Hell on Earth

Hell on Earth. Chapter 2

"You know what look you want, right?" Rap fussed, as they moved together down the many stairs into the study halls.

Anar shrugged, evasively.

"Remember," the gentle raptor continued, "less is more. Understated evil is the way to go. Those other knobs will go with massive wings and curly ram's horns, or some such rubbish. You don't want that!"

Anar brushed his cloak of dust that had descended from the aged ceiling. The Holy College was a very modern building under the charmed illusion of falling into ruin. It was awfully convincing. "Ok, mate, I'll bite. Why don't I want that?"

Rap hissed quietly in his long, grey ears, as though he were giving away trade secrets, "big wings are difficult to frame in photos! You'll look daft in the Yearbook. And the horns? They'll ruin your hairstyle..."

Rave snorted. Being a hairless lizard was so much better than being a hairy mammal, much simpler. Low maintenance.

"You've got a point, there," Anar agreed as they slowed down, creeping towards the skull archway that signposted the demonic studies section of the building.

The clack of bare talons on silky smooth marble rang clear in the hushed corridors. They would be a little late, but that was ok, that meant they wouldn't be followed and antagonised by the spiteful human kid. Anar wasn't sure how many times he could be subjected to 'demon donkey' before he cracked.

The class this year comprised of 25 students of all shapes and sizes, from across the globe. London was home to the only academic society that had direct connections to the Underworld. They catered for a varied selection of studies, and demon training was not a particularly popular one. Necromancers were the cool kids. Satanic priests the swats. Succubi were the girls who were bitter about not making it in ballet or gymnastics. Poltergeists the class clowns. Then you had the Hell-Hound handler division who were simply insane. You had to be a couple digestives short of a packet to want to wrangle a creature the size of a small pony with a mean streak to match. All of hell's security was trained here, the biggest draw being the authorised use of magic in active duty. One shifty look and you were nothing but a greasy puddle on the floor. The paperwork for having your body reinstated once unfortunate things had happened to it was legendarily complicated – another of Hell's specialties: terms and conditions. Small print, too. Failure to read it always ended in woe. Nothing happened down there without multiple forms signed in triplicate, and a large bribe to speed up processing. Contracts of all kinds could be pored over by a minion for a price, letting you know exactly what you were signing up for, and if it was worth it. There wasn't a government worth its salt that didn't have a team of legal experts who had passed their exams under this College's expansive, splintered, crumbling roof.

But if shady business was your thing, this was the career for you. Money and power, what a heady combination! From a lowly pen-pusher, to the lofty heights of the upper floors of the Hell Afterlife Services building, where the fate of the world was really decided. Wars, banking, technology and the ongoing misery of every living thing started there. Demons still answered calls via pentangles and spells, but they also ran the stock markets with greedy, beady eyes.

Anar wasn't particularly interested in any of it. He'd set his heart on being a model. He had good hair, a straight snout, unkinked ears and long limbs. He wasn't the tallest, sure, but he was an aardvark not a giraffe. He could work for United Colors of Benetton. Or Calvin klein. Jetting around and strutting on a catwalk, he would be good at that!

The class turned to look at him and his big scaly pals as they slunk into the room. They turned back again, uninterested, facing the lecturer.

Except for one. He was always scowling. Anar thought Rave was a grump, but this guy took the biscuit. He had dark eyes, and a snub nose with a constantly downturned mouth. He sagged like a pro, oozed around effortlessly as though his legs had no joints. His dark brown hair was cut in a choppy style and Anar could smell the mousse from here. Whoever this evil sod was, he came from elite stock, and he did not like the aardvark one tiny bit.