The Devil's Dreamcatcher (31 page)

Alfarin strides down the path Patty told us to take. His faithful axe swings from left to right as he moves it from hand to hand, and the curved blade glows orange in the firelight that illuminates the way. I look behind us to see that Patty is following with the torch.

“How long have you been down here, Alfarin?” asks Mitchell. “You've been missing for days.”

“Then I have been down here for days,” replies Alfarin. “I remembered what Jeanne said by the lake—that knowledge is power. If I cannot break down the doors to The Devil's inner sanctum with my hands, I will use my head.”

“What are you guys plotting?” asks Patty, but she doesn't sound scared, or even inquisitive. There's excitement in her voice.

In the shadows, Mitchell and I exchange a glance. I wouldn't trust Patty Lloyd if she were the last devil in Hell, and judging by the roll of his pink eyes, Mitchell wouldn't, either.

But she will know where we can get answers, because Jeanne was right, knowledge is power, and that power is written in these books.

Somewhere.

A huge black mass suddenly towers up in front of us. It's a statue of a monstrous beast with seven heads. The body is grotesquely obese, with rolls of fat that ooze over one another. It has short legs and long arms. I have to look twice at it before I realize what's strange about the hands. They each have seven fingers.

Each head is different, and each is looking down a different corridor. We seem to be at a central point in the labyrinthine library.

“What the Hell is that?” exclaims Mitchell. “Whoever made it must have been stoned out of his mind.”

“I'd keep your voice down, if I were you,” whispers Patty. “This is a life-sized sculpture of the Highers. Most devils don't come down here, so they have no idea it even exists.”

“The Highers are one . . . one . . . thing?” I have no idea what to call it. It's a monster.

“No, there are seven of them,” replies Patty. “Each head is responsible for one immortal domain. They're very different.”

“You are wise, Patricia Lloyd. There are few in Hell who take the time to know of the Highers,” says Alfarin, gazing up at the third head. It's perched on an extremely long neck that is curled in the shape of the letter
C
. The head is bald, with tiny ears and a flat nose. The mouth is wide and is sculpted as if the head is screaming. Two wide eyes stare down the third corridor from the left.

“Is that Fabulara?” I ask, staring at the head that has mesmerized Alfarin. I can hear a sound coming from the grotesque face. It's eerie, like wind blowing through trees.

“Indeed,” replies Alfarin, and I notice a shudder convulsing his shoulders.

“Hang on, Patty. You said there were seven immortal domains. What are the others?” asks Mitchell. “I thought there were only two: Hell and Up There.”

“For those like us, yes,” replies Patty. “But the universe is pretty big, Mitchell.”

“This is way weird,” he replies, rubbing his temples. “I'm not sure knowledge is power anymore. I kind of feel like my mind's about to explode.”

“We don't need to worry about anything that doesn't concern us and Hell,” I say, picking up the pace. “Tunnel vision, Mitchell. The only thing that matters is Elinor.”

“Who's she? Your friend with the long red hair? Where is she?”
asks Patty. She's still following us with the torch. I look back to answer her, and as I do, my eyes are drawn up to Fabulara's fierce face. I jump as the statue blinks at me.

“That thing just moved!” I cry.

“It's made of stone, Medusa,” says Patty sarcastically. “Stone doesn't move.”

But the hairs on the nape of my neck are prickling. I reach back to smooth them down, and I'm reminded of Elinor's habit.

“Do you think Elinor's in pain?” I whisper to Mitchell.

“I can't think about it,” he replies quietly. “Because when I do, part of me is glad it isn't M.J.”

“I would have done it, you know,” I say softly.

“I know—me too.”

“I know.”

Our eyes lock again, and this time we don't look away from each other. Mitchell's pink irises look glassy in the glow from the flaming torch.

“You didn't answer my question,” snaps Patty. “What's happened to your friend? And why do you really want to know about the history of The Devil?”

She pushes herself between Mitchell and me. I get her back; he gets a full-frontal assault from her chest.

“My princess has been taken by The Devil to be the vessel for his dreams,” answers Alfarin.

