My seven o'clock alarm sounds like a death toll.

I groan, face in my pillow, then I push myself into a vaguely upright position and turn it off. I feel like crap. My mouth is dry as a bone, and my head throbs. I didn't think I drank that much last night, but the threat of a hangover lingers behind my blurred vision.

To make things worse, there's a message from Mom on my screen. She wants to know if I managed to get the application for my internship sent off on time, and if I've thought any more about heading back to New York next month. They like to visit Jonathon's grave on the anniversary of his death, then have a memorial back at their place for friends and family. They want me to come. I know I should, but I like to remember him in my own way, lighting a candle and watching some of his favorite movies rather than being so public with my emotions.

I quickly reply that I did, and I'll think about it. Then I stumble out of bed to the shared bathrooms, toothbrush in hand. The stuffy air smells like shampoo, and I can hear someone peeing in one of the four stalls behind me. It's only when I see the crack in the mirror above the sink that the weird events of yesterday come back to me.

Omens, Demons, Angels. . . What?

"That's seven years' bad luck, you know?" says Lisa over the sound of the toilet flush. She bounds over to wash her hands before smoothing her long black hair.

"Huh?" I say, although it comes out garbled because of the toothpaste.

"Breaking a mirror's a bad omen," she replies.

"Oh, right. Yeah. So I've heard."

"Speaking of, you hear the news this morning? Seven-car pileup on the freeway into LA. Six people died, and two more are in critical condition."

She goes on about the wreck as she applies a creamy layer of foundation, but I tune her out, making the odd grunting noise where appropriate. Lisa's nice and all, but she's one of those irritatingly chirpy morning people. Josie's like that too. I need at least a cup of coffee before I can even string a sentence together.

I rub the smudged eyeliner from beneath my eyes, splash my face, then tell Lisa I'll catch her later. A thought occurs to me as I reach the door.

"Hey, did you see a guy hanging around my room last night? Red hair, good-looking in a clean-cut way, kind of socially awkward?"

She grins. "No. Why? Got yourself a new guy?"

"No, nothing like that. Never mind."

There's no way in hell he came in through the window, so someone must have seen him. Shaking my head, I go get changed in my room, pulling on the same jeans as yesterday and a black tank top. I grab my business law textbook and laptop, then head out, checking my emails on my cell as I walk down the stairs. I stop dead on the second-floor landing, my stomach plummeting.

One of the emails is from Jones and Smith. It's about the internship.

And it's a rejection.

Shit.

How can they even have checked my application yet?

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I lean back against the wall, dread weighing down my chest. I needed this. An internship is a requirement for getting through this program. How the hell am I supposed to pass this year?

My parents are going to kill me.

Heart beating fast, I refresh the page again as if another email is just waiting to pop up and tell me it was a mistake.

It doesn't.

But a different email does.

"DEVILS INC.," says the sender line, and when I open it, the logo at the top shows the "D" curled into a Devil's tail.

Dear Rachel,

Thank you for the interest in our organization you expressed at 9:07 p.m. last evening. We are delighted to accept you into our compulsory internship program. Please report to the office at 5:30 p.m. this evening to begin your training.

Yours devilishly,

Adalind Gardiner,

Secretary,

Devils Inc.

It's followed by an address in downtown Los Angeles. I'm still betting on it being a prank, but if it is real, this might actually save my ass.

Still. What kind of law firm names themselves after the Devil?

Stuffing my phone into my pocket, I make my way outside. I'm halfway to class when I realize two things: one, that stupid crow is back; and two, someone is following me.

After heading across the square, past a couple of girls on an early-morning run and the odd student clasping a paper cup from Lazarus's Coffee, I disappear into the narrow alley between the library and the food hall.

The crow is waiting for me at the end of the path.

I stop.

Then I turn and slam the side of my arm into the upper chest of my stalker, pushing him into the wall. He grunts, surprised, his cloudy gray eyes latching onto mine.

It's Crow.

"Why are you following me?" I snarl.

He smiles. "Following you? I'm making sure no harm befalls you, little Demon. Part of my contract. Did you know there was a seven-car pileup on the freeway this morning?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"You'll see."

I take a step back, adrenaline surging through my veins, and look him up and down. He's dressed in dark jeans and a white cotton T-shirt beneath a leather jacket. The shadows around him seem to move strangely, as if he's a magnet they're attracted to. It takes me back to the moment in the locker room last night. I convinced myself I imagined him. I convinced myself the threat in Evie's was related to the bartender, not me.

But here he is again. And there's something not right about him.

"Stay away from me," I say.

Raising his hands in surrender, he opens his mouth to say something, but I spin on my heel, adjusting my laptop bag and shooing away the bird blocking my path. Seconds later, I emerge from the dark alley into the morning sun.

I hurry down the central path between seminar buildings. There are more people here, coming from all points of campus on their way to the same early class. The tension starts to ease from my body.

Until I see a face covered in blood peering blankly from a dark window of the science building.

I rub my eyes, then look again. There's no one there. Still, I quicken my pace. I need to pull myself together.

My heart beats fast as I take my seat near the back of the tiered hall, where Professor McNeil starts to drone on about the binding nature of business agreements. When I open my laptop, I see the story about the seven-car pileup. It's accompanied by the image of a businessman with graying hair and a blue suit. A billionaire named Richard Livingstone—he tends to appear on the news from time to time thanks to a series of alleged tax evasions.

I close the page and pull up the email from Devils Inc. again. A horrible sense of dread creeps over me when a search for the firm reveals no results.

I go back to the email. This time, I notice the company name is hyperlinked. I hover the mouse over it for a second. Then I click it.

Bright red floods the screen as "Devils Inc." curls across the page as though someone is writing it, followed by "Experts in soul-trading and moral defense." I click on "Learn more. . ." and start to read the writing below.

Have you broken a divine law? Are you worried your bad deeds outweigh your good? Or are you rotten to the core?

Do you worry that at time of judgement, you will be denied access through those pearly gates?

Or are you simply down on your luck and searching for an investment in your soul?

Well, Devils Inc. can—

"I've been looking for you," a voice rasps in my ear.

I look over my shoulder, irritated at being disturbed.

And I suck in a breath.

A man sits there in a tattered blue business suit. Sallow skin hangs from one side of his face, exposing bone, and his graying hair is matted with blood.

I blink hard. He doesn't disappear.

"You're Rachel, right?" he says, his pale lips twisting into a smile.

The girl on his other side doesn't react. She doesn't seem to notice him at all.

"Pleased to meet you," he rasps again. "I'm Richard—"

I slam my laptop closed, tuck it under my arm, and barge out of the lecture hall, away from that . . . thing. I hear people murmuring, but I don't care.

This can't be happening. This can't be happening.

I don't look to see if he follows. I certainly didn't need him to introduce himself. He was the semi-famous business guy, Richard Livingstone, the one who the news said was involved in the accident.

And he was dead.