The Devil's Intern Page 2

  Now, I can juggle a lot of things when it comes to work, but smoke is rising from my pen as I furiously scribble down Septimus’s instructions.

  “And when you’ve done that . . .” I look up in alarm. Time is running short and I want to grab a shower and a burger or three before I meet Medusa.

  “Never mind, perhaps tomorrow,” says Septimus hesitantly. “Then you shall go to the ball, Cinderella.”

  “Does that make you an ugly stepsister?”

  “I’m far too handsome,” says Septimus as a gong from the Oval Office starts to ring over and over again.

  The unmistakable shrieks of The Devil are now bouncing off the walls throughout the entire first floor.

  “Septimus! Septimus! Help me! The chimeras are attacking my pelmets. Send for security. Oh, woe is me . . . Septimus!”

  Believe it or not, this is actually a typical day in Hell: heat, long hours, The Devil’s screaming, heat, wishful thinking, and even more heat.

  This is my existence for the rest of eternity.

  Because four years ago, on the eighteenth of July, I died and went to Hell, and nothing will ever change that.

  2. The Masquerade Ball

  The Devil’s Masquerade Ball is apparently one Hell of a party and, for many devils, the only highlight of their existence in the Afterlife.

  It takes place in an immense rock cave situated between the business district and the accommodation complex, where most devils sleep when they’re not being worked to another death. For the Masquerade Ball, the cave is decorated to be an exact replica—although on a far larger scale—of the Salon de Mars ballroom in the French Palace of Versailles. I wouldn’t know if this was true, myself. I never had the time to get a passport, let alone travel.

  Tickets for the Masquerade Ball are snapped up within seconds of going on sale, and the waiting list for returns stretches into the millions. The rules of entry are simple: each devil in Hell is only allowed to apply once every hundred years. You aren’t guaranteed a ticket, but at least you have a chance. Septimus—who has been in Hell for thousands of years—has been to nine balls. The last one he attended was in 1547, which was the year Henry VIII arrived. The Devil was so impressed by the royal parties Henry—or Chopper, as everyone calls him—threw when he was alive that the king was fast-tracked onto the organizing committee.

  This year’s Masquerade Ball is to be my first. I’m going with Medusa, one of my best friends in Hell. Apparently, I was lucky; to get a ticket after just four years of being dead is unheard of. Lucky isn’t a word I tend to use a lot now. Medusa has been so excited that she’s barely slept. So, because of her, I’m looking forward to it, too. Plus I get to listen to live music all night, which is numbers one, two, and three on my what-I-miss-about-being-alive list.

  So, once work is finished, I rush back to my dorm and throw on my rented tux—which has clearly been worn a thousand times, judging by the smell. Then I have to fight my way back through the crowds to the ballroom.

  I look—and stink—like a stretched penguin. I devil-watch while I wait for Medusa, taking care not to catch any eyes. I don’t like standing out.

  The costume designers on level 339 have clearly been working their fingers to the bone creating everyone’s masks and outfits. We all get paid for our work, although it’s more pocket money than a wage. Most of us spend it on food and cell phones, the only salvations we have left. Those who get tickets for the ball often go without to pay for their outfits.

  Except me. I’ve got best friends who keep me supplied with burgers.

  My thoughts of food disappear when a smoking-hot devil sidles up to me. Her slim figure is wrapped in a sequined black dress that falls to the floor and then fans out like a fish tail at the back. It’s only when I pay attention to the rear that I notice that the dress plunges to a deep V at the back. It takes a while for me to realize my mouth is open. The girl is pale and her chestnut-colored hair is wound into a complex knotted bun that rests on the back of her neck. Her eyes, like mine, are pale pink, and are just visible behind a black satin mask studded with tiny red jewels.

  Pink eyes are very pretty on a girl.

  Without warning, a sharp elbow makes violent contact with my stomach.

  “Ow.”

  “Stop looking at my ass.”

  “Medusa?”

  “Who did you think it was?”

  “I don’t know—it’s just—well, you look gorgeous,” I reply, massaging my stomach.