“Alfarin!” Mitchell and I holler. We don't want Patty gossiping, and I know from bitter experience, she's Underworld class at that.

“You mean she's a Banshee?” asks Patty.

“No, a Dreamcatcher,” I snap.

But Patty swings around and glares at me in the torchlight.

“Only children can be Dreamcatchers, Medusa. Your friend is too old to be a Dreamcatcher. If The Devil has taken her, he must be reverting to the original ways.”

“What are you talking about?”

Patty sweeps her long, pink-tipped blond hair back and then
forward again. A smirk plays out on her lips. She's enjoying this moment of superiority over all of us—especially me.

“Medusa, you don't want information about the history of Hell, or The Devil, at all. If you're gonna save your friend, you need to start looking for The Devil's Banshee.”

“A Banshee!” exclaims Mitchell in a high-pitched voice that could shatter glass. “We need to look for a Banshee? Oh, this just gets better and better.”

“I can concur with Patricia Lloyd,” says Alfarin excitedly, mistaking Mitchell's sarcasm for joy. “This is the information I have also found. In the beginning, when Hell was first created by the Highers, it was the Banshee who collected The Devil's dreams. According to lore, the two fell in love and were inseparable for tens of thousands of years. But as The Devil's dreams changed, and Hell became more crowded with the dead, she left him to—”

“Find herself,” interrupts Patty, giving me a triumphant smile. “If you read more, Medusa, you would have known this.”

“I do read, Patty,” I snarl, “but there can't be a devil in Hell who has read this far back.”

“I have.”

“You work here.”

Our bickering is brought to an end by Alfarin, who grabs hold of my hand and starts dragging me farther into the darkness.

“Come, Medusa. You have the greatest intellect of all of us. As soon as I came across a mention of The Devil's Banshee in my research, and the role she once played in filtering The Devil's dreams, I began collecting all the information I could that might help us locate her. Once we find her, we must persuade her to return
to her glorious position at The Devil's side, and then my princess can come home.”

I turn and look at Mitchell. He's standing there in the shadows looking shocked.

We have to find a Banshee
, he mouths.
WTF
.

“If it means we get Elinor back, Mitchell . . .” I call as Alfarin continues to pull me away from him and Patty.

The pounding of feet is enough to tell me that Mitchell is following us. The looming orange glow that casts elongated shadows on the floor is—unfortunately—enough to tell me that Patty is coming, too.

“Alfarin, wait. You're going to dislocate my shoulder.”

“My apologies, Medusa. But I am preparing for battle, and time is of the essence.”

“Have you really been down here for days? We've been worried sick.”

“I have forgone sleep and food. I am a warrior possessed, but one with a purpose. Come, four heads are better than one.”

We turn a corner, and Alfarin's home for the last few days towers in front of us. Patty cries out as our feet trample over pages and pages of text, roughly torn from the ancient history books of Hell.

“What have you done, you Viking criminal?” she shrieks.

“There were too many words of little consequence, Patricia Lloyd,” replies Alfarin angrily. “I need information on the vessels used to contain The Devil's dreams—not what his favorite flavor of ice cream is. I only took what I needed.”

“I can't be seen here with you idiots!” cries Patty. “The librarians will think I was responsible. I'll be sacked and whipped, and not necessarily in that order.”

“There are more important things in death than a good whipping,” replies Alfarin. “Although my great-aunt Dagmar would not agree. Right now, my beloved princess is being used as The Devil's Dreamcatcher. She has . . . she has been taken against her will . . . and . . . and . . .”

I've seen male devils cry in Hell before, but never one the size
of Alfarin. His face just crumples in on itself, like a piece of paper being folded into an origami shape. His wretchedness just tears at my insides. Alfarin doesn't sob, he doesn't make a sound. His grief is beyond words.

“You don't have to stay, Patty,” I say decisively, stepping over several piles of dusty leatherbound books. “But please, just show us where we can find all the existing information on this Banshee creature before you go.”

