“—told me to check out the Purgatory Vaults,” she says. “Something about some scrolls, but I don’t see why—”
“Woah, steady on,” says Crow as we step out.
She scowls at him as the doors close. When other people register Crow, they also start to give us a wider berth.
“There’s more to it than that,” I say. “Everyone seems to hate you.”
“And here I was thinking I was a pretty likeable guy,” says Crow.
The hallway spits us out into a huge office with garish red carpet and uniform rows of black desks. As we head through the chaotic hub, I notice loud, brightly colored graffiti everywhere—a green serpent coils around the elevators behind us, flames lick the filing cabinets, and cartoonlike depictions of torture cover the backs of every desk.
It smells like coffee and sweat, and there’s a distinct lack of air-conditioning. I tuck a strand of hair that’s started to stick to my forehead behind my ear.
People stare at us as we pass, eyeing me with curiosity and Crow with visible distaste.
“What did that receptionist mean when she said, ‘your kind’?” I ask.
At the end of the open office is a hallway leading to small, dingy room with a poorly equipped kitchenette on one side. A note pinned to the fridge says, “USE MY MILK AGAIN, AND I’LL FLAY YOU ALIVE.” A collection of shabby black and red armchairs and a scuffed black table have been pushed next to the window.
Crow drops down into one of the chairs, instantly at ease, manspreading as though we haven’t just passed twenty people who seem like they’d happily kick him in the balls.
“I’m an Omen,” he says.
“And that means?” I reply, sitting in the armchair beside him, tucking one leg beneath me to stop our knees from brushing. A stack of newspapers has been dumped on top of the table, and someone has graffitied the president with Devil horns and a moustache.
Crow groans, tilting his head back then rubbing his face. “What’s with all the questions? I can’t take it anymore.”
“You know, if you actually told me what was going on, then I wouldn’t have to ask,” I say, irritation rippling through my body. I look around. “Why have you brought me to some shithole office kitchen? I thought this was about an internship?”
“Aye. This is the interns’ floor. I’m just babysitting you until someone takes you off my hands,” he says, still staring at the low ceiling. “Someone else will explain it.”
“That’s it! I’m out of here.” I stand abruptly, knocking his outspread knee.
Suddenly, he grabs my wrist, reflexes faster than I imagined. Reflexes of my own kick into gear, and I grab his neck, pushing him back into the armchair and resting my knee between his legs.
His eyes widen. Slowly, he releases his grip on my wrist and puts his hands behind his head, raising an eyebrow in challenge. Amusement glimmers in his gray eyes.
“Have your way with me if you will. I like it rough,” he says.
I hold his gaze a moment longer, then let him go. “You’re a dick.”
He grins, hands still behind his head. Then he shakes his head.
“Go on then. What do you want to know? Why everyone hates me?”
“It’s becoming easier to figure out,” I say.
“As I said before, I’m an Omen.”
I sit back down.
“I work for a consultancy firm called Omens Limited,” he says. “We do contract work for both sides—for Devils Inc., and”—he gestures to the glinting white skyscraper across the road—“Halo Corp.” He shrugs. “People don’t like that we flit sides. Think we should choose an allegiance.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Tried that once. Pays better not to,” he replies. “Plus, they like me even less over there.” Something dark flits behind his eyes before he masks it with another smile.
“So you were paid? To what? Follow me around? Piss me off? Bring me here?” I pause. “That was you in the locker rooms yesterday, wasn’t it?”
“Aye, that was me.”
I stiffen. Despite everything that’s happened, I was still persuading myself I imagined the shadowy man in the mirror. The thought that Crow might have been there while I was showering is too creepy.
“That’s not okay,” I say. “How long were you in there?”
“Calm down,” he says. “I didn’t see anything. I did hear a pretty off-key rendition of that Fleetwood Mac tune blaring through the walls though. Wasn’t too keen to get any closer to that.”
Heat floods to my face. “Why were you following me?”
“The sides have a recruitment agreement in place. They’re allowed to recruit mortal souls to work for them, but they have to give at least twenty-four hours’ notice prior to presenting the mortal soul with the agreement. You know, to give the mortal chance to turn it down?”
“Are you talking about this Wi-Fi thing again?”
“Now you’re getting it.”
“You didn’t give me notice. . .”
“The ladders you walked under on the way to class, the crows, the black cat, the flickering lights. . .” He lists the items on his fingers. “I broke a shitload of mirrors too. And that ominous feeling you’ve had building in your chest for the past twenty-four hours?” He shifts forward in his seat, eyes glinting. “That was me.”
“Oh, right. Of course. No written notice, but a bad feeling and a series of minor annoyances? That will really stand up in court. Seems more to me that you’re listing things I could use to file a restraining order against you.”
“It stands up in our court. And your laws don’t apply to me.”
I shake my head. “Whatever. So Devils Inc. paid you to come and bring me in?”
“Well, that’s the interesting thing,” he says, leaning closer. “I was sent the contract about the job for your soul through the Afterlife app. Anonymously.”
“Is that unusual?”
“For this kind of job, aye.”
