by Donna Hosie
“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.
“Give it back to Septimus, Medusa,” commands Mitchell. “That thing isn’t safe.”
“What do you want me to do, Septimus?” I ask, ignoring Mitchell’s and Elinor’s pleas. Only Alfarin is quiet. At first, I think his red eyes are staring at the Viciseometer, but then I realize he’s staring at nothing we can see.
“I will go with Medusa,” he announces. “My axe and I will keep her safe, Lord Septimus.”
A heavy thud echoes around the accounting chamber: Mitchell has kicked at the wall in response.
“Well, ye are going nowhere without me, Alfarin,” says Elinor, folding her arms crossly.
Mitchell sinks down until he’s sitting on the floor of the cavernous open safe. He looks utterly defeated.
“I’m sorry, Mitchell, but finding the Dreamcatcher begins with the Unspeakable,” says Septimus. His pulsing red eyes are continually flickering to the door of the office. “He wants his life back, and I believe that is exactly where he is headed, and there is no one in Hell who is more versed in Mr. Hunter’s life and times than Miss Pallister.”
An enormous lump has lodged firmly in my throat. I try to swallow, but I can’t. I try to breathe, and I can’t do that, either. It feels unnatural, holding my breath for this long, but I do until the swaying stops and the only sensation I feel is the rhythmic beat of the Viciseometer against the palm of my hand.
I’m going to have to face him again, and I know I have no choice. While Rory Hunter is free, I am not. I can’t believe it never occurred to me that he was probably in Hell right along with me. If anyone deserved to end up here, it was my stepfather, and now that he’s free, I can’t exist knowing he’s out there. No one—living or dead—is safe from him. There’s a place for evil like Rory, and it’s with the Skin-Walkers. He has to be returned to them.
“What if the Skin-Walkers track us again, Septimus?” asks Mitchell. I can tell he’s pissed off—his pink eyes are narrowed as they stare up at Septimus—but all I care about is the fact that Mitchell said track us. That means he’s coming with me. They’re all coming with me. I won’t be alone—at least for a little while longer.
“I am counting on the Skin-Walkers tracking you,” replies Septimus. “But they have a solitary goal: to find Mr. Hunter. I need you four to bring back the Dreamcatcher.”
“You said a team of angels is also tracking the Dreamcatcher, Lord Septimus,” says Alfarin. He is leaning on his axe, and the blade is scratching against the office floor with a screech that sets my teeth on edge.
“Indeed.”
“Are they dangerous?”
“They’re angels, Alfarin,” says Elinor. “Of course they’re not dangerous.”
But Septimus doesn’t confirm Elinor’s theory. He walks around the upturned desk and pulls a brown file folder from the floor. I watch him, wondering why he hasn’t mentioned the trashed office once.
And then I get it. Septimus hasn’t said anything because he was responsible. This was a ruse to make it look as if there had been a break-in. If anyone asks, Septimus can say the Viciseometer was stolen, and it happened when the four of us were seen in and around the dorms and corridors. In one strategic move, Septimus has removed any potential suspicion that Team DEVIL could be at fault for what has happened.
“Details on Team ANGEL, Miss Pallister,” says Septimus, handing me the file. “My intelligence source Up There advises that the group consists of four angels led by Private Owen Jones. I have managed to glean some information about them in the time I have been afforded. Read it as quickly as you can. I fear we have just minutes before our meeting will be most unwelcomely interrupted.”
I open the file. It contains only two pieces of paper and three photographs.
“ ‘Private Owen Jones, eighteen years old, killed July first, 1916, during the Battle of the Somme. Angela Jackson, seventeen, died of cancer just five years ago in New Zealand,’ ” I read aloud. “ ‘Johnny—surname redacted—died in 1676 from consumption. Jeanne d’Arc, burned alive in Rouen in 1431, at nineteen.’ ”
I pick up the three small photographs next. They show a young man with black, slicked-back hair. He’s wearing a brown army uniform. Something about him is familiar, but I can’t pin down from where. I hand the photo to Elinor.
“That must be Owen Jones,” I say. Elinor nods and passes it to Alfarin.
The next photograph is of a really pretty girl with a heart-shaped face. She has blond spiky hair with pink tips.
“Angela?” I ask Septimus.
He nods.
The third photograph is of a girl who is scowling at the camera. Owen looks sad in his image, and Angela looks friendly, but this angel, Jeanne, looks fierce. My first thought is that she would make a good devil. She has light-brown skin and long, wavy black hair that tumbles down over her shoulders.
“ ‘Jeanne d’Arc, burned alive in Rouen in 1431, at nineteen,’ ” I repeat. “Jeanne d’Arc. Is this Joan of Arc? As in, the Maid of Orléans?”
“The very same,” replies Septimus.
“I guess she would be an angel, huh?” says Mitchell.
“Why isn’t there a photograph of the other angel?” I ask, running my finger down the paper in the file. “Johnny.”
