The Devil's Intern (9 page)

“Go on then, quickly, before the guards bring the next lot down,” she says with a wobble. She presses a button under her counter and two silver doors open automatically behind her. They’re at least ten inches thick. The kind you’d find in a bank vault.

It’s that easy. Moments later the four of us enter a claustrophobic corridor that has been hewn through the rock. The silver doors slam shut behind us and particles of rock fall from the narrow roof.

Now Medusa turns on me.

“How could you?” she screams. “How could you leave us like that? Leave
me
like that?” She’s punching every single part of me with her balled-up fists. Alfarin and Elinor walk on and leave her to beat me to a pulp.

“Keep your voice down, Medusa!” I cry, trying to grab her hands. “Someone will hear you.”

“You don’t get to decide our futures, Mitchell,” continues Medusa, totally oblivious to the fact that she has probably woken The Devil himself with her screeching. “You don’t get to decide what I do with my life or death. You don’t tell me this is men’s talk,
and you don’t get to buy me off with a leather jacket, you swine, you pig, you devil.”

“Medusa, will you quit hitting me?” I yell back. “Alfarin, will you help me out here?”

“I have already taken my punishment like a man, Mitchell,” replies Alfarin seriously. “Now so must you. We owe them that.”

“But Elinor isn’t the one beating me up.”

Elinor walks back and punches me on the jaw. I see black and then stars. I haven’t seen stars for four years, but at least Medusa has stopped hitting me.

“Ye will never ditch us again,” says Elinor, cradling the hand that just punched me. “We are yer friends and ye will damn well treat us like friends.”

“See what you’ve done?” hisses Medusa. “You’ve made El swear and get violent, and El never swears or gets violent.”

I’m still sprawled out on the ground. I think my jaw is broken in at least seven places.

“Are you all coming with me?”

“Of course we are,” reply Medusa and Elinor together.

“But it’s going to be really dangerous. Once Septimus knows what we’ve done . . .”

“I don’t need protecting, Mitchell, and did you really think you could give me your leather jacket and that would make it all right?” asks Medusa quietly as Elinor bends down and helps pull me to my feet.

“No,” I mumble, ashamed and relieved beyond measure in equal parts.

“If we are to do this, then we must depart now,” says Alfarin.

I’m inches from Medusa. Her mad curls have escaped from her hair clip. I tuck several corkscrew strands behind her little ears. She has really tiny ears.

“Promise me you’ll never leave me again,” she whispers. I think she’s trembling. She’s probably cold. It’s definitely chillier out here.

“I promise.”

My throat tightens. I only make promises when I know I’m going
to keep them. I would never lie to Medusa. I wouldn’t lie to any of my friends. I’m never going to leave her now—not ever. And now my palms are getting sweaty. Medusa’s arms reach out and wrap around my neck. She squeezes me tightly and buries her face in my neck. It feels damp. She smells like strawberries and chocolate. My arms lift her off her feet as I hug her back. A raggedy doll.

“Sure you don’t want to change your mind?”

Medusa shakes her head, which is still buried in my neck. I’d be quite happy to carry her like this, and if I were built like Alfarin I definitely would.

Unfortunately, I’m built like me, so I can’t. I drop her to the ground, but I can feel her skin against my neck long after she’s gone.

It’s time to leave Hell once and for all.

Why haven’t they built express elevators in this part of Hell? We’ve been walking uphill forever, and every part of me aches as if I’ve run a cross-country race against the fittest jocks in school.

“Why can’t we use the Viciseometer to go a bit farther up?” whines Medusa. “We’re going to be totally dead by the time we actually reach the HalfWay House.”

Elinor nods; she’s panting and clutching at a stitch in her side. Alfarin says nothing. He’s lost the power of speech. Every ounce of strength he possesses is now focused on putting one enormous leg in front of the other without falling flat on his face from sheer exhaustion.

“For the eightieth time, Medusa, I don’t want to use the Viciseometer in the depths of Hell because Septimus may find out. For all we know, he has some kind of security device fitted on it that would take us straight from here into the furnaces. I’m not using it until we’re out in the open, when there’s more distance between us and the Oval Office.”

