The Devil's Intern (7 page)

Blood is oozing through the bandages. They tell me I needed fourteen stitches, but I’ll heal quickly because everyone in Hell does. Ironic, right? Septimus sends me a text message and tells me to stop hanging out with Vikings. I know he’s only joking. Septimus prefers the in-your-face attitude of the Norsemen to the scheming backstabbing of the Romans in Hell.

I wish I could start this day again.

I
could
start this day again.

Vikings make blood oaths; Alfarin does it all the time. His dinner-plate-sized palms are scarred like a subway map from the number of times he has sworn to do something after taking a knife to his flesh.

I already have the sliced skin, so now I need the oath. It comes in three parts:

I will never go near the library again.

I will pay for the damage to Thomason’s window.

I will learn how to use the Viciseometer.

Heating bills remain unpaid and invoices are left to pile up in the office in-box.

A month has ticked by and I have become obsessed with time.

It has taken me weeks to get the operation streamlined, and the stress is beginning to show. I know the others have noticed; girls—and Vikings—are way too intuitive for their own good. Medusa and Elinor are worried about the black shadows under my eyes, and Alfarin almost snapped my spine in half the other day when he rugby-tackled me and I didn’t have the energy to even try to put up a fight.

It’s the Viciseometer. It has sparked its way into my soul.

I used to go to sleep thinking of girls. Now I dream about changing time. I used to plan my days around meals. Now I plan my entire existence around the Viciseometer.

I have both faces of the timepiece committed to memory. As soon as Septimus heads out for lunch, I send all calls to voice mail and retreat to a corner. Then I practice moving the thin red needle over the roman numerals and symbols, perfecting the same movements again and again.

I was really musical when I was alive. My tutor went so far as to call me a prodigy, which at the time didn’t mean anything to me other than the name of a techno band. In no time, my fingers became the fittest and nimblest part of my body. It’s the same now.
For the first time in my four years of being dead, I feel awake. I have time in my hands and they feel alive once more.

Since my own attempt at the library failed so miserably, I bite the bullet and ask Elinor to find me a book that will teach me about the Viciseometer. She knows exactly where to go and comes back to me with the perfect book the same day. I know Elinor is going to start asking questions at some point, but right now I need to avoid Patty Lloyd. She’s been sending me text messages twenty times a day. She told her best friend, Samantha Clarke, I was playing hard to get. How about impossible to get? The problem is all the guys in my dorm think I’m a hero. They all want to know how far I went with her, and whether she has piercings and tattoos in places that really shouldn’t have needles anywhere near them, and it is totally messing with my head.

And Medusa and Elinor wonder why I’m not eating. If I weren’t already dead, the stress of my life right now would lead to a heart attack.

Today Septimus’s lunch is going to be a long one. It’s the annual Roman Empire catchup in the Temple Bar, and those meetings go on for hours. All of the former Caesars like to speak and pass motions and sanctions, and then they feast and apparently have a quick orgy and then it ends with someone getting knifed in the back.

For my purposes, this is perfect.

I open the book Elinor borrowed and start reading. According to the author, two Viciseometers were forged by the Highers and given to Hell and Up There. The function is simple: a Viciseometer enables the bearer to travel through time and realms of the Afterlife.

Powerful
is way too understated to describe the feeling I get when I hold this thing. I could do anything, be anyone. Gods and girls would fall at my feet and worship me with champagne and concert tickets. I could steal a Porsche and never get stopped by the police.

I could be that rock star I always wanted to be.

Studying has to be done in sections, like cramming for tests between sleep and food. I learn that the Viciseometer’s main milky-white face, with the golden numerals, never changes. The three hands represent the hour, minute, and second of a particular day, as on an ordinary clock. The thin red needle is used to manipulate each golden hand into place beneath one of the numerals. The desired time is then secured by pressing the three black buttons on the lower left of the watch. This part is easy.

The opposite, red face of the Viciseometer took me a lot longer to master, but now I feel confident enough to use it. The three black hands are again manipulated into place by the thin red needle, but once in place, they are secured by pressing one of the three black buttons that now appear on the top left of the timepiece. The lowest button secures the day, the next button secures the month, and the third button secures the year. Only when all six buttons are fixed in place can the larger vibrating button at the top be pressed.

As the tiny numbered snakes slither around the red face, I feel physically connected to the device. It’s as if the snakes are tunneling through my intestines. Good luck finding food in there, guys. I haven’t eaten anything in days. When I finally get the courage to use this thing, I’m going to binge like a king.

Weeks have passed, and my next problem has presented itself. I’ve mastered the theory of the Viciseometer, and now I need to test it. But the book says—warns in thick, bold capital letters—that under no circumstances should the Viciseometer be used by a lone time-traveler. If something goes wrong, at least two other devils should be traveling with the user to correct any incidents.

The book doesn’t elaborate on what kind of incidents could happen, though. Are they talking about loss of limbs? Time-traveling to another dimension? What if I end up on Mars or the Moon?

This warning has to be why Septimus wanted a team. It’s like the marines—no one gets left behind. Septimus has even started interviewing candidates, although it’s all very secretive. He holds the interviews here in the office. The poor devils walk out looking
very confused. Septimus mentions travel and being away and great responsibility, and I’m sure half of them think they’re being sent Up There for a vacation. The Viciseometer is never mentioned.

