Devils Inc.

by Lauren Palphreyman

  “Do you know the amount of paperwork I’ll have to do to cover this up?” a familiar voice snaps and my eyes blink open to reveal an off-white ceiling. “An unauthorized Miracle! You think you can just call on me to fix your problems?!“

  I groan, propping myself up on the pillow as I try to figure out where the hell I am if it’s not actually Hell. The room I’m in is small, yet the bed is large. To my right, an old wardrobe spills creased shirts onto the exposed floorboards. Other than a single chair in the corner, which has my soiled black blazer hanging over the back, it’s the only furniture. The blue and cream comforter beneath me smells of woodsmoke and sweat, but, weirdly, it’s not a bad combination.

  A humorless chuckle from the other room puts my thoughts on hold. “My problems? So she’s not your mole, then? I thought you would have learned by now that your little schemes don’t work, mate.”

  “Yes,” Gabriel replies icily. “You’d think I would have.”

  I rub my lower back as memories of my death come crashing back. It not only doesn’t hurt, there’s no wound there.

  What. The. Hell?

  “For God’s sake, you’re leaving already?” says Crow.

  “I can’t be seen here. People are watching.”

  “Right, everyone’s conspiring against you. You know, I’ve got some aluminum foil in the cupboard. Maybe you could fashion yourself a little hat.“ There’s a pause then a rustle of fabric as someone sits down. “No one’s watching you, mate. You’re irrelevant.”

  “And whose fault is that?!”

  Silence. Then agitated footsteps. Then a deep sigh.

  “Gabe, wait. At least wait until she’s woken up. What if something’s gone wrong?”

  “It hasn’t.”

  “But what if it has. Please, mate. For old time’s sake.”

  “For old time’s sake?” Gabriel scoffs. “Half a century and you haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Please.”

  “No.”

  “Pretty please.”

  “No.”

  “Pretty please with sugar on top?”

  “Fine,” snaps Gabriel. “I’ll check on her. But once I’ve assessed that she’s okay, I’m leaving. I don’t want to set eyes on your nauseating face again.”

  Crow laughs. “If you say so.”

  Footsteps come closer. Someone puts a hand on the door handle. Then there’s a pause.

  “What’s in it for you?” Gabriel says coldly.

  “Huh?”

  “Saving the girl. What’s in it for you?”

  “I can’t save a girl because I like her?”

  “No. You’re incapable of any kind of affection.”

  Crow starts to say something but Gabriel cuts him off and opens the door, looking more Angelic than usual thanks to the backlighting from the living room. His pale face is drawn. He’s wearing jeans and a checkered grey and black shirt.

  “Oh. You’re awake,” he says, not bothering to warm his tone.

  “Nice to see you too,” I say.

  “I should think so, seeing as I just saved your life.”

  He enters the room, wiping his hand on his jeans. He takes an exaggerated step over a pile of clothes before perching on the edge of the chair, nose turned up like he smells something terrible.

  Seconds later, Crow appears in the doorway.

  “Look who’s awake,” he says with a grin. Dressed in gray sweats and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, he looks like he’s just gone for a run. “How do you feel?”

  “Good, actually. Which is weird. Seeing as I was stabbed. How am I not dead?” Panic jolts through me. “Oh God, I’m not dead, am I?”

  Crow chuckles. “No, little demon. Our Angelic friend over here—"

  “I’m not your friend,” snaps Gabriel before focusing on me. “I performed a Miracle to heal you. At great personal cost, I might add.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “Yes, well . . .” He looks down and clasps his hands in his lap.

  I turn to Crow. “Who were those people?”

  “Demons,” he says with a shrug. “Pretty low-grade. But it won’t stay that way as the price goes up. You’re in serious shit, little Demon.”

  “What do you mean? Why were they trying to kill me?”

  He holds my gaze for a moment, then pulls his cell out of his pocket, unlocks it, and tosses it onto the bed. Afterlife is loaded, and in the center is a picture of my face. Below it is a number.

  Five thousand dollars.

  “What’s this?”

  “Someone’s taken a hit out on you,” says Crow.

