The Devil's Dreamcatcher (8 page)

“Tell me more about the Viciseometer,” I say. “I always thought that being able to change time was a Hell myth. You know, a story to torment devils, to make us hope for a different future. But if you managed it, why don't more devils try? Why doesn't everyone get out of here?”

Elinor stands up and walks over to the safe. It's huge and built into the black stone wall.

“I think others have tried to get out of here,” she replies. “But death is something ye can't cheat, not in the end. Ye can just try to make it easier, if ye are lucky.”

“So how did you use the Viciseometer?” I ask, watching Elinor trace a circle with her fingers on the safe door. “What did you want it for? And how did you get out of here in the first place?”

Stop it, Medusa. I pinch myself. I have so many questions, but I shouldn't overwhelm Elinor. I need to slow down. When I was a kid, I was always being told off for asking too many questions. Then I stopped talking altogether, but nobody noticed. Then I got mouthy again when I got to Hell. I can never seem to get the balance right.

“If I tell ye, ye must promise never to say a word to anyone,” says Elinor, turning around to face me. Her red eyes are glistening, and
for one horrific moment, I think she's going to cry blood, like the little boy in my nightmare.

“I won't say a word to anyone,” I whisper.

“Well, ye already know that the Viciseometer is a time-traveling device,” begins Elinor. “There are only two, apparently, one in each immortal domain. Mitchell used Hell's Viciseometer to take us all back in time, to the moments of our death.”

“You wanted to watch yourselves die?” I exclaim. “That's horrible, Elinor. Didn't you want to stop it from happening?
Why
didn't you stop it from happening?”

“It's a long story, M,” says Elinor, and she bites her bottom lip. “It wasn't as simple as stopping our deaths. In the end, only Mitchell really wanted to do that, and then he realized that he couldn't, because he would have changed everything and M.J. would never have been born.”

“Who's M.J.?”

“Mitchell's little brother.”

“And he's still alive?”

Elinor nods. “Mitchell's parents were divorced and his mom remarried after he died. We time-traveled to Mitchell's grave and saw his mom and her new husband. They had a little boy with them called M.J. It was Mitchell's little brother, who was born after Mitchell died. He was ever so upset.”

“The kid?”

“No—Mitchell. He thought he had been replaced, ye see. So then we time-traveled to Washington to the point where Mitchell died, and Mitchell was going to prevent his death, but he realized if he did, then M.J. would never be born. So he chose not to change his death. And then . . .” Elinor suddenly stops talking. She's looking at me strangely.

“What's the matter?” I ask. “Are you okay, Elinor? You don't look well.”

“And then . . .” She pauses again. “Then we ended up in San Francisco because we were looking for something,” she says, gazing at the wall. “But we don't know what. Not one of us can remember.”

“Couldn't have been important, then,” I reply, trying to lighten the black cloud that suddenly seems to be filling the office. I see movement in the corner and realize the shadows are with us. I think they're listening.

Elinor is grabbing at the back of her neck again.

“Why do you do that, Elinor?” I ask. “Does it hurt? Would you like me to look at it?”

“It's a habit,” she replies. “I've been doing it for hundreds of years now. I just like to check . . . you know . . .”

Elinor is suddenly very preoccupied with tidying the papers on Mitchell's desk. It looks like question time is over for now. My priorities shift. I really want to change out of my clothes. I'm still wearing my black shorts and the red shirt I wore to the interview that never was, and I hate wearing the same gear for more than one day. Not because I'm vain like Patty Lloyd, who changes five times a day, but because I sweat a lot. This is Hell, you know. Fire and brimstone and more fire. My grandmother used to have a saying:
Horses sweat, men perspire, women glow
.

I say that's bullshit. No one glows in Hell. We
all
sweat. I bet when they were deciding the rules of Up There and Hell, the Highers allowed angels to fart rainbows, but devils have to feel pain and sweat and bleed blood that looks like custard.

“Elinor, I need to go change. We could go together if you want.”

