Devils Inc.

by Lauren Palphreyman

I wonder if that’s why Gabriel was wearing his “disguise” when I saw him there last week.

  “Yes. Well.” Gabriel tilts his chin up. “You’re barred from this place, yet here you are, lingering like a bad smell. Speaking of which,”—he looks Crow up and down—“have you ever heard of a shower?”

  When Crow only laughs, Gabriel turns his attention to me.

  “What do you think, Rachel?” he says. “It’ll be dangerous. We’ll only proceed if you’re happy.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t want to put Josie in danger. A fight while she’s working is still risky.”

  “They have security cameras,” says Crow. “We stage the fight when she’s not there, then find some excuse for her to look at the footage. She’d be safe.”

  “Okay. If it means I can stop lying to Josie, and we can stop the end of the world, then I’m for it,” I say. Plus, I’m starting to feel pent-up again; I wouldn’t mind beating up some Demons.

  “Excellent,” says Gabriel. “Well, we’ll proceed with our plan on Monday night, just before the club closes.”

  “Great.” I pause. “I get to be bait. Again.”

  Crow takes another sip of his hot chocolate and glances at me. “Aye. But at least you’re not a haddock.”

  ***

  After the three of us finish our drinks, we awkwardly part ways, Gabriel giving Crow a dark look when the Omen says he has business to attend to.

  I spend the rest of the day with Josie in the library, where I try to catch up on the contract law lecture I missed due to the appearance of the very dead Richard Livingstone.

  By the time I’m back in my room, my bare feet on the desk as I watch music videos on YouTube, I’ve got a serious headache thanks to hours of legalese and Josie pestering me for details about Crow.

  I’m dressed for bed when there’s a knock at the door. Making sure my green shorts and white tank look decent enough, I answer it. It’s Crow, dominating the doorframe, hands in the pockets of his dark jeans. He wears a blue shirt that makes his gray eyes seem darker.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hi.”

  “Can I come in?”

  I stare at him, waiting for my brain to kick in and override the stupid desire that’s appeared just from the heat in his eyes.

  “I said I’d look after you, little Demon,” he says when I don’t reply.

  “Look, Crow, about last night . . .” I say finally. “I think it’s best if it was just a one-time thing.”

  He presses forward and closes the door behind him, eyes fixed on mine. “Uh-huh.”

  “I mean, there’s a lot going on,” I say, my hand moving to his chest to find the gap between two of his buttons. I slip my finger inside, feeling the soft hair.

  “Aye.”

  “And me and you . . .” I say, heartbeat quickening. “We don’t work.”

  “Probably not.” He slides a hand around the back of my neck, brushing my cheek with his thumb.

  “It would be a disaster.”

  “Aye.”

  The small space between our bodies crackles with energy. The moment stretches, seeming to last an eternity.

  Then it snaps.

  Our mouths collide, hot and needy. I force my tongue against his, wrapping my hands around his neck as he grabs the bottom of my thighs and picks me up.

  But after a few steps toward the bed, he stops, pulling his mouth away. His bitable bottom lip is plump and swollen.

  “Too bad it was just a one-time thing, huh, little Demon?”

  When he makes to put me down again, I cling to him.

  “Fine,” I groan. “A two-time thing.”

  He chuckles, hoisting me back up. “I think we can do better than that, little Demon.”

  I put my hands on his cheeks and raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

  “Oh, aye. Two or three times tonight. At least.”

  I laugh, wrapping my legs around his waist as he carries me to bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  My room is dark, only a slither of moonlight creeping in through a gap in the curtains. Crow’s arm rests heavily over my stomach as I look at the ceiling. Then he grabs my right hand and turns away, pulling me onto my side. My university mattress creaks and dips.

  “Spoon me,” he says.

  I laugh. “How very masculine,” I say, brushing my fingers against his warm chest.

  He chuckles, wriggling his butt against my pelvis. “Masculinity is a social construct, little Demon. And everyone likes to be little spoon. Only, I never get to be on account of my large size.”

