Devils Inc.

by Lauren Palphreyman

  “I know.” Amusement glitters in his eyes. “Though, I prefer diabolical. You going to let me help then? Or no?”

  I sigh. Given that I do need to find Jonathon, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have someone who knows how to navigate this new terrain of Angels, Demons, and the afterlife. I place my hands on the top of the car and peer inside.

  “Fine. You can help,” I say. “But just so you know, I’m never going to sleep with you. So you need to stop”—I point my finger at him and move it in a circle—“this thing.”

  He raises his eyebrows in faux innocence. “I can’t help my raw sex appeal.”

  “Fine. But we’re not happening.”

  When he smirks, I realize I’ve made a critical error. I’ve essentially turned myself into a challenge for someone who has admitted to being perpetually bored.

  “Right, well, thanks for the ride,” I say, shutting the door only for him to roll down the windows.

  “Anytime, little Demon,” he says smoothly, and then he calls out as I start to walk up the sidewalk. “Oh. Rachel?”

  “Yeah?” I say.

  A wicked grin crosses his face. “I lied before. I don’t mind my women having damned souls.” He gives me a corny wink. “See you soon!”

  Before I can retort, he’s driven off.

  Chapter Nineteen

  On Saturday morning, I meet Josie and a seriously hungover Lucas in the food hall, where Josie chatters about the previous night while we sip coffee from paper cups. She danced all night at the club, Lucas kissed a guy from his Faustus play, and Chris will be training her on the bar at Apocalypse tonight.

  I’m quiet through most of it, afraid to let something slip that will give me a one-way ticket to Hell. I don’t say anything when we head to the library to catch up on assignments either. From the way Josie’s eyes brim with concern, I know she can tell something is up.

  I decide to spend my Sunday alone in the gym, pummeling a punching bag that’s once again a stand-in for Crow’s face. Both Josie and I have ended up signing weird contracts because of him. And yet, clearly, he thinks he can charm his way into my pants.

  I don’t hear from him or Gabriel all weekend.

  I resist the urge to look them up on the Afterlife app, although I tap in Jonathon’s name at every opportunity. “User unavailable” shows every time.

  On Monday morning, I send the email to the college admin team letting them know I’ve secured an internship. I need the credit, but actually telling the university feels like fully accepting the truth. This is really happening. I signed my soul away to the Devil.

  Before I know it, it’s 7:00 p.m., and I’m stepping off the bus in front of the tall black building.

  The street is fairly quiet apart from the odd person in a disheveled business suit. What kind of legal internship starts this late in the evening? Feeling eyes on me, I pull up the collar of my leather jacket. Somewhere in the warm twilight, a crow caws.

  The atrium is mostly empty, and my footsteps echo off the obsidian tiles as I pass the eggy statue of Lucifer.

  “You’re late,” drawls Adalind when I reach reception. Boots on the counter, she examines her bitten fingernails with those inhuman eyes.

  “No, I’m not.” I glance at one of the flashing monitors depicting the day’s news—the time is in the bottom-left corner. “You said come in at seven. It’s seven.”

  “It’s two minutes past seven.” Dropping her legs, she sits up. “Not that I care. Why do I always get stuck with the interns?” She trudges out from behind the high desk, white shirt collar unbuttoned to reveal the tail of her snake tattoo. “Come on then. Let’s get this over with.”

  “Are you training me?” I ask as we step into the elevator. I instantly regret it when she looks at me like I’m a bug. A bug she’s been ordered to teach how to file.

  “Oh, poor you. I can see how you’ve got the bad end of the bargain.” She shakes her head, silver piercings glinting, as the elevator lurches up. The doors ping open. “Millennials. So ungrateful. Back in my day, I would have . . .”

  She heads out of the elevator, so I never hear about what undoubtedly horrible thing she would have done once upon a time.

  “I’m Gen Z, actually,” I mutter as I follow her out.

