The Devil's Intern (19 page)

Alone.

I need to get into the hotel room. In their rush to stage a coup d’etat, Medusa and Elinor forgot that the room card, credit card, and cash were still in my bag. They reminded Alfarin to get the guitar case with his axe but forgot about my stuff. The important stuff.

“I’m so sorry, Mitchell!” cries Elinor.

“We’re losing control of time, aren’t we?” says Alfarin.

“I’m not sure we ever had much control in the first place,” I reply. “Look, I’ve got to get my stuff. I want you three to stay here, and I’ll travel alone this time. As a group we’re creating too much toxic waste.”

“Why don’t we just break the door down?” suggests Alfarin. “That lock is no rival to the blade of my axe.”

“I think we’ve caused enough trouble today, don’t you?” I reply with a sideways glance at the girls. Elinor’s freckled cheeks immediately flame with embarrassment, and Medusa looks at the floor. “We can’t risk drawing more attention to ourselves, and smashing in a door at the Plaza will do exactly that. I’ll be a few seconds at the most.”

“Ye will come back to us?”

“Yes, of course. I promise.”

The Viciseometer is spitting deep-crimson sparks into my hand. It reminds me of a firework about to explode. There’s something comforting about being in control of it. I’m not handling the others
very well now, I’m all too aware of that, yet this little stopwatch I can manipulate. It responds to me, even down to the way it fits perfectly in the palm of my hand. It could have been made to measure.

I leave the date as it is and check my own watch for the current time. I need to start recording things the way I would on an accounting ledger. I have a good head for numbers, and I need to start paying better attention.

The room materializes on the pixelated red face of the Viciseometer. I don’t look at the others as I press the large button. I tense in anticipation of the screaming, the bared, bloody teeth of the wolves.

But there is only silence.

I land in the hotel room, and for the first time, I remain on my feet. Everything unclenches. My stomach is spinning, but that’s it. Death didn’t reach for me. The Skin-Walkers weren’t there to scare the crap out of me. Even my scorched skin is feeling cooler and more comfortable.

I open the bedroom door and the relief on all three faces is obvious. Medusa and Elinor fall on top of me and I’m smothered with hair.

“Those were the longest five seconds of my death,” says Alfarin, slapping me on the shoulder.

“What was it like, traveling on your own?” asks Medusa. She hasn’t let go of me, and her skinny little arms are wrapped around my waist.

“Nothing happened.” I drape my arm over her shoulder and walk with her to the bed. We sit down together. I like the way this feels.

“Ye mean it wasn’t any worse?”

I shake my head. “I mean nothing happened. I didn’t hear any screaming or see any faces at all. Even the darkness was different. Before, it’s always felt as if there were a blanket over my face, but this time there was a reddish glow trying to push through the black. It was like a candle flame.”

“Maybe it was because you weren’t traveling very far,” suggests Medusa. She’s now resting her head on my shoulder.

“You are very wise, Medusa,” says Alfarin. “I think you must be correct.”

I don’t voice my opinion, but I think they’re wrong, and from the way Elinor is massaging her neck and refusing to look anyone in the eye, I think she suspects another reason as well. After all, she was the one who read the whole book on the Viciseometer. Elinor is probably more learned in the theory than I am.

That thick black streak in the hallway is worrying me. This is the Plaza in New York, one of the most expensive hotels in the world, according to the in-room magazines. There’s no way in a million years that anything other than Team DEVIL caused that black streak to appear. Gray dust is one thing, but that tarlike smear is something else. It’s a toxic mark of death. A shadow that has become permanent.

But nothing happened in the room when I appeared. There was no plume of ash, no streak of contamination. I didn’t hear the screams of the dead, or the hot, panting bloodlust of the Skin-Walkers.

The question is bubbling away in my brain. I try not to form the words in my head, because if I see them, it makes the question real.

Which one of us is the Skin-Walkers tracking? Which one of us is evil?

No, I can’t think like that. I’m confused. This all started with Septimus’s message, and now I’m being sidetracked. I had one goal on this mission, and I intend to see it through.

“Everyone has gone very quiet,” Medusa observes. Her big chocolate eyes gaze up at me.

“I’m thinking,” I reply.

“Mitchell, are ye feeling all right? Ye have gone very red.”

I wipe my face with my hand; I’m burning up. Sweat is pouring off me.