I frown, thinking about the veritable inbox of rejections I’ve accumulated. This year hasn’t been going well. My grades aren’t great, and my professors say I’m not applying myself. I’m pretty sure boxing and binge-watching movies aren’t particularly attractive extracurricular activities on a résumé either. Actual law firms don’t seem to want me. If this is real, and Devils Inc. could have any lawyer in the world, why would they head-hunt me?
Crow holds my gaze, his expression intense. My pulse quickens.
Then the spell breaks, and he looks at something behind me.
“Adalind,” he drawls. “They actually let you leave reception, huh?”
“Shut it,” comes the crisp reply.
Adalind has arrived wearing the same deadpan expression. Her piercings glint in the sunlight coming through the tinted window.
“We’re not paying you any more for this job, Omen. You can see yourself out.” Then she looks at me with her strange, inhuman eyes. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
She swivels on her black boots, then marches back down the hallway.
Crow shrugs. “Good luck, little Demon,” he says. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”
Chapter Ten
Adalind leads me away from the kitchenette, a black file in one hand. Now she’s standing, I realize she’s shorter than me, but despite her athletic build, she seems to trudge rather than walk, as though her black combat boots are too heavy.
“That guy’s an asshole,” she murmurs to herself.
“Yeah,” I agree under my breath, fighting a strange urge to look over my shoulder and catch his eye.
“One day, I’ll enjoy playing with his entrails.”
Torn between a fear she’s deadly serious and an odd desire for her approval, I end up making a weird noncommittal noise as we turn right and start to walk along the black meeting room-lined wall of the open office.
Truth be told, I’m uneasy at being parted from Crow. The guy may be an asshole, but he’s seen me through all this weirdn
ess so far. What’s that saying? Better the devil you know. Or Omen, in this case.
Now the adrenaline from the fight has worn off, my hangover is starting to creep back in, as is the dry mouth. From Adalind’s stormy expression, it’s doubtful I’ll be offered a glass of water. As if in answer to my question, she scowls at some blond guy passing by and causes him to spill his cup of coffee.
Yeah. I definitely prefer Crow.
“So I got an email about an internship?” I say.
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Yes. I’m aware. I sent it.” She sighs. “Always stuck with the shit jobs. “
“So are you giving me an interview or something?” I ask as we walk past numerous deceased plants and meeting rooms graffitied with cartoon Devils.
Without answering, she stops in front of one. A plaque reading “Meeting Room M:25:46” is pinned to the black brick.
“Go inside and take a seat,” she says, voice flat.
I do, stepping past her to sit at one of the six plastic chairs around a black circular table. A bulky old-school TV on wheels dominates one side of the small room, and Adalind slumps into a seat in front of it, dropping her black file onto the table. “Rachel Mortimer,” reads the label on the front.
She flicks it open, sighs, then pulls out a sleeved disc. She sticks it into the DVD player and presses play.
“What—?”
“Shh,” she hisses.
The TV turns on.
“Devils Inc. Recruitment Introduction” flickers in white letters before fading into a shot of a prestigious office. There are bookshelves full of dusty tomes interspersed with decanters of deep red and honey-colored liquid. The most prominent feature in the room, however, is the intimidating mahogany desk. And the man sitting behind it.
Ostensibly in his thirties, he’s tall and slender, with sharp cheekbones and a mop of fiery red curls. He wears a black suit, but it’s different than what I’ve seen the other employees wearing—more expensive.
He shuffles some papers on his desk, then adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves. As the camera zooms in, he looks up with a wicked smile that doesn’t quite reach his black eyes.
“Hello . . .?”
He pauses as if waiting for something.
“Rachel Mortimer,” drones Adalind, making me jump.
“Welcome to Devils Incorporated. I’m Mephistopheles, and I run the soul recruitment program for our Dark Lord and founder, Lucifer. At precisely—”
“Seven minutes past nine,” Adalind interjects, feet now resting on one of the plastic chairs.
“—at the location—”
“Evie’s Garden Bar—”
“—you entered into a contract with our organization and promised your immortal undying soul to us in exchange for—”
“Free Wi-Fi,” supplies Adalind.
Mephistopheles’s smile widens. “Congratulations! I hope you reveled in the earthly pleasures our organization arranged for you as compensation for your soul.”
My mouth drops. These people aren’t seriously trying to tell me the Wi-Fi I used to send an application to a stupid firm that auto-rejected me is a divine pleasure to be exchanged for my soul, are they?
“Erm—” I start.
“Shh,” hisses Adalind.
“But now, it is time for your side of the bargain. It is time to join us here at Devils Inc., where you will serve until Judgement Day—at which point, of course, your soul will come down to the depths of Hell for all eternity.”
I glance at Adalind for some sign that this is a funny initiation joke, but she’s staring disinterested out of the window. The forked tongue of the snake tattoo on her neck winds down her shoulder to poke out of her sleeve.
“Now,” drawls Mephistopheles, bringing my attention back to the TV, “you’re probably wondering what it is we do here at Devils Inc. So let me fill you in.” He rises to his feet and strolls over to the bookshelf, which he leans against in a faux casual pose. “We run the show up here during our Dark Lord and founder’s absence from earth so only the very best souls make their way down to Hell. Among the many teams that exist within our organization are a few that will be of particular interest to our new recruits.”