  “You know, I used to be someone. Now, I’m stuck here babysitting petulant little—” She snaps her head to glare at me. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  We’re in another open office, although this one looks like a Demonic police station. It has a shiny black-tiled floor, big desks lit by sultry red lamps, blood-colored filing cabinets, and outer rooms marked with golden plaques.

  Something catches my eye through the glass walls of the nearest one. A Devils Inc. employee with floppy black hair interviews Richard Livingstone, his flushed face and disheveled suit still covered in blood. There’s a pile of paperwork between them. Above the door is a bronze plaque reading, “GREED.”

  I survey the rest of the plaques, all of which represent one of the seven deadly sins, one of the seven heavenly virtues, or one of the Ten Commandments.

  Right in the center of the floor is a black podium showcasing a pair of silver scales.

  “What is this place?” I ask.

  “My God,” drawls Adalind, glaring at me as she leans beneath a plaque reading, “THOU SHALT NOT TAKE THE LORD’S NAME IN VAIN.” “What does it look like? It’s the interrogation rooms. Part of the legal department.”

  “And that means?” I say, not bothering to hide my annoyance. It earns me a sharp look from a bearded employee flipping through a file—at least, until he sees the target of my sass.

  Adalind exhales sharply out of her nostrils. “Chances are, if up there doesn’t want a soul, neither do we. The Demons on this floor work in Soul Defense. If a soul has committed an Ethereal offence, they go through their paperwork and try to build a case for them to go elsewhere. Either by finding a loophole, calling the evidence into question, or by showing that their Virtues outweigh their Sins.”

  “And then what?”

  “What do you think? Then there’s a trial with our competitors. If we win, they take the soul.”

  I fold my arms across my chest, glancing at Richard Livingstone as he waves his arms aggressively. According to the news stories, this guy was a real piece of work.

  “So you really want me to help send bad people to Heaven?”

  She barks out a laugh. “You thought you’d be building cases for our clients on your first day?” She claps her hands, and the people in black blazers turn. “Got a new intern, guys. Anyone want anything from Starbucks?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Given I’m working at a company allegedly founded by Lucifer, the week that follows is surprisingly uneventful. Adalind mostly makes me run to a coffee shop in downtown Los Angeles to purchase obnoxiously complex coffees, complete with multiple shots, soy milk, extra whipped cream, and caramel syrup. Since there are perfectly functional coffee machines in the kitchenettes, I start to wonder whether this is an exercise intended to torture both me and the barista, who looks like she wants to kill me every time I walk in.

  The silver lining, however, is that I get to visit all of the company’s various departments. As I do, I keep an ear out for anything that might shed any light on Jonathon’s disappearance and any information I could give to Gabriel about the Apocalypse.

  Tuesday, I’m sent to the Soul Investments Department, which reminds me of a trading floor on Wall Street. People with slick hair and fancy suits run around yelling into headsets. An island of black screens in the center of the room shows spiking red and green lines.

  “They depict the value of souls,” says Adalind. She leans against a black pillar as I take the orders of any employee who runs up and shouts at me.

  “How?”

  She rolls her snakelike eyes. “Via their useful sins, virtues, or skills. How else?”

  I dodge out of the way as a woman in a pantsuit powers past yelling about t
he lowered value of some soul due to an incident of sexual harassment, and how they need to “put a hold on recruitment.”

  “Recruitment?” I ask.

  Adalind sighs as she studies her fingernails. “The Soul Investments Team identifies the souls that might be of use, then they send intel down to the Recruitment Team.”

  “Then what?”

  She pushes off from the wall and walks toward the elevator, clicking her fingers. “Come on. I’ve got better things to be doing.”

  On Wednesday evening, I get to see the Soul Recruitment Department. With its desk arranged in pods, it’s got more of a traditional office feel. Bleary-eyed workers scroll through spreadsheets and social media feeds. Framed posters say things such as, “Remember the core desires!” and every so often, there’s a potted plant that no one seems to have watered.

  As I’m taking coffee orders, two men by the water fountain grumble about how it isn’t fair they do all the work while the field team gets all the credit.