  I meet his eyes. “Why?!”

  He glances almost imperceptibly at Gabriel, but the Angel is frowning at the clothes spilling out of the wardrobe. “Dunno.”

  He’s hiding something,

  “Really? You have no idea?” I say.

  “Nope.”

  “None at all—"

  Gabriel abruptly rises to his feet, wiping his hands on his shirt even though he hasn’t touched anything. “I’m glad you’re okay, Rachel. Perhaps we can reconvene later to discuss Apocalyptic issues in someplace more . . . pleasant. I wish there was a way to get the hit on you taken off.” He sighs. “It would be easier if the founder hadn’t gone missing.”

  As Gabriel heads for the door, I meet Crow’s eyes. His half smile confirms he’s thinking the same thing.

  “Someone’s trying to find him,” I say, swinging my legs off the bed and jumping to my feet. “Someone’s trying to find Jonathon. They’re using me as—”

  “Bait,” says Crow. “Aye. I think so too.”

  While we’ve been talking, Gabriel has been awkwardly trying to shoulder past Crow, but now he halts. “What are you both talking about?”

  Crow lazily pushes off the doorframe and disappears into the next room. I follow him and Gabriel into what turns out to be a messy living space. A worn leather couch draws my eye first, followed by the huge plasma TV, a tall shelf full of DVDs, a vinyl record player, and a kitchenette area behind a breakfast bar. The carpet beneath my feet is a shabby grey. I think we’re in a basement flat; the only window is a horizontal slit above a sink piled with dirty plates.

  “Your new mole has an interesting family connection,” Crow explains to Gabriel, who is hovering by the couch.

  “The Founder of Afterlife is my brother,” I say.

  Gabriel’s eyes widen and then he snaps his head towards Crow. “You really haven’t changed. I get it now, why you’re involved. You think if you keep Rachel safe then Jonathon will grant you some kind of favor.” He turns back to me. “He’s playing with your feelings. You can’t trust this crook. You have to know this.”

  “Oh, come on, mate,” says Crow, unperturbed. “This is all connected. Rachel being recruited, Jonathon being her brother, the Four Horsemen taking on bar staff, the scroll being stolen. You know as well as I do that coincidence is bullshit. And if you want to stop the world from ending, you need me. Come on, it’ll be like old times.”

  Crow’s lips broaden into a wicked smile as Gabriel continues to glower.

  “What do you say, mate? Want to join Team Apocalypse?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Absolutely, unequivocally not,” Gabriel says, then he storms toward the door, knocking his hip on a coffee table as he goes. But he turns when his hand is on the knob, cheeks flaming and clashing with his red hair. “Join Team Apocalypse? I am Team Apocalypse. Rachel is helping me to stop this in exchange for her soul. And you . . . you. . .” He points a slender finger at Crow. “You have no part in this.”

  “There’s no ‘I’ in team, mate,” says Crow with a half-smirk.

  “There’s no ‘U’ either,” retorts Gabriel. “In fact, Rachel, you should come with me now. Don’t stay here with this good-for-nothing.”

  “Rachel stays with me.”

  As Crow steps in front of me, the bare bulb hanging above the coffee table flickers.

  I rub my face and exhale. “Guy
s, can we please cool it for a minute and talk this through? What is it between you two anyway?” I try to shuffle between the two of them, but Crow puts his hand on the back of the sofa and bars my path. “Crow,” I warn.

  He looks lazily down at me, but the storm in his eyes belies his calm demeanor. “I said I’ll protect you, little Demon. I can’t do that if you go off with him, can I?”

  “I’m not going off with him—”

  “He’s using you, Rachel,” interjects Gabriel.

  “Oh, and you’re not?” Crow’s eyes blaze into mine. “He can’t protect you—”

  “I just saved her life!” hisses Gabriel.

  “Aye, you did, didn’t you, mate?” Crow takes a step forward, and the shadows in the corners of the room swirl toward him. “One little Miracle. One easy little Miracle.”

  Gabriel’s jaw clenches, but his eyes remain defiant.

  “Guys, what’s—?”

