The Devil's Dreamcatcher (11 page)

The deep-red face of the Viciseometer starts to swirl and sing with the high-pitched whistle once more. I zone out of everything around me. The Skin-Walkers, Rory, the little crying boy, and even my mom upstairs become blurred ghosts on the periphery. Every ounce of concentration I have is willed into seeing the giant redwoods standing majestically in a carpet of deep-green ferns.

We are sucked into the darkness once more. There's a faint yellow glow in the distance as the wind tightens around our bodies. Elinor is the only one who lands on her feet. Mitchell is splayed out like a starfish, while Alfarin is lying facedown in a patch of fine green grass.

I am panting heavily, but I feel strangely exhilarated. I did it. I kept calm and got us away from the Skin-Walkers.

Then I remember the little boy and I feel sick. Who is he, and what is Rory planning to do with him? What does Rory want from me? I've got nothing he hasn't already taken.

Mitchell crawls over to me. “Are you okay, Medusa?” he asks simply. He tucks my hair behind my ears again. I feel it pop right back out, and I get the feeling that Mitchell knew that would happen, but it's sweet that he continues to try.

“I lost the envelope Septimus gave me, Mitchell. We're flying blind.”

He lies back on a mattress of ferns. It's darker here than it was in San Francisco, probably because the towering redwood trees are blocking out what little light is coming from the sunrise.

“It doesn't matter.”

But we all know it does.

“Ye were amazing, M,” says Elinor. “Ye kept yer head so well.”

Mitchell suddenly bursts out laughing and then quickly apologizes as Alfarin growls unintelligibly at him.

“Sorry,” says Mitchell. “Inappropriate humor . . . what with Elinor saying about you keeping your head . . .”

But Elinor giggles. “It is okay, Alfarin. I like Mitchell's sense of humor.”

“There are some things that are not amusing, my friend,” says Alfarin moodily.

I have no idea what they're talking about, but for some reason I suddenly have a cloudy vision of myself standing over a sink, washing blood from Alfarin's axe. I'm a newcomer to Team DEVIL—I've never even touched that weapon—yet the vision seems so real.

“So that scarred man was your stepfather, Medusa?” asks Alfarin, bringing me back.

“Yes, but he's changed. They've mutilated him.”

“We won't let him hurt you,” says Mitchell. “Not now, not ever.”

“What of the boy?” asks Elinor. “Did ye know him?”

I want to say no because I don't know him, but something is nagging away at me. A memory . . . another image?

No, a nightmare.

I do know that boy.

“I've seen him before! He was in my nightmare, the first night we slept in the accounting office. And two of the angels were there, too. There was blood, and one of the angels, Owen, he was yelling to Jeanne that we couldn't help the boy . . . oh, shit,
no!
”

The realization—and enormity—of what we have to do hits me. I stumble to my feet, lurch toward a tree trunk that's at least six feet wide and vomit into the bracken surrounding it. For the first time in my existence, I'm glad I can no longer breathe, because I know if I were alive, I wouldn't be able to do it. The hidden evil of Hell has been revealed to me, and I want to scream.

We aren't looking for a willow hoop covered in pretty feathers and beads at all. How could we have been so naïve, so stupid, as to think The Devil would stick to traditions and customs of the living on earth?

That beautiful, sad little boy is what we have to take back to Hell.

Because that child is The Devil's Dreamcatcher.

“M, are ye all right?”

Elinor is the one who asks, but Mitchell's the first one to reach me. He rubs my back as I continue to throw up into the bracken.

“Better out than in,” he says in a strained voice. “At least that's what my mom used to say.”

“Is Medusa suffering from Osmosis of the Dead?” asks Alfarin. “I thought that only happened to lone time-travelers.”

“That's what was written in the book from the library,” replies Elinor. “This must be something else.”

I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and straighten, still panting.

“It's the boy,” I gasp.

“What's the boy?” asks Mitchell. “You know him?”

I shake my head and stumble back to Alfarin and Elinor. Mitchell now has hold of my hand, but I wish he would let go, because that was the one I used to wipe puke away from my mouth.

“The boy . . . the boy is The Devil's Dreamcatcher.”