“I only have this dress,” replies Elinor, pointing to her long white gown, “but I will go with ye if ye would like the company.” As she speaks, Elinor's eyes widen and she leans forward just a fraction. I'm good at reading body language. I had to be when I was alive, and I was usually looking out for the warning signs that something bad was about to happen. But what I read here is only that Elinor is expectant, hopeful. It kinda chokes me up. I wonder if Elinor will want to hang with me, share clothes with me and, you know, just be like a normal dead girl with me, once this storm of crap is over.

Unfortunately, getting into my dorm is hopeless. There are just too many devils. They fill every corridor, every gap. For the first time,
I truly appreciate just how many of us are in here. Elinor and I trudge back toward the accounting office and find level 1 practically deserted. No one wants to be near the Oval Office. We hang out by the elevators, watching as men in black suits prowl the torch-lined corridors. The slightest noise makes them jump.

It's been over twenty-four hours since the alarm was sounded.

It's been over twenty-four hours since my stepfather took The Devil's Dreamcatcher.

And over twenty-four hours since he disappeared from Hell.

I find I'm glad when Mitchell and Alfarin step out of the level 1 elevator. They're carrying backpacks and bulging paper bags, and Mitchell has changed into a white V-neck shirt and olive-green cargo pants, which he's complaining about. Loudly.

“The pants are fine, but the pockets kill me. This is why I normally wear jeans. I shove too much stuff in the pockets, and then I forget what I've stashed where. See?” He pulls what appears to be an ancient granola bar out of a pocket by his right knee. “I didn't even feel this! Who knows how long it's been there?”

“That is why I prefer not to wear pants with any pockets at all, my friend,” Alfarin replies. He's wearing a pale-blue tunic over baggy black shorts that skim his knees. “At least these shorts allow my manly calves to breathe.”

At this point, Elinor and I are doubled over with laughter. “Have ye two been shopping?” asks Elinor, gasping.

“Men do not shop,” replies Alfarin, offended. “We fight, drink beer and make merry with women.”

“And how many on that list have ye done, Alfarin?” asks Elinor as the Viking passes her a large brown paper bag.

“I am very good at fighting,” mumbles Alfarin. His round face is bright red and sweaty. I can't help grinning. Mitchell smiles shyly as he hands me a bag. His pink eyes look tired.

I open it up and pull out a white T-shirt, a pair of red Converse sneakers and some jeans that I know right away will be too long, but I don't care because it means no more stinky clothes.

“Where did you get this from?” I ask.

“We knew you girls would never get back to your dorms in this crush, so we got some stuff for you,” replies Mitchell. “I'm not very good at guessing sizes, but it was the best we could do.”

“And who is Primrose Weaver?” asks Elinor, holding up a pair of cream-colored ballet flats with black marker pen etched on the pristine soles.

“Er,” says Alfarin.

“Um,” says Mitchell.

“Did you steal these?” I ask warily.

“Ye thieves.”

“We're devils. We improvised,” says Mitchell indignantly. “But look, they're practically brand-new, Elinor. You won't catch anything gross.”

Just then, another suited man walks past us. I recognize him as the devil who Septimus asked to fetch a glass of water when I was being interrogated.

“It was really nice of you to think of me, Mitchell,” I say quietly, “but I'm not sure wearing stolen stuff is going to help me right now, seeing as everyone in Hell is looking for a thief.”

“I wasn't thinking,” says Mitchell, stricken. “I'm so sorry, Medusa.”

“It's cool, honestly,” I reply. “I can't believe you even thought of getting us fresh clothes.”

“That's me, Mr. Considerate.”

He ruffles my hair—again. I flick his forehead with my finger—again. I get called “short-ass”—again.

“Ever get the feeling of déjà vu?” I ask.

“Constantly,” replies Mitchell.

Mr. HBI walks past again, just to ruin the moment.

“Can we help ye?” asks Elinor, and she smiles sweetly.

“Lord Septimus may have vouched for you lot, but I'm watching,” replies the man. His finger is pointed at me. It's small and stubby, with a blackened nail that is far too long.

Mitchell and Alfarin immediately square up to him.

“And if you continue to harass Medusa, I'm going straight to The Devil himself,” says Mitchell. “Let's see how brave you are when your ass is hauled into the Oval Office.”