But Septimus doesn’t reply. His bloodred eyes shift from Elinor to Mitchell, who’s now looking at the photograph of Private Owen Jones.
Mitchell is leaning forward. A look of deep concentration is etched on his face. He scans the back of the small, glossy picture, as if he’s trying to find more information.
“What is it, Mitchell?” I ask.
“Show me the other photos,” he replies.
Elinor hands Mitchell the photo of Angela Jackson; I pass over the fierce-looking Jeanne.
Mitchell gasps when he sees the photo of Jeanne.
“I’ve seen her before!” he exclaims. “Joan of Arc, and she was with this dude!” He brandishes the photos in the air.
“When?” ask Alfarin and Elinor together.
“In the cemetery,” says Mitchell, climbing to his feet. “My cemetery. The one in Washington where I’m buried. I saw these two angels just before I saw my mom and M.J.”
“Ye did not say anything at the time, Mitchell.”
“I know, I . . . well, everything happened so quickly afterward, I just forgot about it, but I definitely saw them, and they saw me. The girl, this Jeanne, she even called him Owen. She told him to hurry up.”
“Are you certain, my friend?” asks Al
farin.
“Definitely. They had this strange glow around them. I knew they were angels right away. What’s going on, Septimus?”
“Are you prepared to go back to the land of the living, Mitchell?” asks Septimus, ignoring Mitchell’s question. I’ve never known him to talk so quickly, and his ruby-red eyes are now glued to the main office door.
“No!” snaps Mitchell. “Not without some answers. Why us?”
“Because I am confident you will not use the Viciseometer for purposes other than what I ask,” replies Septimus. “You are aware of what I refer to?”
“Ye know we will not change our deaths,” says Elinor quietly.
Mitchell walks over to me and lets his hand hover over the Viciseometer. I sense a quickening in its vibration. It feels like it wants to jump off my hand into Mitchell’s. I tighten my grip.
“Does it have to be Medusa?” asks Mitchell.
“I am entrusting it to her,” replies Septimus. He strides to the door and presses his ear against the rock. Then a cell phone in his suit pocket rings three times.
I know it’s an alarm because Septimus makes no move to answer it.
“Now, are all of you ready?” says Septimus. “I would have wished to prepare you better, but the irony is, we are now out of time.”
Team DEVIL nods. Elinor is grabbing at the back of her neck again, and Alfarin is spitting on and rubbing the blade of his gleaming silver axe.
“Miss Pallister, you are about to get a crash course on using the Viciseometer,” says Septimus. “Quickly, place it on your palm, red face down. I want you to move the golden hands to five o’clock exactly; it would be best if you traveled to the early morning. Then press the three buttons on the bottom left.”
I do as Septimus instructs. The stopwatch is vibrating even more desperately now. I think it’s excited. The Viciseometer is starting to whistle—my mom had a kettle that made exactly the same noise, only it never stopped because she was usually too drunk to notice.
Mitchell slips his arm around my waist, and I lean into him, not fully, but enough to let him know that I appreciate what he’s doing for me. I hear Elinor ask Alfarin to hold on to her.
“Excellent,” says Septimus. “Now turn the Viciseometer over. The red face and black hands will take you back to the date where you want to go. So put in this date: June eighteenth, 1967.”
A date I know all too well.
“Which hand is which?”
“The shortest is the month; the medium hand is the day; the longest is for the year, and for that you need to move it around all four numbers like you would open up a safe,” says Mitchell. “Do you want me to show you?”
I move to hand Mitchell the Viciseometer, but he shakes his head.
“No, it’s yours now,” he whispers. “I’ll just hold the needle.”
We lean in even closer to each other. Mitchell smells like bread and chocolate. I watch as he moves the point of the needle quickly around the hands and numbers, which look remarkably like snakes.
They are snakes. They are slithering inside the Viciseometer.
The pitch of the whistling rises, and an electrical current buzzes along my arm. It burrows into my chest. A feeling of warmth spreads through me.
I feel alive.
“I will tell the HBI that I was attacked from behind,” says Septimus. “I will keep them off your trail for as long as I can. That should prove easy, as they are incompetent and I am not. You are to track down Mr. Hunter, and more importantly, the Dreamcatcher, using all the means at your disposal. I will be in regular contact with you. You have your cell phone, Mitchell?”
“What if the Unspeakable tries to hurt Medusa?” asks Mitchell.
“This is death, Mitchell. Not life.” Septimus hands me a sealed envelope.
“Here is sufficient money to cover your expenses, and, more importantly, details of the Dreamcatcher are in here, too. You must return with the Dreamcatcher. I cannot stress enough how important this is. Trust in one another, always. Regardless of what you see or hear.”
Septimus takes a step toward me. He closes his still hands over my shaking ones.
“I knew the first time I met you that you were an extraordinary person, Miss Pallister,” he says quietly. “It is the biggest tragedy of mankind that some of the young are taken too soon.”
