The Devil's Intern (12 page)

“How did you die, Medusa?”

I wanted to ask again, but it’s Alfarin who speaks. To my surprise, she doesn’t tell him to get lost.

“I fell from the Golden Gate Bridge,” she says quietly. “I didn’t mean to let go, I just lost my grip. I only wanted to scare them into helping me.”

“Oh, Medusa.” I put my lips against her temple. It isn’t a kiss, because my mouth stays there. If I could inhale away her pain, I would in a second.

“And ye regret being there?”

My best friend pulls away. She clambers off the bed and straightens out her clothes, her back to us. She sniffles, wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, and fluffs out her corkscrew hair in the window’s reflection.

“I only regret that I didn’t take
him
with me.”

Checking into two rooms was a total waste of money. Medusa and Elinor are sharing the one bed, but Alfarin wants the four of us to stay together. I have no intention of leaving Medusa to her night terrors, so we remain in the one room and let the other go unused.

Medusa would go nuts if she knew I stayed awake just to watch her sleep, long after everyone else has dozed off. I’m not being a creep or stalker or anything like that. I’m just worried after she’s spent an hour locked in the bathroom with the Viciseometer. She was watching something in the watch face, I’m sure of it, though she says she was just cleaning fingerprints off it. She isn’t a very good liar. It’s another thing we have in common.

Medusa never believed me when I told her I’d died saving kittens. We’d both just had our third interviews for the intern job—that was when we first became friends. She rolled her eyes and walked away; I ended up running after her. The first words she ever said to me were curse words. I liked that. It’s a common misconception that boys like girls who fall at their feet. Well, we do like that, but only for that immediate moment. I would never hang out with a girl like Patty Lloyd. She’s gorgeous, but way too much work. Medusa is easy most of the time. A round peg in a round hole. She fits into my death effortlessly.

Death is crappy enough without friend drama. The four of us are soul mates, according to the girls. They do this kind of
retrospective analysis. Medusa, and especially Elinor, like to get all deep and heavy and say things about fate bringing us all together, or destiny, or some other nonsense. Elinor is constantly going on about how the four of us were meant to be together in death.

I don’t believe in fate, or destiny in the stars, or any of that crap, because I think you make your own luck—or bad luck, if you look at my history with large vehicles. Medusa, Alfarin, Elinor, and I are together because we like each other. We each bring something unique to the group: Medusa is the smartest person I know; Alfarin the bravest; and Elinor the most rational.

I am the glue keeping us together—for now.

I stop watching Medusa and walk over to the Viciseometer on the writing desk. I don’t know whether to hide it or keep it in full view so we can get to it quickly in case of an emergency. Not a minute goes by when I don’t think I’m about to get busted by the Skin-Walkers, but in the city that never sleeps, there is only silence.

And that is just as unnerving.

When I say silence, I mean from outside the room. Inside, the noise is ridiculous. Alfarin and Elinor are clearly having a competition to see who can shatter the windows first with their snoring. Judging by the steam-engine honking coming from Elinor, I’d say she’s winning. It’s hard to believe someone so fragile can make such a noise.

I’m too wired to sleep. I feel like one of those toys that you wind up by hand and then let go. They’re manic for five seconds and then they fall over and just make a whirring noise until the mechanism dies.

It’s been too easy. We got out of Hell without a hitch, and as a bonus for my duplicity, I have my three best friends with me. We weren’t arrested at the HalfWay House, and the Viciseometer worked on my first try. Apart from the issues with temperature, and Alfarin’s run-in at the restaurant, even New York has played nicely.

When the others wake up we’re going to have to start making decisions, like whose death we’re going to see first. Then it’s going to get a lot harder. I’m under no illusion about that.

Tonight’s confession from Medusa was horrible. It was the first time she’s ever told any of us how she died. She mentioned someone else; someone she regretted not taking with her. If there is a person on this earth who has hurt her, I swear I’ll travel back in time and kill him myself.

And if Elinor doesn’t stop that incessant noise, I’m going to hold her nose and smother her with a pillow. She doesn’t even need to breathe, and that snoring isn’t human.