  I hear the innuendo and choose to ignore it. “Must be tough for you.”

  “Aye. It is.”

  I run my fingers up and down his arm, feeling the hard muscles. He makes a low, contented sound as I pause on his shoulder, circling his lily tattoo. I study it for a moment, intricate and beautiful. Then I brush my lips over it.

  He tenses, then he rolls over and roughly maneuvers me so that our positions are reversed.

  “I thought you wanted to be little spoon,” I say.

  “Aye. But you were right. I felt very emasculated,” he says in my ear.

  “Mmm. What’s the meaning behind your tattoo?”

  “Well,” he says, stroking my belly, “I got the feathers after I became an Omen. Crows are kind of my specialty, if you hadn’t guessed.”

  “And the flower?”

  “Liked the look of it when I was in the tattoo shop,” he says.

  “Liar,” I say.

  He doesn’t say anything for a minute.

  “Fine,” he says. “I got it for my mum. It was her favorite flower.”

  He paused before the word mum. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s not used to being open with people or whether he’s not being truthful. But then, why would he lie about something like that?

  I put my hand over his and squeeze. “I like it,” I say.

  He brushes my hair off my shoulder so he can study my tattoo.

  “What about you, little Demon?” he says. “Why a peacock feather?”

  “I really like peacocks,” I say.

  “Liar.” He kisses my neck, his stubble rough against my skin.

  “I don’t like talking about stuff,” I say.

  “I noticed.”

  “I barely know you.”

  “I dunno.” He kisses the back of my neck again. “I think we’ve gotten to know each other pretty well over the past couple of days . . .”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Aye. I know,” he says with sincerity. He brings his hand back around to my stomach and pulls me closer. “It’s something to do with your brother, right?”

  “Yeah.” I exhale and put my hand over his, lacing our fingers together. “You really want to know?”

  “Only if you want to tell me.”

  I pause, searching for the words. “Growing up, my parents put a lot of academic pressure on us. They never did the whole college thing, and they wanted us to have opportunities they never felt they had. Lucky for them, Jonathon was a prodigy. He was ten years older than me, and so it always felt like I grew up in his shadow. I was always ‘Jonathon’s little sister.’ It didn’t help that I was a shit student, nothing like him at all. I couldn’t focus. As soon as people realized that, it was like they gave up on me; like I was invisible.”

  “Sounds rubbish.”

  “Yeah. I never held it against him though. I idolized him. He was my cool big brother. He always stood up for me with my parents, and he’d help me with my homework and let me hang out with his friends—at least, until he went to college. He graduated early, then went and did a PhD in computer science while working for a tech company over in San Francisco. I didn’t have anyone to take the pressure off me anymore. And I always felt like being myself wasn’t good enough somehow. When I was thirteen—”

  I stop, my whole body tensing at the memory.

  “What happened?” Crow asks gently.

  “I was going thro
ugh a hard time,” I say. “It was like a shadow swallowed me. And it’s not because of Jonathon,” I add quickly, feeling the need to say it. “But I started acting out. Doing stupid stuff. Getting into trouble, hanging out with older kids. One time, they dared me to swim in the River Hudson.”

  I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, a heaviness settling on my chest.

  “It was winter, and I . . . I nearly drowned,” I say. “Jonathon was back visiting at the time. When I didn’t come home, he came to find me and saw me in the water. Saved my life. Pulled me out himself and got me to hospital. But I got pneumonia. The doctors thought I was going to die, but I somehow managed to pull through.”

  I take a deep breath. The next words catch in my throat, thick and heavy and wrong. This is not something I talk about.

  Crow strokes my stomach, his breathing a steady rise and fall against my back. It’s calming enough that I can continue.

  “After that, Jonathon decided to stay home. He pretended it wasn’t because of me, but I knew it was. He made me go to therapy, to share my feelings instead of acting out. He took me to the sessions. It helped a lot. And after each session, he’d take me to the Bronx Zoo, and we’d get an ice cream and talk. And I started to feel better, like myself again.