  “Easy?” Gabriel spits. “You have no idea what I risked. You have no idea what is at stake. And you don’t care.” He steps forward, poking a finger into Crow’s chest. “You don’t care about anything. Or anyone.”

  “Oh, and you do?” Crow chuckles, but the darkness continues to slither toward him across the floor.

  “Guys . . .”

  “Stuffed up in your office all day long,” continues Crow, ignoring me. “Isolated from everyone and everything, surrounded by your precious books, all in some misguided, desperate attempt to prove yourself to Daddy?”

  There’s a ripping sound, and then two large white-feathered wings erupt from Gabriel’s back and scrape against the ceiling.

  I stumble back and fall onto the sofa. “Jesus Christ!”

  “I told you about my father in confidence!” snaps Gabriel. His checkered shirt is in ruins at his feet, his slender torso bare.

  Both men breathe hard, still nose-to-nose.

  Then Crow takes a step back and raises his hands. The shadows pooling at his feet dissipate.

  “No need to get excited, mate. . .”

  “As if you could ever excite me.”

  Gabriel’s wings fold back into his shoulder blades so quickly that if it weren’t for the tattered shirt on the ground, I could believe I imagined them. Then he bends down and picks it up haughtily, as if he’s not half-naked in what seems to be his archnemesis’s lair.

  “I need to borrow a shirt,” he says calmly.

  Crow chuckles. “Aye, looks like you do.”

  “Give me one of yours,” he says.

  Crow retreats to lean against the wall, arms folding across his chest. “I could.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” I push off from the couch and stride into Crow’s bedroom, scooping up the first shirt I see. It’s black like the one he was wearing the night I met him. On second thought, it is the one he was wearing the first night I met him.

  I go back into the living room, where the vibe has changed from anger to irritation.

  “Here,” I say, passing the shirt to Gabriel.

  He takes it, sniffs it, then pulls a face. “It’s dirty.”

  “Well, it’s not as if I know where he keeps his fresh laundry,” I say. “Come on, Gabriel, work with me here.”

  “I’m not wearing it. I don’t want to smell him on me all the way home.” He throws it to the floor at my feet.

  Crow and I both exhale. Then Crow heads into his bedroom. There’s the sound of a drawer opening. A minute later, he reemerges holding a black T-shirt. He throws it at Gabriel, who swipes it from the air then sniffs it. It seems to pass.

  Then he pauses, his expression softening. “The Beatles. Good band,” he murmurs. “Is this vintage?”

  “Aye. Picked it up from one of their gigs myself.”

  Gabriel turns it over, inspecting the date: 1969. “I used to love them,” he says.

  “I know.”

  Gabriel neatly folds his tattered shirt on the arm of Crow’s chair before slipping on the top, which shows the Beatles walking over a zebra crossing. Despite the two men’s difference in size, it fits him perfectly—a fact Gabriel notices too. He frowns and looks at Crow.

  Crow gives a half-shrug, back to leaning against the wall.

  After a heavy silence, Gabriel nods sharply, brushing himself off. “Right. Well. I’ll be going then.” He opens the door. “Rachel, meet me for brunch tomorrow at Evie’s. We’ll discuss next steps.”

  “Am I invited?” asks Crow.

  “No,” says Gabriel, but then he pauses in the doorway, shoulder blades sharp against the black T-shirt. “But if you happened to be in Evie’s at eleven a.m. tomorrow to make sure no one attacks Rachel while we speak, I suppose I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

  He slams the door shut behind him.

  I turn to Crow. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” I ask.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Crow holds my gaze for a moment, arms folded across his chest. Then he pushes off from the wall.

  “Hungry?” he says.

  “Hungry for answers.”

  “How about lasagna?” He heads to the kitchenette and pulls two microwave meals from the freezer. “Or . . .”—he studies the packet—“spinach and ricotta cannelloni?”

  “Cannelloni,” I say, going to stand on the other side of the breakfast bar.

  While I can tell he’s trying to distract me, I’m also famished. I feel light-headed too. I wonder whether it’s due to the whole “getting stabbed to death” incident or the Miracle afterward.