I hear all of this because Septimus asks me to take minutes. He trusts me completely. I’m such a loser. I should be cleaning the toilets that are being built for when the Kardashians arrive.

Now I have a choice: I can do this alone, and risk ending up somewhere I can’t get back from; or I can involve my friends and risk their dead necks as well as my own.

Taped to my computer monitor is a photograph. I like it because the flash gave me red eyes; Medusa, too. It’s a picture of the four of us on Alfarin’s deathday—although why anyone would want to celebrate that date is beyond me. I certainly don’t. Medusa and Elinor are leaning over Alfarin and me from behind; their arms are draped around our necks. The biggest plate of fries you’ve ever seen in your life is on the table in front of us. Alfarin has two long fries stuck up his nose.

All three of them would risk their necks for me. I know this without asking.

Before I even realize what I’m doing, I reach for my cell phone. The text message is sent in seconds.

My head is pounding. I either have the Underworld’s only pulse or there’s a battering ram inside my skull.

I grab the fragile box that contains the Viciseometer and open it. One of the hinges has already splintered away from the wood. I wrap the watch in its silk handkerchief and put it into my backpack.

I put the box back on the shelf and cover it with the red security papers, the one marked
Paris
on top. I don’t close the safe right away because I need cash and a credit card. Not from the petty cash we use in Hell; I’m talking US dollars.

I’m not greedy. This isn’t about the money. I pull open the lower drawer, which contains earthly currency, and take out a wedge of hundred-dollar bills. I don’t bother counting it, but I figure there’s probably about four thousand bucks in my hand. It won’t be missed—not yet. The credit card is for emergencies. It’s red, with a long row of sixes. The Devil has a special arrangement with the brokers on Wall Street. Hell is inevitable for them, but they get special privileges once they’re dead in return for low-interest lending.

Who did you think finances Hell?

But already I’m regretting sending the text to all three of my friends. I can’t risk the girls’ necks for this. It’s too dangerous.

I’ll only ask Alfarin to come with me.

But Medusa will get upset if I don’t ask her.

Elinor will balance out the numbers.

But then all four of us could end up floating in another dimension.

I won’t ask Elinor.

But then she won’t have any friends left in Hell.

So I won’t ask Medusa, either.

But I can’t go without my best friend, can I?

One thing I know for sure: I
have
to leave tonight. I can’t stay in this place anymore. I heard rumors that the cleaners scooped up gallons of congealed blood from the Oval Office this morning after The Devil set the chimeras onto some lawyers. Even Septimus looked pale as he left for the evening. He had a folder marked
Operation H
under his arm, and I know what’s in there. When I was filing the notes from the interviews, I read the minutes from one of Septimus’s meetings with The Devil. It was impossible to miss because The Devil had drawn black hearts around every word that referred to Operation H. He’s nuts, and now Septimus is going to give the Viciseometer away because he’s running out of time. Septimus told me late this afternoon that he has a shortlist of five names now. That’s a team. The Viciseometer could be gone tomorrow and then I’ll be stuck here for the rest of time. I can’t let that happen. I
won’t
let that happen.

I look at my watch. I’m already thirty minutes late. Medusa, Alfarin, and Elinor are going to be so pissed at me. I know they all think I’m sick or something. They think I don’t see them, whispering behind their hands.

My eyes may be pink, but they’re not blind.

Picturing the three of them waiting for me, I decide I’ll tell Alfarin. I’ll give him the choice to come with me. I won’t tell the girls. They’ll be safer here.

A small weight eases off my shoulders. I’ve finally made a call. It should feel good, but I just feel sick.

I’m going to miss Medusa so much it hurts. I had good friends—awesome friends—back when I was alive, but nothing like this.
Medusa says it’s because everything in Hell is more intense. We’re dead and hidden away in the Underworld. It’s the biggest secret in history, and we’re in on it. It’s a bond forged in fire.

I should leave her something to remember me by. My leather jacket. She’s always wearing it, even though it swamps her. And my wristbands. Medusa likes to play with those when I wear them.

Her fingertips are burned and callused from working in the kitchens. It was why I was so surprised to feel her soft skin when we danced at the ball; I’d expected her to feel like scales.

I’m not sure why I’m remembering all of this now.

I’ll leave Medusa everything. I won’t be coming back.

I wonder if I’ll ever see Septimus again. I hope so, but not for another eighty years. The next time I die, I’ll be an old man. I’ll have been president, or, even better, a ten-time Grammy winner. Anything I want.

My wallet goes in my backpack next, but not before I’ve stolen a few more seconds. The scrap of paper with
living
written on it goes in the wastepaper basket. I don’t need to remember; I’m going to be doing it.

My final item is a letter. It has the official seal of The Devil imprinted in the bottom left corner and is signed by Septimus.

It’s a forgery. I learned to sign Septimus’s squiggle years ago. It was easy because it looks like a treble clef. I never thought for one second that it would be the final link I needed to get out of here.

The contents of the letter are simple: it gives the holder permission to visit the HalfWay House to collect receipts. Not one of the clerks will question it. They’re all too dumb. Their stupidity is no match for my cunning.

I’m sure I wasn’t this devious when I was alive.

Medusa smells like strawberries; I bet she tastes like them, too.

I snatch the photo of Alfarin’s deathday party. I’ll have to wait another hundred years for my crack at red eyes.

I’m sorry, Medusa.

I’m sorry, Septimus.