“I’ve made a decision. I want to take you all back to Hell,” I announce. “I’m going on alone.”

I wait for the protests and the arguments from the three best
friends I’ve ever had, but not a word is uttered. Perhaps my intentions didn’t come out clearly?

“Do you all understand?” I say. “I’m taking everyone back to the exact moment we left. No one will know any different. You won’t get into any trouble.”

They ignore me the way I would ignore a teacher at school when I didn’t want to do a homework assignment. Why aren’t they arguing with me? Do they think I don’t mean this? I’m not looking to be center of attention here. I’m going on alone. I’ve done it once, and the journey through time was easier solo than with a team. The book was wrong; solo time travel is easy. I can do this after all.

“We need to give both rooms a final check before we leave for good,” says Elinor. “Alfarin, could ye have a quick scan of the other room? I’ll make sure Mitchell’s bag is packed and ready this time. M, can ye look in the bathroom? I don’t think there is anything left in it, but we should pack the lotion for the boys’ burns. Ye never know, there might be an ingredient that actually works on the dead.”

“Will do, El,” replies Medusa genially.

“Your wish is my command,” says Alfarin with a bow.

I’m not stupid; I know what they’re doing. They think if they just carry on as normal, I won’t go through with it.

“I’m taking you all back, Elinor.”

She continues to fold clean underwear into my backpack. “Of course ye are, Mitchell.”

I raise my voice to a shout. “I’m serious!”

“I don’t doubt yer intentions for a second.”

“Then what are you all doing? Why are you all being so . . . so . . . indifferent?”

Medusa’s voice calls out from the bathroom. It echoes and bounces off the marble interior, making it sound much deeper than normal.

“Would you rather we had a fight about this, Mitchell? Is that what’s bothering you? I don’t know if Alfarin wants to give you
another pounding, but El and I could tag-team up against you if you would prefer.”

Sweat continues to drip down my face and pool around my neck. I feel as if I’m on a roller coaster. Only it’s hurtling into space and darkness and I’m not strapped in properly and I’m going to fall.

I don’t know what’s happening to me.

Alfarin bounds back into the room. “All clear, my princess.”

“Okay,” says Elinor, “so we have the money—check; the credit card—check; Mitchell has the Viciseometer—check; cell phones—check.”

“Clean underwear for the boys,” calls Medusa, “check.”

I haul myself to my feet and make it into the bathroom just in time to vomit into the sink. What hurtles out of my stomach is just plain nasty and looks like dark-green mud.

“That’s disgusting, Mitchell,” says Medusa, screwing up her face.

“I think I’m dying again,” I groan.

“Well, there is a first for everything,” says Elinor. She is now standing by the door, twirling her long red hair around her fingers.

“You’re acting like you expected this to happen,” I reply, slumping to the floor.

Medusa soaks a white towel in the shower and places it over my face.

“There is a reason the dead shouldn’t time-travel alone,” she says, stroking my hair. “Elinor told us back in Hell when we were trying to catch up with you. There are side effects, horrible ones, apparently.”

I look up at Elinor. Alfarin has joined her by the door; he has all four backpacks slung over his shoulders and his axe in his hand. He looks much younger without his beard. Being hair free doesn’t suit him.

“I took another book out of the library,” says Elinor. “It was said to be written by someone who had used the Viciseometer thousands of years ago, but it was in the fiction section because no one believed him.”

I don’t need to know what happens when someone travels alone; I can feel it. My internal organs are dissolving into soup. I didn’t think it was possible to be dead and feel so wretched at the same time.

“You let me travel alone, even though you knew it would do this to me?” I cry.

“It isn’t permanent, Mitchell,” says Medusa. “It’s called Osmosis of the Dead.”

“I hated biology,” I groan, before puking up something that looks like brown baby food. “So is there anything else I need to know about the Viciseometer before I combust into moldy custard?” I throw up again.

“Every time someone uses the Viciseometer, it becomes a fixed point in time,” replies Elinor. “We can time-travel all we like, but once a person has pressed that button, ye can never go back in time and stop them from doing so. Ye also need to know that the dead leave traces of death when they travel, and I think we have been seeing that. The more of ye there are, the less likely ye are to notice, because the Viciseometer spreads the toxic load.”