Alfarin died when he was sixteen years old. He was killed in battle. His Viking clan was marauding through some English village and he was cut off from the rest of his family and attacked. A lot of his relatives are now in Hell. The ones who somehow got into Up There are never really talked about, or even mentioned. They’re regarded as having brought dishonor to the brethren. Alfarin was the heir of the Viking king. He would have made history if he’d lived long enough to take charge, I’m sure of it. His clan is convinced they saw Alfarin’s spirit appear to them after he died, so he’s treated like a hero in Hell. He is such a good friend; I’m really excited to see how he’ll be revered once he gets another chance at life. I’m sure I’ll be reading about him in history books as a legendary warrior.

Everyone should get that second chance, because when you’re young you get labeled and written off. When you’re alive, some people don’t really look for your potential. They only see it once it’s too late. The words spoken at funerals should be said when the person is alive to hear them.

Elinor suffered a horrible death. It’s really hot in Hell, but I figure burning to death is probably the worst way to go, because some serious pain goes into that. When you die, you want to be old and comfortable, having lived a long and interesting life. You don’t want the smell of your own burning flesh to be your last earthly memory. How Elinor has handled that and become the devil she is today—well, I don’t think I would have dealt with it anywhere near as well. I would have ended up in Hell’s lunatic asylum with all the other banshees. Elinor doesn’t talk about her death much because she finds it too traumatic. Medusa thinks Elinor looks at Alfarin in
a funny way when we do get around to talking about it—which the four of us try really hard not to. I can’t say I’ve noticed, but then girls see things differently.

If I really can alter time with the Viciseometer, if I can stop myself from running out in front of that bus, I am going to do everything I can to live as long as humanly possible. I think one hundred and one is a good age to die. I’ll still have my own teeth and hair—that’s really important. I’ll be stinking rich and will have sold millions of records on iTunes, and there will be Facebook tribute pages with so many fans that my death will crash the site. I’ll definitely be a trending topic on Twitter when I die properly. I’ll pass away in my sleep, having eaten steak and mashed potatoes and a huge tub of strawberries for dinner.

I’ve just had a thought. It was the strawberries that did it. Technically, Medusa is older than me. She was born in 1951. She lived and died decades before I was even a twinkle in my parents’ eyes. So if we ever got together, she would be a cougar.

I start laughing. I can’t help it. It would be worth asking her out, just to be able to mock her for being a mangy old cat.

She doesn’t look like a mangy old cat, though. Medusa is infuriating and opinionated and ridiculously self-sufficient, but she’s my best friend and I swear if someone caused her death, they’re going to pay. She could have been the first female president or a world-famous chef. I would do anything for Medusa, but sometimes it’s just easier to mock her and toss her around and steal her potato chips.

And now I have a stabbing pain in my side. This is why guys don’t think about this stuff—it gives us ulcers. Thinking about feelings and trying to work out what goes on in a woman’s head is why men die early.

And then it continues in Hell. I’m telling you, there’s no escape from it.

“Why were you laughing?”

Crap! When the Hell did Medusa wake up? She was purring like a kitten ten seconds ago. Now she’s standing right next to me,
running her fingers through her hair like a comb, trying to untangle the curls. It’s Alfarin and Elinor’s fault. The gruesome twosome is making so much noise I didn’t hear Medusa get off the bed.

“Why were you laughing, Mitchell?” she asks again. I can feel the heat radiating off her; she’s burning up. Or maybe that’s just my face.

“You know there’s a forty-year age gap between us,” I reply.

“So what?”

“If we ever dated, you’d be a cougar.”

I swear I’m my own worst enemy. I could have said I was making plans for our death departures, or plotting an escape route. We’re only up the avenue from Tiffany’s, for Hell’s sake, I could have said I was going to buy her a diamond to make up for the leather jacket.

No. That would be too sane. Instead I have to go and call her a cougar.

“Then thank Hell that unfortunate situation will never happen,” she replies, but she sits down on my lap and wraps her arms around my neck. She gently places her head on my shoulder.

I’m so confused. Why do girls do this? She says something mean but then she’s cuddling me at the same time. And her ass is really bony and is digging into my thigh. I shift her weight a little and she falls even closer against me. She smells like clean sheets, which is really nice and reminds me of my mom and my old bed and my old life.