  “Thank you for that display of shock,” says Medusa tartly. “I can clean up pretty nicely when I make the effort, you know.”

  Medusa is small and skinny. She usually has a wild mane of tightly curled hair—hence the nickname Medusa. She works in the kitchens on level 180, and she makes the best strawberry cheesecake in Hell. Her real name is Melissa Pallister, and she has been dead for just over forty years. She’s never told me how she died, but I have my suspicions because of her nightmares.

  Not that we sleep together. Let’s get that straight. We just have a tendency to crash at the end of each other’s beds when we’re too tired to navigate the labyrinth of bunks packed into each dorm.

  “How about we start again?” I suggest quickly, fearing another blow from my best friend. I take five steps back and then approach Medusa at a slow pace. I place my arm at a right angle in front of my stomach and bow deeply.

  “Medusa Pallister, also known as Melissa Pallister, also known as the Queen of the Cupcake, may I have the honor of your hand?” I say, gazing into her pretty pink eyes. Medusa immediately starts giggling.

  “What about the rest of me?”

  “Do you want me to pick you up and carry you in over my shoulder?”

  Medusa curtsies, still giggling. I’ve noticed that girls giggle a lot, but I never know whether it’s from nerves or amusement. Is there an instruction book somewhere that I should know about?

  Medusa slips her arm through the crook of my elbow and we go in search of our table. I certainly don’t need an instruction book for anything that involves food.

  The Devil has expensive tastes, and each year the Masquerade Ball gets more outrageous. This year is no exception. A red satin cloth covers every table, each embroidered in a heavier thread with images of The Devil. The bewildering amount of cutlery that frames every black china plate is made from the finest gold, mined from Aztec mountains thousands of years ago. Trust me when I say this stuff costs millions, which Hell just can’t afford.

  With everyone in the ballroom masked and dressed in their penguin suits and party dresses, it’s hard to distinguish who is who. Older devils mix with the new, and only the color of their irises gives away their seniority.

  Have I mentioned my eyes are pale pink? It could be another two hundred years before they start to turn red.

  The Devil arrives as the clock strikes midnight. The orchestra immediately commences “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and most of the guests enthusiastically sing along. I pretend to sing by mouthing the words until Medusa pokes me in the ribs and glares at me for cheating. The Devil grins and waves exuberantly at his guests. He is tall, with pale skin that looks almost transparent, like parchment paper. His jet-black hair is thick and gelled back from his face. Apart from his black eyes, it’s rumored that The Devil’s pride and joy is his goatee, which is just long enough for him to curl at the chin. I also know—because of the receipts—that he never wears anything other than Prada.

  Medusa nudges me in the ribs once more.

  “Will you quit doing that? You have bony little arms that hurt.”

  “Look who’s sitting next to The Devil,” she whispers back. “It’s Septimus.”

  She starts waving at the high table. Two bloodred eyes shine back at her, hidden behind a white mask with diamond teardrops. Septimus waves back.

  The Devil is soon heckled with cries of “Speech!” He motions that he has no intention of standing up, but the calls are getting louder and louder. All of the dead in Hell know it’s in their
best interest to stay on The Devil’s good side, and no one misses an opportunity to kiss ass.

  Someone hands him a microphone. It whistles loudly, causing everyone to wince. Somewhere in the darkness beyond the ballroom, a wolf howls. It sends shivers down my back, as if freezing fingers are touching the bones in my spine. Perhaps it means someone has just walked over my grave?

  “Deities, Your Royal Highnesses, lords, gentlemen, ladies, humans, and things that haven’t been categorized by social services yet,” calls The Devil in his shrill voice. “Welcome to the thirty-nine hundredth Masquerade Ball.”

  He pauses for dramatic effect as thousands of hands bang their approval on the tables. I don’t. I’m too preoccupied with getting thoughts of my grave out of my head. By the time I realize I’m the only one not cheering, it’s too late.

  “I won’t keep you long, as I know you are all champing at the bit to get going—which reminds me, did someone muzzle Cerberus?” The Devil turns around in a panic but is immediately calmed as several civil servants—Septimus among them—nod in unison.