I’ve done my research. There’s just the one path from the HalfWay House to Hell, and for the vast majority of devils this is a one-way journey. It’s an enclosed route, narrow and slippery, with condensation and oozing pockets of oil. White-eyed rats scurry and scavenge along the ground as we move forward. If either Medusa or Elinor suffers from a fear of enclosed spaces, they don’t let on.
My mother—who suffers terribly from claustrophobia—would have already gone back to Hell to beg for forgiveness and a toilet brush by now.

The tunnel has been cleaved out of black rock and is lit at intermittent stages by large flaming torches that cause shadows to rise up menacingly along the dripping walls. I lead the group with a much smaller torch, while Alfarin brings up the rear with a second that we stole on the way. We’re constantly fearful of being crushed as tremors from the earth’s tectonic plates shake the tunnel, causing fissures and small rock falls that tumble around our feet. My eyes stream and itch, while my arms and legs silently scream in protest as we inch our way ahead.

Occasionally the roof rises from the ground like the ceiling of a cathedral. Bubbling stalactites stretch down from above like the florets of a rancid cauliflower. I notice that the higher we climb, the paler the rock face becomes. The sooty air also becomes clearer. We’re getting closer, I’m sure of it.

Then a loud, shrill noise echoes through the tunnel. It’s accompanied by a blast of hot, acidic air that blows through Medusa’s and Alfarin’s hair, singeing the ends.

“Quick!” cries Elinor. “Back the way we came. We need to get into one of the caves.
Now!
” she yells.

The four of us tear back through the tunnel, leaping over rocks and stalagmites as we go. The ferocious wind remains hot on our heels as the shrill noise continues its terrible, relentless scream.

“What is making that noise?” yells Alfarin.

“Ye don’t want to know!” screams Elinor. Alfarin has already torn her backpack away from her in an attempt to help her run faster, but Elinor is slipping over the condensation and bubbling pools of oil.

“Alfarin!” cries Medusa as we run blindly through the dark—the wind is now at tornado strength and has blown out every torch. “Can you carry Elinor?”

“It would be an honor,” shouts Alfarin, and he sweeps Elinor over his shoulder without breaking stride.

We run into one of the cathedral caves.

“Behind that rock!” I yell. Alfarin’s blazing red eyes are now the only light we have.

Medusa and I hide first; I pull her onto my lap and wrap my arms around her. Alfarin and Elinor are not far behind.

“Shush, quiet, all of ye,” hisses Elinor. “They’ll be coming through any moment.”

I’m desperate to ask exactly
who
is coming, but I do as I’m told and stay quiet. In the four years I’ve known Elinor, I have never witnessed such a primal descent into panic and fear. I don’t think she’s ever raised her voice before tonight.

Suddenly the cave illuminates as if a thousand torches have been lit at once. Long stalactites grope down from the roof like grotesquely swollen fingers. The howling wind has reached a crescendo, which rocks the foundations of the stone above. Several smaller formations crash and splinter on the ground.

I throw myself on top of Medusa, while Alfarin throws himself over everyone.

“They’re coming,” whispers Elinor. “Stay down.”

Not a chance in Hell; I want to look. Like a maggot wriggling through an apple, I squirm my way through the mass of bodies and peer around the rock.

Nine forms appear. At first I think they’re huge wolves walking on their hind legs; their bodies are covered in gray-and-white fur. Then, as my eyes become accustomed to the sudden light, I realize that eight of the nine figures are wearing pelts and skinned animal heads, all of which are baring ferociously long black teeth. They’re fixed on top of human heads.

Human heads with black irises.

I stifle a cry with my knuckles and taste blood. My hands must have been badly scratched as I groped to find a hiding place.

Something other than The Devil resides in Hell that has black irises. Septimus has kept that little fact quiet, and not for the first time I wonder what other secrets my boss is hiding.

The group of eight walks slowly and silently through the cave.
The screaming noise is not being made by the human wolves; it’s coming from the air around them, like an aura of pure hatred. I can see it quivering like a heat haze on a hot road. The human wolves don’t look in our direction. They are all unaware, or simply uninterested, in anything other than the ninth figure, which is enclosed in the grotesque animal shield.

It’s a young man, naked but heavily tattooed. His ankles, wrists, and neck are manacled with inverted spikes that pierce his flesh. A steady stream of blood is flowing down his body. The fluid hisses and steams as it makes contact with the rock, as if the man’s blood is toxic.

