dot is a photograph of me.

  “What the hell is this?” I say, zooming in on a picture taken from my Instagram. It’s from last Halloween when Josie persuaded me to dress up as a “slutty Demon” and be her date to one of the sorority parties. I’m wearing red latex and horns while prodding a keg with a plastic devil’s fork. Josie’s in the background attempting to play beer pong with her cat ears askew.

  “Don’t worry. You can change your profile pic,” he says.

  “Yeah. Because that’s what’s concerning. Not the incredible invasion of privacy.” Although, I take note of where the “UPDATE PROFILE” button is before reading the rest of my bio.

  Name: RACHEL MORTIMER

  Company: DEVILS INC.

  Level: INTERN

  Active Cases: 0

  Cases Won: 0

  Cases Lost: 0

  Soul Investments: 0

  Reviews: 0

  STATUS: ONLINE

  “Like I said, some smart-arse created an app,” says Crow. “When you die, it’s automatically installed on your phone so you can check out nearby services after the whole ‘welcome to death’ spiel.”

  I frown. “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Well, you were nearby. And you don’t have any cases at the moment, so you were an obvious choice. Not to mention, most of the lawyers at Devils Inc. have set themselves to unavailable. They’re predicting the death of a high-profile politician soon, and neither side wants him.” He waves a hand in dismissal. “I can’t be arsed to explain it all to you, little Demon. Not my job.”

  I open the window, letting in a soft breeze, the scent of car fumes, and the screech of a red Lamborghini as it overtakes us. Then I dangle his phone out the window.

  “I swear to god, I’ll drop this if you don’t make it your job,” I say.

  He doesn’t look particularly concerned. “Swear to god, huh?” He chuckles, then glances at me. “Okay. Calm down.”

  I’m tempted to do it just to spite him, but who knows how dangerous omens are. Slowly, I put the window back up.

  “Go on then,” I say.

  “Well . . . everyone wants to go up when they die, don’t they?” he says.

  I look at him blankly.

  “You know, up. Heaven. Paradise. Through the pearly gates. Whatever. . .” He pulls into a parking spot on a street of expensive-looking office buildings. After shutting the engine off, he turns to look at me, resting an arm on the back of his seat. “But only ‘good’ people are meant to go up. And ‘bad’ people are meant to go ‘down.’” He points to the gearshift. “You follow?”

  I look at him, perplexed. “Well, yeah. I suppose. But I don’t see what it has to do with me.”

  “Well, good and bad can be pretty arbitrary when you come to think of it. Right?”

  “I guess.”

  “And it’s not as if the higher-ups or lower-downs left comprehensive legal guides. A lot of it is open to negotiation. There are frequent loopholes. And some souls are more . . . desirable than others. Sometimes, ‘down there’ doesn’t want a bad soul. And sometimes, ‘up there’ doesn’t want a good one.”

  “What do you mean, desirable?”

  He blows out hot air. “I hate explaining things.”

  “I don’t know why,” I snap. “You’re so good at it.”

  He climbs out of the car and makes a show of stretching on the sidewalk. Then he nods to the massive skyscraper to our left. It’s made of shiny black glass.

  “They’ll explain it for you. Welcome to Devils Inc., little Demon. Ready to go in?”

  Crow leans against the top of the Mini Cooper, absently studying his blunt fingernails. I don’t move from the passenger seat, my mind still struggling to make sense of his shitty explanation of what’s going on. Outside, suited people carry paper coffee cups and laptops through the revolving glass doors.

  “Sometime today,” says Crow. “I’m contracted to deliver you, little Demon. I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you in if I have to.”

  I snap out of my blank stare and turn to look at him.

  “You will not,” I say.

  “Oh, I will.”

  I arch an eyebrow and call his bluff. “Do it then.”

  He holds my gaze. Then he pushes off the car and walks around to my side. And—oh, shit, he’s not bluffing . . .

  Hastily unfastening my seatbelt, I clamber out with as much dignity as I can muster.

  “I was coming anyway,” I say.

  He chuckles as he closes the passenger door.

  Something catches my eye on the phone map as we start to walk down the palm tree-lined boulevard. The buildings on either side of our dots are labeled. One has the Devils Inc. logo hov
ering above it; the other says “Halo Corp.”

  I’ve seen that logo before too.

  I touch my jeans pocket, feeling the edge of the business card that weird dude Gabriel gave me.

  He said he was an Angel. . .