“Ye cannot be serious,” whispers Elinor.

“Not even The Devil would be that nefarious,” says Alfarin.

The sun has risen a little more; its pale-golden rays are starting to seep through the gaps in the towering trees.

“He's The Devil, Alfarin,” says Mitchell darkly. “If I told you half of the stuff I overhear . . .”

Mitchell leans back against a tree trunk and closes his eyes. His entire body seems to absorb the sunlight, and there's a faint nimbus surrounding him.

“But that means the child, that lovely little boy, is a weapon!” cries Elinor. “Septimus said so back in the office.” Her thin, pale hand is covering her mouth, and her startling green eyes are now swimming in tears. “Why would anyone do that?”

“His being the Dreamcatcher would explain the Skin-Walkers' reaction,” says Alfarin solemnly. “They would have attacked the deviant, I am certain of it, but they whimpered in fright and backed away once he had the boy in his arms. The boy is a weapon that even the Skin-Walkers are afraid of.”

“Then how the Hell are we going to do this?” asks Mitchell. “We left our backpacks in the office, we have no supplies, no money, no nothing. We can't even call Septimus and beg for help because our cell phones are in the backpacks. At least the last time we left Hell I was prepared for it, but Septimus has sent us here to bring back a weapon that made the Skin-Walkers crap their fur.”

“Why don't we just go back to San Francisco, five minutes earlier, and grab the Dreamcatcher?” I ask. “Before Rory gets the chance to disappear?”

“We can't,” replies Elinor. “Our visit there is now a fixed point in time. We can't change anything that happens in time when we use the Viciseometer.”

“We've got to go back to Hell,” says Mitchell. “We don't have a choice. We can't do this.”

“It's a little boy, Mitchell,” I say quietly. “And I am not leaving him with Rory Hunter.”

Mitchell and Alfarin both start to protest, but I hold up my hand to silence them. I need to
think
. There
has
to be a way. Septimus never would have sent us out here if he didn't believe in us—believe in me. I think back to our conversation in the accounting office. What else did Septimus say?

I look up into the indigo sky, just visible through the canopy of leaves above us. The few stars I can still see twinkle benignly.

Up There exists . . . well, up there—somewhere.

I turn to the group. “Septimus said that four angels—Team ANGEL—were also looking for the Dreamcatcher. Why don't we find them, ask them what they know? Eight heads are definitely better than four. They might have provisions and information that we don't.”

“That is a fine idea, M, but how do we find angels?” asks Elinor. “We cannot use the Viciseometer to track them without knowing their location, and they could be anywhere.”

“Angels will not want to toil with devils,” says Alfarin. “They would not trust us as far as they could throw us, and I would like to see any of the winged chosen ones try to throw me.”

“What do you think, Mitchell?” I ask. He's still bathed in a sunbeam. He looks ethereal—and very tall. He just needs wings and he could be one of them.

“I think Septimus made you the leader for a reason, Medusa,” replies Mitchell slowly. He's staring at the ground. “I don't understand why Septimus couldn't have made this a little bit easier, especially since it's so important, but I trust him, and I'll trust you. If you want to look for the angels, I'm with you.”

I'm filled with gratitude. “Thank you.” But the words break up in my throat and I don't think they come out properly. Why did I have to die for people to believe in me? It isn't fair. I turn to the others. “Are you all with me? I won't blame anyone for turning back now.”

“Team DEVIL stays together,” says Elinor. “Always and forever.”

“Then let's hunt some angels!” roars Alfarin, swinging his axe onto his shoulder. Several birds swoop into the sky, squawking with fright.

“We are looking for the angels, not hunting them, Alfarin,” scolds Elinor. “And remember, they are probably delicate little things and easily frightened.”

“That Jeanne didn't look delicate that time I saw her at the cemetery,” mumbles Mitchell. “If looks could kill, I would have been dead all over again.”

The cemetery.

“Mitchell, you're a genius!” I cry. “That's where we'll find them. Or two of them, at least. Can you remember the date and time you traveled to your grave, the last time you were there?”

“Yeah,” says Mitchell, nodding. “I think so.”