  “Excellent,” continues The Devil. “We wouldn’t want a repeat of last year’s entertainment, would we?” He laughs and thousands of sycophants laugh with him. Medusa and I don’t laugh, though. I don’t think there’s anything funny about a rabid three-headed dog tearing dead people to pieces, which is apparently what happened to the devils who arrived too early for last year’s ball.

  “Well,” continues The Devil, “all that remains is for me to thank the committee once again for their tireless work in organizing such a party. I understand Chopper only lopped off one hundred and eighty heads this year, which is a vast improvement from last year. Special mention must also go to Joanne Cartwright, a new . . .”

  I zone out as my thoughts drift back to what I heard earlier between Septimus and The Devil. What is a Viciseometer? I’m sure I’ve heard of it before. Maybe Medusa knows. She knows everything. Then again, I shouldn’t get her involved in this, even on the periphery. The Devil is psychopathic on a good day. Medusa is smart because she asks questions; I’m smarter because I know when to keep my mouth shut.

  Eventually, The Devil stops talking, the butt-kissers stop cheering, and the arrival of roasted potatoes and flame-grilled steak is enough to bring my attention back to the present. After I fill my stomach to the point of bursting, Medusa announces she wants to dance. I’m unwilling to part from my third bowl of crème brûlée but relent when Medusa threatens to pummel me with her elbows. She says she never got the chance to dance when she was alive, but I haven’t danced ever.

  Since I’m a good friend, I slip one hand around Medusa’s waist and, rather stiffly, we waltz around the dance floor. My fingers go searching for the bare skin of her back, but I quickly learn my lesson after Medusa grabs hold of them and twists.

  “You may have been a musical prodigy when you were alive, but I am not a piano,” she growls. “Leave your hands where I can see them.”

  “Can we go back and sit down? Dancing is for girls.”

  “I am a girl, Mitchell,” replies Medusa, “and try telling The Devil that.” We both look over at the master of Hell, who has cleared the dance floor with his moshing.

  We sit back down at our table and I pull my bowl of crème brûlée toward me. But I’ve lost my appetite—thoughts of this Viciseometer thing and Septimus’s plan are eating away at my insides. I don’t understand why. Maybe it was the tone of The Devil’s voice in the Oval Office. It was chilling.

  “What’s wrong, Mitchell?” asks Medusa.

  I stare at her hair. The curls are already starting to escape from the bun she tied them into. I don’t know why she bothered. I love her hair. It’s different.

  “Hell calling Mitchell Johnson,” says Medusa in a singsong voice.

  I tuck the errant curls behind Medusa’s ears. Her cheeks have gone red. She must be hot from the dancing.

  “I need to ask you something,” I say. “In private.”

  She laughs at the irony. Okay, so there is no such thing as private in Hell.

  “Never mind,” I say, lowering my voice. “I’ll ask you here.”

  I lean in toward her; she does the same. We’re so close our noses are almost touching. My head is telling me I shouldn’t share information from the office with Medusa. It’s just too dangerous. I don’t know what my heart would say, because it’s dead.

  And that reminder is enough to make up my mind.

  “Do you know what a Viciseometer is?” I whisper.

  Medusa’s face falls a little and I notice that her shoulders slump a fraction.

  “It’s okay,” I say quickly. “Ignore me. It was just something I overheard.”

  “I thought—” Medusa stops. “It doesn’t matter what I thought.” She smiles thinly, not wide enough to show her dimples. “I know what a Viciseometer is,” she whispers. “It’s a legend; a stopwatch, or at least that’s what it’s supposed to look like. Only two were ever made, apparently, one for Hell, and one for Up There. They’re supposed to be really powerful objects.”

  “But what does a Viciseometer do?” I ask. I knew Medusa would know. She’s always got her crazy hair buried in a book.

  “A Viciseometer is a time-traveling device,” she explains. “But why do you want to know? How did you hear about it?”

  I get out of answering by forking two whole profiteroles into my mouth. Then Septimus joins us. I start choking, worried that he somehow overheard us.

  “I have to say, Medusa, the kitchen has outdone itself this year,” drawls Septimus. “That peppered salmon was to die for.”