  “So what actually happens in here?” I ask Adalind when I’m done. She leans against the wall again, and I start to wonder if she even has the ability to stand up straight.

  She looks like she’s not going to answer, but eventually, she exhales. “This department identifies a person’s Desire—the thing a person is willing to exchange for their soul. Then the field team goes out and presents them with the contract. Halo Corp. do the same, though they trade in Miracles instead of Desires. Bunch of stiffs.”

  On the far wall, there’s a big whiteboard listing things such as, “Money,” “Revenge,” “Sloth,” and, “To Prove Themselves.” Each category has a series of tally marks.

  I nod to it. “I never got offered a Desire.”

  “You got free Wi-Fi.”

  “But that sucks.”

  Adalind lets out a noise that almost sounds like a laugh. “I know.” I give her a blank look, and she averts her eyes, though her pierced eyebrows knit together. “It’s not the department’s fault. Your case didn’t come through here.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  She shrugs, then pushes off from the wall. “I’m bored. Come on.”

  On Thursday, I get a glimpse of the Military Department. They’re on one of the underground floors, and Adalind makes me wait by the door while she talks with the severe-looking man in charge. While she looks bored, he seems agitated.

  Behind them, men and women run drills across the black mats, grunting and shouting. Red punching bags hang from the walls, and a display of weapons dominates one whole side of the room. The air smells unpleasant—like sweat and sulfur—even though the air-conditioning is down so low that my breath mists in front of my face. I shiver, pulling my new black blazer around my shoulders.

  Minutes later, my grumpy babysitter shuffles me back upstairs.

  Finally, Friday evening arrives. After studying during the day and working half the night, I’m ready for the weekend—especially as today, my assignment is to help the floppy-haired Demon working on Richard Livingstone’s defense.

  Under the light of a sultry red lamp, I’m left to sift through a huge pile of paperwork documenting the business tycoon’s entire life and record every Sin or Virtue I find. If we can find more Virtues, we can make a case for Halo Corp. to take him.

  It’s insanely boring, so I’m almost happy when Adalind emerges after a few hours and demands I get the team coffee.

  “The nearest coffee shop’s closed for the night,” she drawls, “so you’ll have to go to the one near the mall.”

  Great. I get to torture another barista with all my specialty orders.

  I’m halfway down the street from Devils Inc. when I hear a Pssst sound coming from the alley between two office blocks.

  “Gabriel!” I say brightly.

  “Shh!” He ushers me into the shadows, peering around the corner to check no one is watching. He misses the crow standing at the other end of the alley.

  I’ve caught a few flashes of big black birds in the skyscraper windows all week, though the Omen himself has been absent.

  I shoo it away before Gabriel spins back around.

  “Any updates about the impending Apocalypse?” he asks.

  “No,” I say. “It’s not as if someone’s going around the office waving around the stolen scrolls. I think we need a better plan than this.”

  “I agree,” says Gabriel. “I’d very much like to find out what the Horsemen know. I’m looking into ways we can bring Josie into this without breaching any Ethereal contracts. We’ll meet again tomorrow to discuss.”

  Half an hour later, I’m heading out of the coffee shop when my phone buzzes in my jeans pocket. Thanks to a tray of thirteen fancy coffees, a bag full of overpriced cake slices, and a few bags of potato chips, it’s too risky to check it.

  As I walk through the darkening maze of skyscrapers, the hairs on the back of my neck start to prickle.

  Someone is watching me.

  “Crow, if that’s you, cut it out,” I mutter.

  I scan the street for any big black birds. Not seeing any, I quicken my pace. Someone’s low-fat caramel macchiato with soy milk and extra cream sloshes out of its paper container.

  “Shit,” I hiss, then I pause to adjust the tray.

  As I do, a chilling laugh floats up behind me. I glance over my shoulder. A female figure in a red hooded sweater stands in the middle of the road.

  “Double shit,” I mutter.

  I pick up my pace again, and from the echo of footsteps, I can tell she does as well.