“But nothing came out when I traveled alone,” I say slowly. “I’ve seen the dust and the streaks of tar when we traveled together, but with me there was no dust, no nothing.”

“There must have been something,” says Elinor.

“I’m telling you, there wasn’t. The Skin-Walkers weren’t there, and there was nothing when I arrived. Not this time.”

Elinor’s eyes flicker over to Alfarin. He has moved away from the door and is back in the open room, staring at his newly shaved reflection in the blade of his axe. He doesn’t appear too impressed.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I whisper.

But Elinor shakes her head vehemently. “No, never.”

“What are you thinking?” asks Medusa quietly. She’s bending down and mopping my face with the towel. The heat from my skin has already parched it bone dry.

“It doesn’t matter.”

But despite her protestations to the contrary, I can tell Elinor is thinking the same thing I am, because she can’t stop looking at Alfarin. Elinor never has been able to stop looking at him.

The toxicity of death still left me alone when I traveled solo. When I finished traveling, it hurled itself out of my mouth in solid chunks. So the gray dust plumes and tarlike streaks aren’t coming from me, and I’m betting they aren’t coming from Medusa or Elinor, either.

And if the Skin-Walkers aren’t reaching for me in the void, they must be tracking someone else in our group.

Alfarin is a killer. He always has been. The son of a Viking king would have been taught to handle a blade before he could walk. We saw it with our own eyes, the way he took down several of the armed villagers before death stopped him.

And then there is the small matter of Elinor’s death.

Death made me duplicitous, but there are some times when even though every bone in your body is screaming for a different answer, you have no choice but to be honest.

The dead are coming for Alfarin.

The sickness is easing off and the sweating and shaking have calmed down. My skin starts to prickle again as the burns sustained in 1666 affect my nerve endings once more.

It is getting easier, though. When you’re dead, you heal pretty quickly, which is the definition of ironic as far as I’m concerned. I burned my hand on a gas stove when I was five—and alive. It took three months to get better. The fact that my grandmother insisted on slapping butter on the raw skin didn’t help—she said it aided the healing, but all it managed to do was roast me like a chicken. But when you’re dead you can even reattach a head, as Louis XVI—and Elinor—can attest.

Medusa has soaked the towel once more and is still mopping at my face. I don’t need it anymore, but I let her because I like having her near me. I gesture to Elinor to move a little closer.

“You know what I’m thinking, right?”

Elinor purses her lips and narrows her green eyes.

“It isn’t Alfarin.”

“We don’t have time to argue, Elinor,” I reply. “So can you at least agree to go along with what I suggest?”

“Can someone please include me in this conversation?” asks Medusa. She has stopped dabbing at my face with the towel, and I can hear short, reflexive snorts coming through her nostrils. It means she’s getting annoyed.

I shuffle across the bathroom floor on my ass so we’re as far away from the door as we can be. I don’t want Alfarin to think we’re talking about him—which of course we are.

“I think the visions we hear and see when we time-travel are the Skin-Walkers and their victims,” I whisper, casting my eyes furtively to the connecting bedroom, where Alfarin appears to be tugging at his five o’clock shadow, as if willing it to grow back.

“I think we’ve all guessed that now,” replies Medusa.

“The point is, they weren’t there at all when I traveled alone,” I add.

“So why don’t they affect you?”

“Because they aren’t tracking me, they’re following someone else in our group. I think they’re coming for Alfarin.”

“No.”

Medusa gasps. “Why?”

“Elinor said the Skin-Walkers were the first evil. They come after the child abusers and the killers. I think I’m in a whole world of pain for stealing the Viciseometer, but I bet the Skin-Walkers are coming after us for a different reason now. Theft isn’t too big a deal in the grand scheme of things.”

“Alfarin is not evil,” snaps Elinor.

“Of course he isn’t,” I hiss back, “but do you think the Skin-Walkers are going to make that distinction? You said yourself that the Skin-Walkers stalk their victims when they’re alive, but what’s to stop them stalking the dead, too? I’ve seen them, Elinor. They’re here, watching us. They’re in the crowds and they’re in the shadows. Now there’s that disgusting black streak outside in the corridor. As the four of us have been time-traveling, the trace we’ve been leaving has been getting worse. It’s almost as if the Skin-Walkers are playing with us. Alfarin killed you and I’m pretty sure he took down several of those villagers back in 970 as well, and those are just the deaths we know about.”