“You smell like sleep.”

“I smell like sheep?”

“What? That’s not what I said.”

“You said I smell like sheep.”

“
Sleep
, not sheep.”

“How can someone smell like sleep? It’s a verb. Verbs don’t smell.”

“I meant you smell like clean sheets.”

“Are you saying I usually smell like dirty sheets?”

“Forget I opened my mouth.”

“You said I smell like sheep.”

“I said you smell like sleep. I was trying to be cute. I thought girls like guys who are cute.”

“Why are you trying to be cute? And I already like you.”

Why is this so hard? For the love of all things unholy, someone write a manual on girls.

“I’m trying to be cute because you’re my best friend and you’ve followed me out of Hell, breaking about a thousand laws in the process. You’re having nightmares already, and for the first time since we met, you’ve finally told me how you died. I wanted to be nice, so I thought I’d say you smelled like sleep, all warm and cozy.
Not sheep
, okay?”

Alfarin grunts from the chair, but his chin continues to rest on his chest. Elinor now sounds like a jet plane taking off. At some point she’ll break the sound barrier and the roof of the Plaza will explode into the sky.

And now Medusa is laughing. I think traveling through time and celestial domains has fried her brain. It has certainly messed with my head. She nestles back into my shoulder, but now I’m too self-conscious to wrap my arms around her. I’m bound to say the wrong thing.

“You’re an idiot, Mitchell Johnson.”

“And you’re a humungous pain in the ass. And speaking of asses, you need to put on some weight. Your butt is as bony as your elbows.”

“I thought boys liked skinny girls.”

“Nah. Girls should have a bit of meat on them.”

“Like Patty Lloyd?”

Don’t say the wrong thing, Mitchell
.

“I shouldn’t have kissed her, and I really regret it, Medusa.”

“She isn’t good enough for you, Mitchell.”

“Do you know anyone who is?”

But Medusa just sits there, tensed like a spring. She doesn’t answer my question. Her fluttering eyelashes are the only part of her that’s moving.

“Don’t ye two look cute?”

Elinor is stretching on the bed. I hadn’t even realized the pneumatic drill noise had stopped. Medusa releases herself from my lap and is gone. I feel cold and empty without her sitting on me. All I’m left with are cramps in my right leg. As soon as Elinor speaks, Alfarin starts to stir as well. Her voice is his personal alarm clock.

“You two snore so loud I’m amazed the park police didn’t burst in.”

“Elinor does not snore,” says Alfarin indignantly. “Her dead lungs simply move heavily.”

“Thank ye, Alfarin.” Elinor beams at him and he gives her a regal nod.

Mitchell Johnson, also known as M.J., also known as total loser when it comes to girls regardless of eye color, 0.

Alfarin, son of Hlif, son of Dobin, Viking warrior, remains manly even when girls braid his beard, 1.

I think it’s time to change time.

Right now neither Alfarin nor I are capable of making a decision on an empty stomach, so our first joint resolution is to order room service. Thirty minutes later, a guy who doesn’t look much older than me wheels a silver cart into the room. I want to tell him to get a move on and start living his life because it could be ripped away from him at any second. Instead, I hand him a fifty-buck tip and he thanks me repeatedly before quickly backing out of the room, clearly scared I’m going to take it back. Alfarin has already pulled off the silver-plated covers on the cart and is groaning in a rather indecent way at the piles of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and pastries.

“Have ye decided on a plan?” asks Elinor. Alfarin is playing waiter and has taken a plate of food and a cup of hot chocolate over to her.

“We have to decide which of us wants to go back to the moment of our death,” I say quietly.

“I think I should be the first to try, my friend,” says Alfarin. He opens up the guitar case and takes out his axe. His thick fingers flex around the wooden handle.

“I’m cool with that if the others are,” I reply, “but, just out of interest, why do you think you should be first?”

“Isn’t it ladies first?” quips Medusa.

“Normally I would adhere to that rule,” replies Alfarin, “but this is not as simple as opening a door and being a gentleman. If
something goes wrong, you and Elinor need to be able to escape. Mitchell is our leader, the bearer of the Viciseometer, and he must be entrusted with your safety.”