The HBI dude says nothing, although judging from his flaring nostrils it's clear he would like nothing better than to continue the argument. Alfarin swings his axe onto his enormous shoulder, and the man slinks away into the shadows.

“Let's go inside,” mutters Mitchell, opening the door to the accounting office. “Septimus might be back with an update.”

But as we walk into the office, it's clear that someone has been in there, and that person wasn't Septimus.

Before, it looked like a bomb had hit it. Now it looks like a nuclear device was detonated. Papers are burning in piles on the floor, a table has been tipped over and the chairs have been ripped apart in long, serrated strips.

“What in Thor's name has happened here?” exclaims Alfarin.

Mitchell says nothing. He climbs over the broken furniture to the safe and sinks to his knees. The door is open, and every shelf is completely bare.

“Well, if we weren't in deep shit before, we are now,” he groans.

“What happened?” I ask.

“It's the Viciseometer. It's gone.”

“How long were you away from the office?” Alfarin asks Elinor and me. He reaches over Mitchell and sweeps the empty shelves with his thick fingers. I have no idea what he's expecting to find up there, except dust. Everything has been thrown onto the floor, where Mitchell is now sitting.

“Not long,” replies Elinor. “We went to M's dorm but turned back because we couldn't even get inside.”

“They're going to blame me,” I whisper. “The HBI is going to arrest me for this.”

“They will not blame you, Miss Pallister,” drawls a southern accent. “And there will certainly be no arrests in
my
office.”

Septimus steps out of the shadows. Not one of us had noticed him standing next to the large rune-covered cabinet.

“What's going on, Septimus?” asks Mitchell. He's still sitting in front of the safe.

“I need you to listen to me very carefully,” replies Septimus. “I require the assistance of all four of you,” he adds, looking directly at me, “and we don't have much time. The HBI is in disarray after the unfortunate disemboweling and quartering of Sir Richard, and the Skin-Walkers are a law—or not—unto themselves. I have to remain here to keep Sir calm, but I have a plan. A plan that must fly under the radar, so to speak.”

Mitchell, Elinor and Alfarin all gasp as Septimus pulls a piece of purple silk from his pocket. There's something bulky wrapped up inside it.

“Ye had it this whole time?” Elinor asks.

“What's going on, Septimus?” repeats Mitchell, more warily than before.

“It has come to my attention—from a reliable source—that Up There has sent a team of angels to hunt down The Devil's Dreamcatcher,” replies Septimus. There is more than a hint of urgency in his voice; the lazy drawl is now gone. “Why angels have become involved, I do not yet know, but the Dreamcatcher belongs back here. It
must
be brought back here. With the exception of Miss Pallister, who I am certain will pick the technique up quickly, you are all learned in the use of the Viciseometer—”

“No way,” says Mitchell.

“It is too dangerous,” says Alfarin.

“It is an object of evil, Mr. Septimus,” says Elinor.

My mouth responds before my brain can stop me.

“I'll take it.”

“Thank you, Miss Pallister. I knew you would understand.”

“No way,” says Mitchell once more. “You can't send Medusa out there with the Viciseometer. The Skin-Walkers and the HBI will be onto her in minutes.”

But I know what Septimus wants from me. It was inevitable the second I was hauled in for questioning by the HBI. The only difference is that Septimus is going to do it on his terms. He's not just a fighter, he's a strategic thinker. A chess player. And I'm the pawn.

“You want to use me as bait, don't you?”

Septimus nods in reply to my question. Mitchell and Elinor are now in a total uproar. So much so that they don't notice that Septimus has passed the Viciseometer to me.

So this is what they were talking about. It really is a stopwatch. A strikingly pretty gold stopwatch. It has two sides. One is milky white with golden hands and numerals; the other side is a deep red color
with black hands and symbols. A thin gold thread with a red needle hangs from a large button at the top. There are three black buttons on the top left, and three more on the bottom right.

And it's vibrating, like a beating heart. Tiny flames are spitting and sparking from its rim, but even though I can see the delicate fire surrounding it, my skin doesn't burn.