He must be in agony, I think, but the man makes no sound, despite the fact that his mouth is wide open in a silent scream that exposes dark silver fillings.

Then one of the human wolves suddenly stops. The long nose on the animal pelt rises into the air as if it’s sniffing out something. The human wolf smiles, baring blackened teeth. The grin is bone chilling, and the thought that it knows we’re here is enough to make me dig my fingers into the rock until they’re in danger of breaking.

Then, mercifully, the light in the cathedral cave dims and soon extinguishes completely, leaving the four of us in total darkness. A caustic rotten smell swells over us in an invisible wave, causing everyone to gag.

A small torch flames. Alfarin has relit one of the lights. He hands it to Elinor, who is the first to stand.

“Are you all okay?” I ask, my voice shaking.

“What just happened?” says Medusa. Her hair is all over the place. She looks as if she’s been electrocuted.

“We nearly had a run-in with the Skin-Walkers,” replies Elinor somberly. “They were taking away an Unspeakable.”

“Skin-Walkers?” asks Medusa. “What are they? And what is an Unspeakable?”

We start walking again. Everyone looks back down the tunnel, united in our terror that the Skin-Walkers will suddenly reappear in a blast of painful, hot wind.

“Skin-Walkers have been in Hell longer than The Devil,” replies Elinor. “They were the first murderers, the first evil. They are the gatekeepers of a place that most devils fear in silence. It is the final dwelling of the Unspeakables: people who are so heinous in life, they cannot be left to mix with others in the Afterlife. They are the true tortured souls in Hell.”

No one says a word as Elinor speaks.

“Rapists, child abusers, those who take another life for pleasure,” she continues gravely. “Their tongues are ripped out and their flesh flagellated, and their soundless screams last for eternity.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” groans Medusa.

“What part of Hell are the Skin-Walkers in?” I ask. “I’ve never heard of them before.”

“I have,” says Alfarin. “My kin have spoken of them before. It is the only time I have ever seen fear in my father’s eyes. The Skin-Walkers are not like us, and they do not dwell with our kind of dead.”

Elinor nods. “There are huge areas of Hell that are undiscovered by most devils. The Unspeakables are exactly that. No one knows where they are kept, or how the Skin-Walkers are summoned to collect them, but it is said the Skin-Walkers track their victims—future Unspeakables—while they are alive. Their victims can sense the Skin-Walkers’ presence, sniffing them out. It is why most repent before they die, because they know what awaits them in Hell.”

“Skin-Walkers roam the earth?” asks Medusa in a high, strangled voice. “They’re up there with the living?”

“And they can track for years, according to legend,” replies Elinor. “They don’t just seek out Unspeakables when they are about to die. It is said the Skin-Walkers can track their victims by sniffing out the fear and pain in their nightmares. They like the fear; they exist through it.”

“How do you know all this stuff, Elinor?” I ask, amazed, yet again, at her knowledge of . . . everything.

“I was waiting a long time,” she whispers, quickening her pace and moving ahead of us all.

Our journey continues in silence. Is this my fate if I’m discovered with the Viciseometer? Will Septimus set the Skin-Walkers on me, to drag me naked through the bowels of the earth, silently screaming in utter agony? Is that the fate of Medusa, Alfarin, and Elinor?

What danger have I gotten my friends into?

“Mitchell, my friend,” calls Alfarin. “Do my eyes deceive me, or is the rock becoming cleaner?”

There’s nothing wrong with his eyes. Not only is the rock a pale ash-gray, but the air is filtering a juicy freshness like ripe green apples.

“M!” cries Elinor suddenly. “Yer eyes.”

Everyone turns around and stares at Medusa. The pretty pink color is swirling and changing. Her irises go darker and darker until I’m staring at chocolate.

“El, yours are changing, too. Oh, green eyes look so pretty with your red hair.”

“Look at Alfarin’s. I knew he would have blue eyes.”

“What color are my eyes? Can you see?” I ask eagerly.

Medusa stretches up on her tiptoes.

“Still girly pink,” she announces.

“No way. Are you telling me . . . ?”

A slim forefinger and thumb push my lips together with a pinch.

“Blue for a boy,” says Medusa. “Now I’ll race you to the entrance, loser.”