  Holy shit.

  I look up to study the two skyscrapers in a new light. They face each other like they’re in some kind of standoff. Unlike Devils Inc., the other building is bright white, its many large windows reflecting the blue sky. The top floor seems to be made of mirrored glass.

  “What’s in there?” I ask, handing back his phone.

  He follows my gaze across the street. “A load of stiffs.”

  “Oh, that’s so informative.”

  He smirks. “They’re Devils Inc.’s main competitors. You met one of them yesterday, I presume? A skinny redhead who walks around like he’s got a stick up his arse.”

  “You know him?”

  “Aye. I know him.” Something in his eyes darkens as he stares at the building. Then he heads for Devils Inc. “Come on.”

  I pause. I may have taken the ride with Crow to escape the zombies, but now I’m out of harm’s way, is this really a good idea? Jonathon used to always say big companies would suck out your soul eventually. If everything I’m being told is true, this place does that in a literal sense. It might be true that I need an internship, but am I this desperate? Finding a coffee shop, getting a much-needed caffeine boost, then heading back to campus might be a more sensible option.

  “Tell it to me straight—why should I go in there?” I ask.

  He turns to face me. “Because the dead guys’ll keep coming for you?” he offers. “Because they’ve actually accepted you onto their internship program, and you can’t afford to be picky? Because they own your soul now?” He turns and carries on walking as though confident I’ll follow. “Take your pick, little Demon.”

  I fall into step beside him. “They don’t really think they own my soul, do they?”

  “You really should have read those terms and conditions.”

  We approach a revolving door made of tinted black glass. Crow stops, giving me a moment to take in the horned obsidian goat’s head hanging above it. Its eerie ruby-red eyes give me the serious creeps.

  “What were you and him talking about, by the way?” he asks with forced casualness. It’s a new tone for him.

  I think back to what Gabriel said. He mentioned saving my soul if I secretly passed him information. It all seemed like bullshit at the time. But on the off chance it’s real and I have accidentally promised myself to Lucifer, perhaps it’s a good idea to keep that particular conversation to myself. . .

  “Something about being an Angel. I was just trying to get him out of my bedroom, to be honest,” I say.

  As Crow holds my gaze, the gold flecks near his pupils seem to glimmer. Then he shrugs.

  “I don’t blame you. Dull guy.” He steps toward the revolving doors. “Gabriel in a girl’s bedroom. That must be a first.”

  He halts, and I almost walk into his back.

  “Best not to mention him when you get inside though,” he says.

  “Why not?”

  “Just trust me on this one.”

  Before I can tell him how little I trust him, we’re entering the lobby of Devils Inc.

  Chapter Eight

  The lobby is huge—about half the size of a football field—and I pause a moment to take it in.

  The floor is made of black marble. The walls are black, too, with bronze plaques at regular intervals. To the right, people sit in throne-like chairs having what looks like serious conversations over circular black tables. The whole space is cold and strangely lit by small red bulbs in the ground.

  “Come on, little Demon,” says Crow. “Let’s get this over with.”

  He walks toward a black marble reception desk. Another huge obsidian goat’s head protrudes from the wall behind it, but that’s not even the largest decoration in the room. In the center of the space there’s a stone statue of an athletic man with horns. He has a pointed tail curling down one of his muscular thighs, a snake twisting around one arm, and he’s holding a long black Devil’s fork.

  Lucifer.

  His red eyes seem to look right at me.

  “Not exactly subtle,” I say under my breath. “Don’t people get freaked-out seeing some big-ass statue of Satan in the middle of reception?”

  “Aye,” he agrees. “This place has always had a bit of an issue with its public image. The PR department is working on it.”

  As we pass by, a strong whiff of egg overcomes me—one that reminds me of when Lucas throws his lactose intolerance to the wind and gets his hands on the cheesy hot dogs from Diablos. And it’s seriously unpleasant.

  “Did you just fart?” I ask him.

  He laughs. “You’d know if I did.” When I simply stare at him, he points to the yellow base of the statue. “It’s the rock!”

  “Sure. Blame it on the rock.”

  He continues to laugh, which attracts the attention of those loitering in the lobby. As I catch the eye of one of them—a slender guy in black, with floppy dark hair and tattoos—I wish Crow would shut up. The guy smirks at me in a predatory way.

  “It’s brimstone,” says Crow, oblivious to my discomfort. “You know, sulfur? They’ll tell you it was mined from Hell.”