Mitchell tightens his grip on my waist. Elinor also slips her arm around me, and I can tell that Alfarin has hold of her because his weight suddenly pushes into all of us, buffeting us forward. Alfarin and Mitchell are holding the backpacks, like we’re heading out on some kind of school field trip. None of this feels real. I’m detached from my body. I keep expecting to wake up. In a moment I’ll start screaming and see the frightened faces of the girls in my dorm. . . .
Then Septimus’s cell rings twice. Whoever’s coming is getting closer.
“There is one thing left for you to do before you leave,” says Septimus. “Alas, the story that the office was ransacked and I was attacked will not hold water unless there is a body on the floor. So, Prince Alfarin, if you would oblige?”
“Lord Septimus?”
“Your axe, Prince Alfarin. You must hit me with it. I would, of course, prefer the blunt handle and not the blade, if it can be managed.”
Mitchell swears as Alfarin steps away from the group, drops his backpack on the floor and, taking a swing like a baseball player, knocks Septimus off his feet with a sickening crack. The most important servant in Hell flies backward over the upturned desk and lands in a motionless heap. The only noise is his cell phone, which emits a solitary ring.
And then several fists bang on the door.
“Hurry, Medusa. Get us out of here!” yells Mitchell. He drops his backpack and lurches forward to grab hold of Alfarin. “You need to see a destination in the face of the Viciseometer.”
In my mind I see an old house. My old house. Run-down, with peeling white walls and a broken fence. The thought transfers to the Viciseometer.
“Press down on the large button—now!” scream Mitchell and Elinor as the door to the accounting office is thrown open.
There is a rush of flames and wind, and then my existence goes black.
8. June 18, 1967
My body feels like it’s been wrapped up in the coils of an enormous invisible snake. I am being squeezed by something I cannot see. I try to keep my eyes open, but the rush of wind has caused my long eyelashes to invert, and they are scratching at my pink irises.
What have we done? Even in 1967 San Francisco, where drugs are everywhere, we’re going to stick out as something strange, something unnatural, something evil.
Anything but normal.
The rushing stops, and the four of us land in a heap on the hard ground. The blade of Alfarin’s axe slams down and cuts several spiky blond strands from Mitchell’s head. Mitchell swears. He’s shaking.
No, he isn’t. I am.
The Viciseometer is still in my hand. The red face, which had pixelated into an image of my old house, has returned to normal.
Very slowly, I take in our surroundings.
I’m home. I can’t believe it. I’m home. The house I lived in for eight years is exactly how I remember it: grubby and tired-looking. The paint is peeling and the weeds in the garden are outgrowing the small patches of grass that haven’t died in the heat. I’m so used to the smell of burning, whether it’s from the fires of the furnaces or the fires in the kitchen, that my nose feels as if it isn’t working properly, because here, there isn’t much to smell at all.
A rush of emotion sweeps over me. I want to run inside and find my mom. I want to run away and never look back.
“At least June in San Francisco is an improvement on November in New York,” says Mitchell. “I don’t feel like a Popsicle this time.”
“Are ye all right, M?” whispers Elinor. “Ye look pale.”
“I’ve been dead for half a century, Elinor. I probably look like a ghost.”
Am I a ghost?
&nb
sp; “Will my mom be able to see me?” I ask, suddenly panicking. Do I want my mom to see me? I don’t. Not like this. Not with pink eyes. She’ll be scared of me for the rest of my short life, and I couldn’t stand that. The living me only has another six months left.
Mitchell pulls me to my feet. “Your mom will be able to see you—this you—so it’s really important that you come up with a plan, Medusa. You’re still alive in this time. Your mom, your friends, we can’t let them see you—the real you. This you.” Then he tries to tuck my hair behind my ears. I want Mitchell to help settle my stomach, which I think is still flying in time, but instead his hot fingers make it flutter.
It’s dark, but a glimmer of pink is spreading out across the horizon. It’s so pretty. I never thought I’d see a sunrise again. I never appreciated the colors of the world before. As the sun starts to rise, the changing palette actually starts to hurt my eyes. I’ve spent forty years in shadow. It’s warm, too, because there’s no wind. Just a heavy foreboding in the air that today is going to be a hot one.
Well, I’m used to that.
I look down at the Viciseometer once more. Today is June 18, 1967. In fifteen hours’ time, Rory will die. And this is the day I first saw Mitchell, Alfarin and Elinor.
In less than six months, I will die.
“We need to find cover, Medusa,” says Alfarin. “We are exposed out here. I sense a malevolent danger coming ever closer.”
I look out across the street, past the parked cars, to a litter-strewn playground. Rusty swings stand utterly still. It all looks so surreal, like a painting.
“Over that way, there’s a place I sometimes . . . sorry, there was a place I sometimes went to hide . . . when my mom was out and I was left alone at—”
But I don’t want to say it aloud. Why did Septimus make me come back here? This isn’t home. It was never home. Home is supposed to be a place where you feel safe.