  “Anyway, we found this peacock there. He used to slink around the cafe with his feathers all tucked up and trailing behind him on the floor. We saw him every time. It was stupid, really, but we became obsessed with seeing him fan them out.”

  I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what’s coming.

  “Then, on my last day of therapy, he finally did it. He finally fanned them out right in front of us—all these beautiful colors. It felt like a sign from Heaven or something; a sign that everything was going to be okay. And I felt happy. Really happy. Hopeful, even. As he was strutting around the place, one of his feathers fell out, and Jonathon picked it up. He gave it to me. Told me to hold onto it, and to remember to hold onto hope. And I would have. I would have held onto the feather. Only, Jonathon left to go back to San Francisco a few days later. And on the way. . .”

  The words clog up in my throat. My eyes start to burn.

  “On the way to the airport, he was hit by a car.” I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the tears. “He died instantly. And, stupidly, I dropped the feather onto his coffin when we buried him. And so that’s why I got the tattoo. Because I got rid of the feather he told me to keep. And because I miss him. And because . . . it was all my fault.”

  Despite everything, tears spill down my cheeks. Tears I’ve been holding in for so long. It’s as if a dam has broken, and all the emotion I’ve been trying to bury along with Jonathon floods in.

  “No.” Crow turns me around and pulls me to him, pushing my head to his chest. “No. It wasn’t your fault, little Demon,” he says into my hair. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  My body shakes against his chest. One hand cradles the back of my head; the other strokes my back. All the while, he makes soft, soothing noises.

  I don’t know how long we lie like this until my breathing steadies. Finally, though, I give a muffled half-laugh.

  “I bet you wish you never asked,” I say, voice thick.

  “No. I’m glad you told me,” he says, serious. He pulls back a little so he can tilt my chin up with his finger.

  I avert my gaze, embarrassed. My eyelids are swollen, my face wet.

  “Look at me, little Demon.”

  When I do, his expression is serious.

  “We’re going to find your brother,” he says, and his stormy gray eyes hold such ferocity that I can’t help but believe him. “And he can tell you himself that it wasn’t your fault.”

  I sniff, giving him a weak smile. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. We’ll find him.”

  “Come here.” He rolls onto his back and pulls my head into the little nook between his shoulder and his neck. I lay my arm across his chest and hook one leg over his.

  “Is that why you decided to do the whole law thing?” asks Crow after a while. He rubs circles into my skin with his thumb.

  “I guess,” I say. “I just wanted to make my parents proud. And after Jonathon died, they talked to a lot of lawyers, but the guy driving the car basically got away with it. I think maybe that rubbed off on me; made me want to be someone who could fight for what’s right and win. And law seemed suitably academic. But it only took a few semesters for my opinions to change. It’s like you said before you took me into Devils Inc.—good and bad can be pretty arbitrary.”

  “I said that?”

  I nod. “I started to wonder whether right and wrong were quite so clear-cut. And I started to see that bad people got away with stuff all the time, and good people sometimes went down for small things. That Richard Livingstone case Adalind’s making me work on proves it. The guy’s a shit, but it looks like he’s going to Heaven because he’s such a shit Hell doesn’t want him. I’m not sure justice is entirely fair.”

  “The rules are rigged,” says Crow, and I’m surprised to see his expression darken. When he sees me looking, though, he smiles. “So you don’t actually want to do law, just find a way to prove yourself. How do you know your parents wouldn’t be proud of you if you did something you were, y’know, good at?”

  I kick his calf, and he yelps.

  “Hey! Just saying!”

  I sigh. “I guess I don’t.”

  “What would you do? If you felt like you could choose?”

  “I don’t really know. That’s the problem. Lucas thinks I should be studying film. I like movies. But what the hell could I do with a film major?”

  “Maybe if you let go of your core desire—proving yourself—then you’d be free to do whatever you want to do. To be happy.” He stares at the ceiling, but his focus seems faraway. For a moment, I wonder whether he’s talking to me or himself. “You should talk to them.”