He reaches for one of the decanters on the shelf. Slowly, he pours red liquid into a small crystal goblet. It could be red wine, but it has the thick consistency of blood.
“Our Soul Investments Team works hard to identify souls that might be of interest to our Dark Lord and founder,” he continues, putting the cork back in the decanter. “Our Soul Recruitment Team works to lure them in. Our Legal Team oversees the entire operation, making sure that when there is a legal dispute with our main competitor, Halo Corp., Devils Inc. wins. And, of course, our military program allows us to build our army in preparation for the Final War to come once the Revelations Clause is exercised. It is a great pleasure to welcome you to our—”
He pauses again.
“Legal Team,” says Adalind, stifling a yawn.
“—where you will serve as—”
“An intern.”
He raises his glass. “Here’s to an eternity of servitude to the Devil,” he says, taking a sip. When he pulls the goblet away, his grinning lips are stained red. “Any questions?”
Chapter Eleven
“Um, yeah. I have a few,” I say when another long pause suggests we’re still in the ask-and-answer portion of the video.
“Then your assigned Devils Inc. mentor will be happy to answer them,” Mephistopheles drawls.
I look at Adalind, who’s still staring moodily out of the window. She looks like she’s just waiting for someone to ask her a question so she can immediately kill them.
“As for me,” Mephistopheles says, “I’ll be seeing you in Hell. Until then . . .” He raises his crystal goblet once more, then gulps down the rest of the viscous red liquid.
The scene fades to white noise.
Adalind sighs heavily, then turns off the TV. She folds her arms across her chest before lazily turning her attention my way. “What?” she says.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“Do I look like I have a sense of humor?” she asks. Her eyes are blank, and her pierced nose is raised in challenge.
I pause. “No.”
She places the black file back on the table, flips it to the front, and slips a flat black cell phone from the front sleeve.
“This is your company phone,” she drones, sliding it across the desk. “The Afterlife app is already installed. You can access your profile now. You might want to change your status to offline to stop any unwanted soul attention until your training.”
When I don’t take it, she slips something else out of the pocket. “This is your Devils Inc. access card,” she continues, sliding over a black piece of plastic emblazoned with devil horns. “It’ll get you into the places in the building that an intern is allowed to go. Which are not many.”
She runs a hand through her black hair before pulling a piece of paper from the file. “And this is your contract, which states the terms and conditions of our compulsory internship offer.” She glares at me. “Go on. Take it.”
Jaw set, I lean forward across the table and drag the three items toward me. The top few lines of the contract catch my eye instantly. “By accepting the terms and conditions of our free Internet service, you hereby sign away your immortal soul to the Devil and agree to be called upon, at any time, to enter into his service.”
“You’ll come in on Monday evening at seven and not a moment sooner.” Adalind’s monotonous voice takes my attention from the paper.
“In the evening? That seems a bit late.”
“We offer a twenty-four-hour service. I don’t make the rules. If you have a problem with your working hours, then feel free to send your complaints to I-don’t-give-a-crap at Devils Inc. dot com. In the meantime, I’ll arrange for someone to run through your training. Which will be a pain in the ass since we’re extremely busy at the moment.” She arches a pierced ey
ebrow. “Any questions?”
It’s a challenge rather than a genuine offer. Still . . .
“And if I don’t accept it?”
“You’ll be transported to Hell.”
I stare at her. “This is ridiculous. You seriously expect me to believe this is legally binding?” I glance at the piece of paper, scouring my mind for anything I’ve learned about contracts in my business law class. “It’s . . . it’s too vague.”
“It’s not.”
“It’s fraudulent!”
“Everything looks clear and accurate to me.”
“An agreement needs to be made by consent of both parties. I didn’t know what I was signing.”
She shrugs.
“Well, what about the fact exchanging my immortal soul for a service makes the object of the contract illegal itself?” I declare.
Adalind exhales sharply through her nostrils, then leans forward. She taps the bottom of the contract: “This Soul Agreement between Rachel Mortimer and Devils Inc. shall be governed by and interpreted pursuant to Ethereal Law.”
My mouth feels dry, and I swallow as I stare at the piece of paper. I have trouble enough understanding California State Law. I have no idea what rules these people are following.
I blow out a long breath. Then I decide to make lemonade out of evil lemons.
“Will it count for university credit?”
She shrugs. “I guess. Now, we’re done. I have more important things to be doing,” she says, marching out of the meeting room.
I want to tell her I have things to be doing too—such as class, and meeting Josie and Lucas for lunch, and rationalizing this completely crazy morning, and sleeping off this appletini-induced hangover. But my head throbs, and right now, I just want to get out of here.
Hands slightly shaking, I fold the contract and put it in my jeans pocket along with the new cell and access card. My fingers brush against the Halo Corp. business card as I do.
It’s not until I’ve finally made my way back outside that I realize I don’t have a ride back to Trinity Falls. I curse, pulling out my cell and leaning against the obsidian black wall. Lucas has a car, so I open up our group chat with Josie to see if they’ll come pick me up.
Devils Inc. Page 5