  Medusa smiles but doesn’t reply; all her hair is now escaping and she’s desperately trying to pin it back.

  Septimus leans down, puts a hand on my shoulder, and whispers into my ear, “I don’t mean to ruin your evening by talking about work, Mitchell, but I’m afraid I will need you to come into the office tomorrow.”

  Really? On my one day off all year? “Any reason in particular?” My voice doesn’t betray how worried I am. I’d bet everything that Septimus just heard me talking about the Viciseometer, which means I might have gotten Medusa into trouble as well. Why did I listen to my heart? The damn thing isn’t there anymore.

  “I’ve had an idea,” replies Septimus. “Mitchell, we are going to stop the dead.”

  3. Septimus’s Plan

  I don’t like being dead, and it’s important that you know that.

  I get on with existing in the Afterlife because I have no choice. Septimus calls me stoic. I admit I had to look the word up. He says it’s a good quality, especially in Hell.

  I think what he means is that I just go with the flow. I go to work, and I do my best. I hang with Medusa and my two other best friends, Alfarin and Elinor, and I’d like to think they see me as a pretty excellent friend. Loyal, funny, maybe cute in a dorky sort of way . . .

  I shouldn’t be in Hell, though, and it isn’t fair that I am.

  My old best friends, the ones still alive, will be turning twenty-one now. They’ll be graduating, traveling, dating, and living.

  Living. I have that one word written on a piece of scrap paper. It sits in my wallet, scrunched up and faded from being unfolded and read all the time.

  And living is the one thing I will never do again.

  I just exist.

  So if Septimus’s plan is to stop the dead, I am totally in, because seventeen-year-olds shouldn’t die.

  Because once you’re here, there is no way out.

  The morning after the ball, I wake up in my dorm and immediately rub the crusty remains of sleep from my eyes. It takes me a while to focus my brain. I could lie here for another few hours easily, especially as the other two hundred and sixty dudes I share the dorm with are all at work and for the first time—ever—I have the place to myself. I think back to last night and smile. Then I think I could be having a night like that every day if I were still alive, and my smile disappears. For a few hours I felt as if I were alive ag
ain. A fun, pretty girl keeping me company, great music, a ton of food . . .

  Yeah, for a few hours I felt alive. And now for the rest of my existence I’ll be reminded that I’m not.

  I make a pact with myself. No more maudlin thoughts today. I have a day off work—finally—and I intend to hang with Medusa, Alfarin, and . . . aw, crap. I don’t have the day off work at all. Septimus asked me to go in, didn’t he?

  Okay, five more minutes . . .

  Three hours later, it’s Medusa who wakes me up. She has a pillow in her hands and she’s thumping me around the head with it.

  “I’m getting up. . . . I’m getting up. . . .”

  “Septimus sent me a message!” Whack. “He is waiting”—whack—“for you”—whack—“Mitchell.”

  “I’m getting up, I’m getting up. Now stop hitting me, you maniac.”

  My feet are already on the floor.

  Whack.

  “What was that for?”

  “You insulted me.”

  Whack.

  I wrestle the pillow from Medusa and start to smack her with it. Her yellow T-shirt rides up her stomach and I can see her tummy ring glinting like a new coin. It has a pink diamond hanging from it. Medusa got it to match her eyes.

  Whack.

  Medusa grabs a pillow from another bed and lays a padded right hook across my jaw. She plays dirty. I was distracted by the sight of her skin.

  “Cheat.”

  “You’re pathetic.”

  “We’ll call it a draw.”

  “No way, loser. I owned you.”

  My honor as a man is being called into question. This demands just one response.

  Second death by pillow fight.

  Ten minutes later we collapse onto my bed. Feathers are floating around the dorm room like elongated snowflakes. Being dead doesn’t cure allergies, and it isn’t long before I’m sneezing, wheezing, and scratching at the hives on my neck.

  Medusa is still mocking me as we arrive on level 1.

  The boss is already waiting. Septimus is still dressed in the clothes he wore to the Masquerade Ball—including the mask. He’s lounging in his big black leather chair with his feet up on the desk. Then we hear the snoring.