  Soon, I take a turn and find myself in the parking lot of a closed shopping center. There’s an exit across the way, but two more red hooded figures block my path.

  I spin around, more coffee sloshing, to find myself facing the girl behind me. She’s close enough now that I can see a pair of red eyes gleaming beneath her hood.

  If I can make it to the center of the lot, I’ll have more room to fight. As I start to move, though, more hooded figures emerge from the shadows.

  My heart thunders in my chest as they surround me.

  “This the girl?” says one, looking at his phone, then back at me.

  “That’s her,” confirms a huge guy who looks like he’s spent way too much time at Muscle Beach. “Kill her together and split the proceeds?”

  “Split?” says a raspy female voice. “I’ll kill her and keep the proceeds myself.”

  “Woooah,” I say, spinning around as I try to determine the biggest threat. “Kill? Let’s not be hasty.”

  The girl laughs as she pulls an ornate dagger from a belt holster. “Nothing personal, Rachel Mortimer. Although I will enjoy slitting you open.”

  Before I can say more, she lunges at me.

  I drop the tray, sloshing hot coffee over the concrete, and strike her across the face.

  “Bitch,” she snarls.

  “Me?” I say, grabbing her hand and snapping her wrist back. As soon as her blade drops to the floor, I elbow her face, then headbutt her backward, paper cups rolling at our feet.

  And then the mob charges.

  It happens in a blur. Hands grab at my jacket, something sharp nicks my cheek, and something heavy hits my head and makes me see red dots. Some of my attackers are fighting each other—wanting to kill me individually, apparently—but most are trained on me. I dodge a fist, hit something hard, then duck as a silver blade cuts through the shadows by my face.

  Shit.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  The air thickens like it does before a storm. Adrenaline pounds through my body, making everything seem distant—as if all the violence is happening to someone else.

  But it isn’t. I need to get away. There are too many of them. They’re armed. They’re not human.

  They want to kill me.

  I slam my elbow into Muscle Beach’s neck as he reaches for my arm. He wheezes, stumbling back, and I lurch at his chest to help him on his journey to the concrete. He falls, but he grabs my ankle, causing me to stumble in my
escape.

  It’s then that I notice the air is dark. Too dark. It’s cold too, chilling my blood. The hairs on my arms stand on end, and breath steams from my mouth. There’s another threat here. Something even worse than my mob of attackers. My heart pounds in my chest as I hurtle toward the exit on the other side of the parking lot.

  A strong wind picks up around me, and thunder rumbles across the sky. I’m almost at the last store when I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall of the shopping center. A crack snakes across it, cutting through the hooded girl approaching me from behind.

  And then I fall to my knees, hands clutching my midriff, as she pulls the blade from my back.

  What? How?

  Spots distort my vision. My body feels numb. I feel life spilling out of me along with my blood. I feel pain. But it’s dull. Faraway.

  All I can hear is laughter.

  “It’s done,” says the girl. “Log it.”

  I’m dying.

  How can I be dying?

  I don’t want to die.

  Is this how Jonathon felt?

  I fall on my face.

  And then darkness. Pure, crackling darkness. It’s outside of me, and inside of me, and everywhere. Thick shadows twist around me. Cold. Like smoke. I think this is what infinity must feel like. And somehow, it’s terrifying and comforting at the same time.

  Then a female scream punctures the blackness. Seconds later, it’s replaced by a chorus of male shrieks, and strong wings flapping, and groans, and the sound of tearing flesh.

  Then silence.

  No. Not silence

  I can hear crows. Crows are cawing.

  Heavy footsteps approach. There’s a deep sigh.

  “Why’d you have to go get yourself killed, little Demon?” says a gruff Scottish voice. “Ah, shit. I can’t believe you’re going to make me do this.”

  I smell leather and smoke and blood as strong arms scoop me up from the ground.

  “We’re going to need a Miracle,” he mutters as I black out.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Male voices cut into my dreamlike state. There’s something warm and soft beneath me.