  I slide onto the leather barstool as Crow rummages through the dirty sink. There’s a load of old mail piled up on the counter. I glance at one of the opened letters.

  Thank you for your generous donation to Brain Trust Research. We—

  I flinch as Crow violently forks the plastic on top of the meals.

  “Did the lasagna do something to offend you?” I ask, turning my attention back to him.

  He chuckles as he shoves the containers into the microwave and sets the timer.

  “So what’s with you and Gabriel?” I try again.

  He leans across the breakfast bar. “He doesn’t like me very much.”

  “Hmm.” I raise an eyebrow. “Doesn’t he?”

  The corner of his full lip quirks up before he pulls back. “Beer?” he says.

  “Sure. But stop trying to distract me.”

  His gray eyes glint. He turns to the fridge and opens the door, releasing an odor that smells like sour milk mixed with off cheese and old cabbage.

  “Wow, that is . . . pungent,” I say, nose wrinkling.

  He produces a bottle of beer and slides it toward me. Then he turns back around to rummage for another one. “Aye . . . sorry about that. I don’t have people over much.”

  “You do have a nose though.”

  He chuckles as he pulls out his bottle. “You’re hardly Little Miss Princess Pristine,” he says, flicking the lid off. “You forget that I was contracted to follow you for twenty-four hours. The things I saw—”

  “For the love of God, shut the door!” I say, arm over my nostrils.

  He laughs as he shuts it, and I find myself laughing too. I can’t help myself. Why do I feel so oddly comfortable in this guy’s presence when I know—I know—I should feel exactly the opposite?

  “You have a nice laugh,” he says.

  I shake my head, lips still twitching. “Stop trying to change the subject. Or trying to poison me with the deadly biological warfare you’re brewing in your fridge. What’s the deal with you and—?”

  The microwave interrupts me with a loud beep.

  “Saved by the bell,” he says.

  “Crow!”

  “Rachel!”

  His low chuckle reverberates around the small kitchen as he pulls the meals out of the microwave and sets them on the breakfast bar. He washes some forks in the sink and hands one to me, and I go to wipe it on the bottom of my black T-shirt before realizing it’s still crusted with my blood. Given I almost died ear
lier, a bit of dirt on a fork is hardly the worst of my problems. I dig into the cheesy pasta.

  “I betrayed him,” Crow says then. “He never forgave me. There’s not much more to it.”

  Of course he would tell me when my mouth is full. I quickly swallow and ask, “In what way did you betray him?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  “I don’t like explaining stuff, little Demon,” he says, starting to eat his own meal. “I already told you that.”

  I take a sip of the beer, then put it down on the counter, deciding on a different tactic. “Okay. So when we find my brother, you want him to pay you for ‘protecting’ me, right?”

  Crow watches me, fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Aye,” he says.

  “Well, seems like your plan is pretty reliant on what I tell him.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “I mean, the way I see it, I could tell him you helped me. Or I could tell him that some annoying, pain-in-the-ass Omen has been following me around for days after doing nothing to stop me from signing away my soul.”

  Crow takes another bite of his lasagna and chews. For a second, I think I’ve gone too far, but then he smiles.

  “Well, look at you. Thinking like a Demon.” He takes a swig of his beer. “Okay, so you want the juicy details.”

  I put down my fork and lean close enough to smell the beer on his breath. “Yes.”

  “Well, I moved to Los Angeles in the late thirties, not long before the Second World War. I was a boxer, trying to make a name for myself. You box too, right? We should spar sometime.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “Fine,” he says, still amused. “I started getting into trouble—gambling, throwing games for money, that kind of thing. Couldn’t get out of it even when I wanted to get clean.” He shrugs. “Made me a perfect candidate for Devils Inc., so I signed my soul away. And not long after, I died in a car accident. Started working for them.”

  He takes another swig of beer.

  “Anyway, at that time, our conspiracy-loving friend over at Halo Corp. had this theory that the Second World War was a sign the Apocalypse was nigh. And that the reason Devils Inc. had started to recruit so many soldier-like people was part of Lucifer’s dastardly ploy.”