  “Hmm. Maybe.” I change the subject. “You said you met him once. Jonathon.”

  “Aye.”

  “And that he didn’t like you.”

  Crow chuckles. “No. He didn’t.”

  I tilt my head to look at him, my forehead brushing against his chin. “Why?”

  “I came across him a few years back,” he says, trailing his fingers down my arm. “I was monitoring some of the senior Angels over at Halo Corp, hoping to catch them doing something naughty.” He raises an eyebrow at me, lips twitching. “I reckoned I could blackmail them into giving me a Miracle.”

  “You wanted to blackmail an Angel?” I roll my eyes. “You really are a shit, you know?”

  “Aye, I know. But Miracles fetch a lot of money on the black market.”

  “Stop looking so pleased with yourself,” I say, suppressing my own smile. “It’s not something to be proud of.”

  “Okay, sorry.” He forces his face into a serious expression, though his eyes still have that glint. “Anyway, I noticed a few of them would disappear off the map for hours at a time. I reckoned that meant they were doing something they shouldn’t be, so when your brother was in Los Angeles on business, I managed to get a meeting with him. Asked him to give me privileges to track users when they were offline.” He pauses. “And when I say asked, I mean, tried to blackmail . . .”

  I give him a hard look. “You tried to blackmail my brother?”

  “Aye. I told him that not sharing meant he was covering up whatever these senior Angels were doing, and that I would cause a scandal. In return, he told me where to go.”

  I laugh. “You’re the worst.”

  He has the nerve to look offended. “I told you before, I prefer diabolical.”

  “But it didn’t work?” I say.

  “Nah. But you can’t blame a man for trying.”

  “You definitely can blame a man when the man is trying to do something diabolical.”

  He laughs—a low, gruff sound that fills my small room.

  “Is that what you want from him when we find him?” I say, tucking my head back against his chest. “To
get those privileges on Afterlife?”

  “Maybe that. Maybe money. I dunno, little Demon. I’m opportunistic. I’ll take what I can get.”

  “What if he still doesn’t give you anything?” I trace a circle on his torso. “I doubt he’ll be very happy if he finds out what you’ve been doing to his little sister.”

  Crow chuckles. “Aye. I suppose not.” He stares up at the ceiling. “If I can’t get anything from him, I suppose I’ll just move on to my next dastardly plan,” he says. “Got to kill time somehow.”

  “’Cause you’re bored,” I say.

  “Aye.” He brushes his lips against my forehead and smiles. “Although, not so much lately.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “You’re not dead,” Adalind says when I skip class on Monday morning to come in early.

  She’s peeling an apple with a small blade, boots up on the desk. The green skin curls down in one long, twisting strand before falling onto a pile of memos beside her legs. The top one’s subject line says, “Re: Purgatory Vaults.”

  “Surprise!” says Crow, leaning over the desk.

  Though the sun beams brightly outside, the Demonic color scheme gives the atrium a gloominess that mirrors my feelings about being here. The air smells even eggier today too. I’m unsure if it’s just the brimstone statue of Lucifer, or the stream of Demons walking to the elevators carrying breakfast sandwiches. Either way, it’s unpleasant.

  Adalind assesses Crow with her snakelike eyes before sliding her gaze to me. Then she sinks her teeth into the white flesh of her apple and chews.

  “We need to get you a new blazer,” she says, noticing the tattered one hanging over my arm. “You can’t go around wearing that.”

  “Okay?” I reply, surprised. I expected a shitstorm. “You’re not . . . mad?”

  “Mad? I’m ecstatic you’re okay,” she says flatly. “Do you know how much paperwork your death would have required?”

  “Oh. Right,” I say.

  She sighs. “Although, the value of the hit on you has increased. And, of course, I’m the one who has to babysit.”

  “What?” I hurriedly pull out my company cell.

  “Yep.” She tosses the half-eaten apple onto her desk, flicks the blade of the penknife back into its holster, then swings down her legs and gets up. “I’m not paid enough for this shit.”