  We’re at the desk now. Crow leans on the marble surface and clears his throat to get the attention of the receptionist, who’s kicked back with her boots up. Although her black hair is shaved close to her head on the sides, it’s long on top, swooping down to cover one eye. A black snake tattoo coils around her neck and disappears into a black blazer with “Devils Inc.” embroidered in gold on the pocket.

  Ignoring us, she continues to peel the skin off an apple with a sharp blade.

  “Adalind,” says Crow. “Pleasure to see you again.”

  She looks up slowly, her silver nose stud catching the light.

  “Oh. It’s you,” she says. Her face wrinkles as though she smells something unpleasant.

  “How’s life on reception treating you? Good, I hope?”

  She stares at him, her delicate features devoid of any emotion. As the awkward silence stretches on, I’m not quite sure what to do with myself. Crow breaks first.

  “Got a delivery for you,” he says, nodding in my direction.

  “I’m not expecting a delivery,” she says, but she slides her gaze over anyway.

  A cold feeling jolts through me when our eyes meet. Underlined by thick black liner, hers don’t look quite . . . human. The pupils are slit-shaped rather than round.

  They’re also filled with complete and utter disdain.

  Without saying a word to me, she looks back at Crow. “Tracking number?”

  Crow pulls his cell out of his pocket, taps the screen a few times, then slides it over. With another heavy sigh, she swings her legs off the desk, drops her blade, and leans toward her keyboard to type something into the computer.

  Crow drums his fingers impatiently against the counter. “Sometime today.”

  She makes a point to move slower, taking a bite of her apple and munching it.

  Both of them ignore my presence.

  If it wasn’t for the whole zombie thing earlier, the weird, intrusive Afterlife app, and the fact I really need an internship, I’d be out of here. As it is, I sigh and flick my gaze up to the TV screens around the horned goat’s head.

  Some of the monitors show the day’s news, the big local story being the pileup on the freeway. Others loop through weird charts and images. One is a line graph titled “SUCCESSFUL MORAL DEFENSES.” Another is called “SOUL RATINGS” and provides a table of names with plus and minus numbers in the adjoining columns. Another displays the map from the Afterlife app, centered on Los Angeles.

  “This is the intern?” says Adalind finally, bringing my attention back to her and Crow. Although her tone is annoyed, her eyes hold a new glimmer of interest. “She’s not expected until
this evening. You’ll have to bring her back later.”

  “Yeah, not happening,” says Crow. As he leans over the reception desk, his leather jacket squeaks against its surface. “Want me to take her upstairs for you? I’ll do it for a price.”

  “Your kind make me sick,” she seethes.

  “I know. But you need my services.”

  After a tense moment, she reaches for a black tablet and slams it onto the counter.

  “Sign in,” she says, “then take her through. Top floor. I’ll try to arrange for someone to take her off your hands.”

  “Wasn’t so hard, was it?” he says as he squiggles his finger across the screen. Then, without another word to Adalind, he walks toward a bank of six elevators.

  I follow but feel Adalind’s strange eyes on my back as I do. I turn around, expecting to meet her surly gaze, but instead, she’s looking at my feather tattoo. Realizing I’ve caught her, she hurriedly goes back to dismembering her apple.

  Chapter Nine

  “What’s her deal?” I say as the elevator doors slide open.

  Inside, Crow pushes one of about two hundred buttons, then leans back against the mirrored wall, arms folded across his chest. Floor zero is right in the center of the keypad. This place must have a whole load of levels belowground as well.

  “Adalind’s?” says Crow.

  “No. Mother Teresa’s,” I reply, leaning in the opposite corner. When he doesn’t reply, I huff, “Yes, Adalind’s. She seems to really hate you.”

  He shrugs as the elevator hurtles upward. “Aye, she’s a real xenophobe—”

  “Don’t tell me it’s because you’re Scottish.”

  His low chuckle vibrates through the enclosed space. “She’s just like that. Rumor has it, she used to have one of the top jobs here. But she screwed it up, got a major demotion, and now she works reception. And, as you could probably tell, she’s pretty pissed about it.”

  The elevator pings, and the doors slide open, revealing a frenzy of people in black blazers balancing stacks of paper and coffee cups as they hurtle about. It’s so busy I can barely see the view of Halo Corp. through the tinted glass windows beyond.

  A girl with sleek black hair and a headset almost knocks me over as she barges past us into the elevator.