“But we cannot arrive at the same time,” says Elinor. “We cannot meet ourselves.”

“A paradox,” booms Alfarin. He puffs out his chest with self-importance. “I remember.”

He looks so pleased that Mitchell and I can't help laughing. It feels like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I was so scared of letting Septimus and the others down, but already I have a plan. Whether it works or not is another matter, but it's a start. And there's some comfort to knowing that I will do everything humanly possible to save that little boy from Rory.

I may be a devil, but I will always be a human first.

I pull the Viciseometer out of my pocket. It feels light in my hand, although it looks solid and heavy. The delicate gold chain slips through my fingers as I grasp the red needle. The white face stares up at me, but the Viciseometer vibrates in my hand. It knows it's about to be used.

“Where are you buried?” I ask.

“Washington, DC. In Glenwood Cemetery,” replies Mitchell.

“And what time did you arrive when you traveled there last time?” I ask.

“Three o'clock in the afternoon,” replies Mitchell immediately.

“Then we should arrive at least thirty minutes before that,” I say, manipulating the hands into place. I secure the time of half past two by pressing the three black buttons on the bottom right.

“The date was November twentieth, 2012,” says Mitchell.

“You're sure?”

“Positive,” replies Mitchell as Alfarin and Elinor move in closer. They're holding hands.

I input the time and then move my hand toward Mitchell. He links his fingers through mine, leaving the Viciseometer clearly
visible in the palm of my hand. He knows what to do next. I can't see through his time; only Mitchell can do this part.

A creamy white statue appears in the red face of the watch. It's an angel blowing a trumpet. My thumb is resting against the large button on top of the Viciseometer, and as Mitchell presses down on my thumb, he shouts, “
Now!
”

All four of us land in yet another time, but we're on our feet.

“We're . . . getting better . . . at this,” I say, looking around, already aware of the abrupt drop in temperature. It's daylight, too, and the sudden increase in sunshine makes my eyes water.

“It will . . . get better, M,” says Elinor, rubbing at her arms. “It is not as bad . . . as last time. I think our bodies are . . . getting used to the temperatures . . . of this world now.”

Mitchell and Alfarin have already ducked down behind a tall headstone that has three names carved into it. Green lichen covers the date of death.

“M, get down,” whispers Elinor, and she pulls me across the grass to where the boys are.

“What's the problem?” I ask, still shivering. “You three won't be here for another thirty minutes.”

“It's not just us we have to avoid,” says Mitchell quietly. “My mom is here.”

I gasp. “What? But you never said . . .”

“Mitchell will not do anything silly, will ye, Mitchell?” says Elinor encouragingly. “He has accepted his death.”

Mitchell nods, but he's suddenly very interested in picking the petals from a dying collection of flowers on the grave. As they crumble in his hands, I notice gray ash falling from his fingers.

“What's that?”

“It's a flower. Don't ask me what kind, though,” replies Mitchell.

“Not the flower, that gray powder.”

“It's us,” replies Elinor. “We are dead, and therefore we are toxic to the land of the living. We made such a mess of the hotel we stayed in, didn't we?”

Judging by her joking tone, I know Elinor is just trying to make Mitchell feel better, but in doing so, she's just managed to make me feel worse. I never forget I'm dead, but even though I'm in Hell, I've never felt like a monster. I never knew I was toxic until now, and it makes me angry. This is what the Highers bestowed on us: a poisonous existence that never ends.

“What should we do, Medusa?” asks Alfarin. “I volunteer myself and my axe to trap the angel scum by pinning their wings to the ground. You will then be able to interrogate them at will. I suggest plucking their feathers, in the manner of my great-aunt Dagmar, as if she were preparing a chicken for dinner.”

“Alfarin!” exclaims Elinor as Mitchell snorts. “Ye are talking about Joan of Arc. Ye must not frighten her, and certainly no plucking.”

Thinking of the wingless figures I saw in my dream, I speak up. “I'm not sure plucking is going to be necessary, but thanks anyway, Alfarin,” I say, patting him on his upper arm. I withdraw my hand quickly. Jeez, there are some muscles under that tunic.