Another metal bracket is fixed to the rock wall nearby, and I can tell there's something dripping down the stone. It's too dark to see what it is at first. It's only when Patty places the lit flame in the bracket and accidentally smears the stuff with her hand that I see it's blood.

An image flashes before my eyes. It's of Elinor, and she's crying streams of red. It covers her clothes, like a scene from a horror movie. I shake my head to try to dislodge the image from my brain.

“Patty, please help us,” I say. “We need all the help we can get to do this as fast as possible.”

“Who died and made you Queen of the World?” snaps Patty.

“Septimus,” reply the rest of us in unison.

The flame on the wall flickers and then extinguishes completely for a split second before relighting. The hairs on my neck stand to attention, and a shiver goes through my spine. I have the unnerving feeling we're being watched.

“How are we going to do this, then, Medusa?” asks Mitchell. His long legs ease over a stack of books, ten high and even wider. He reaches for me and half pulls, half drags me into the sea of literature.

None of it seems to be labeled or categorized. In fact, it just looks as if it's a dumping ground for the oldest, most decrepit pieces of paper in Hell. Some of the parchment is so delicate, I can practically see the edges disintegrating before my eyes.

“Patty, please.” I say again. “This is more important than any of the dumbass stuff that has gone on between the two of us in Hell.
When we're done, you can go back to hating me, but I need help to help my friend.”

I try to make my voice sound soft. I hear myself echoed back, and I just sound as if my brain has dissolved.

Patty crosses her arms and juts out her hip. Her skintight jeans are hung so low I don't know why she bothered putting them on.

“Please, Patty,” begs Mitchell. “We really need someone who knows this place. I'll . . . I'll take you out for dinner, to say thank you.”

Flames of jealousy shoot through my stomach and chest. If I opened my mouth now, I would roar with fire. But Patty immediately acquiesces and jumps over the wall of books into Mitchell's arms. He releases her quickly and doesn't look at me.

“It's a deal,” she says sweetly. “Let's get started. Viking, your first task is to stop ripping up books and organize whatever information you've already collected on the Banshee. Mitchell, sweetie, you come with me and we'll snuggle down in row Z666 to find more. I doubt the Viking's been down that way yet.” She looks at me and smiles. “Medusa, you can go get us coffee like a good little intern.”

Argh! I hate her. But I'm doing this for Elinor. That's what I have to keep telling myself. I'm putting up with this for Elinor.

“Do you need some help?”

Patty screams and I jump several feet off the ground as an English voice, slow and deeper than I remember it, joins in the conversation.

“Owen!” exclaims Alfarin. “Angela! And my almost–blood brother, Johnny. What are you doing here?”

“We've come to help you—if you'll have us,” replies Angela sadly. She's staring at me, and it takes me a second to realize why. She's transfixed by my pink eyes.

And even though we're all bathed in the orange glow from the flaming torch, I can see that the three angels have started to absorb the heat and fire that come with existing in Hell. Their irises, once brown, blue and green, are now milky white with swirls of pale pink. Owen's are brighter than any of Team ANGEL's.

“I'm so sorry,” I blurt out. “It's so unfair, what Up There did to you.”

Angela's bottom lip is trembling, but Owen merely shrugs. It's almost as if he expected to be screwed over. I feel a rush of affection for all four angels.

“Where is the warrior Jeanne?” asks Alfarin. “Eight heads are even better than four. We will have the Banshee back by suppertime, which reminds me, my need for sustenance has returned with a vengeance.”

“Jeanne is still in quarantine,” whispers Angela. “They won't let her out, but not because she's still toxic, but because they're scared of what she'll do. They weren't going to let us out of segregated housing either, not yet, but then Septimus arrived and one of the healers fell into something and knocked himself out. It was Septimus who told us where to find you.”

“How are you doing, Owen?” I ask.

He shrugs again. His records said he was nineteen years old when he died in the Battle of the Somme, but down here, in the darkness of Hell, he looks so much younger. They all do, especially Johnny.

“Getting used to pink eyes . . . I guess,” replies Owen dully.