The Devil's Dreamcatcher

by Donna Hosie

  “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.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Mitchell trying to flex his pecs. He kinda fails, which I think is cute. Not that Mitchell would ever go for someone like me, with my crazy hair and skinny legs. Besides, he’s probably already ridden the train wreck that is Patty Lloyd.

  Anyway, none of that matters anymore.

  “Is this where you saw the angels last time?” I ask him.

  “I saw the army dude here. He was wearing his uniform. And see that white cross over there?
” Mitchell points to another towering sculpture, a hundred feet away. “That’s where I saw Jeanne. She was wearing an orange dress and a pink cardigan. You won’t be able to miss her. She’s the hottest girl I’ve ever seen.”

  A sudden burst of heat fires through my stomach and chest, and I can feel my cheeks burning. No, I’m clearly not Mitchell’s type at all.

  “That’s what you remember? A hot girl?”

  “No,” says Mitchell. “I remember a lot of other stuff. I’m just saying she was hot.”

  I stand up quickly. Too quickly. My head is thumping, and dots appear in front of my eyes.

  “Typical boy,” I mutter, and I walk away.

  I’ve gone about ten feet before I come to my senses.

  And it horrifies me.

  Why am I getting so jealous? I barely know Mitchell. We’ve been through a pretty intense time over the last few days, but that’s no reason to get super-clingy, because I’m not like that. I tried to be—with Patty and her friends in Hell, just to fit in—but it was fake. I thought I had a good sense of self, even if it did mean ending up alone. So what’s happening to me now?

  From behind a headstone, I can hear Mitchell whispering rapidly to Alfarin.

  “What did I do? I didn’t mean Medusa isn’t hot.”

  “Of course not, my friend.”

  “Because she is hot.”

  “I understand, my friend.”

  “Medusa’s pissed at me, isn’t she?”

  “You are out of the fire and into the pan for frying, my friend.”

  “Honestly, ye boys!” says Elinor. “Stop chattering. Sit here and keep watch. M and I will go up by the cross. Ye said Jeanne was wearing an orange dress, Mitchell?”

  “And she is totally not hot,” replies Mitchell in an exaggerated, loud voice.

  My back is still to him, so he can’t see me smile. At least Mitchell’s as bad at this as I am.

  Elinor slips her arm through mine.

  “We will wait up here. Hopefully we can intercept the angels before Alfarin has a chance to remove their wings. If they even have them.”

  The grass is cushiony beneath my sneakers. Purple storm clouds are gathering in the sky, and they look like huge bruises covering Up There.

  “Have you ever seen an angel before, Elinor?”

  She shakes her head. “Only devils—but I wouldn’t swap, not now.”

  Elinor looks back fondly at Alfarin, and I look over my shoulder, too. The boys aren’t keeping watch at all. They’re doing something to Alfarin’s axe.

  “Alfarin!” shouts Elinor. “Will ye refrain from sharpening yer axe on the gravestones? It is disrespectful. Ye could be sharing a dorm in Hell with the person who was buried there.”

  Mitchell flaps his arms in an attempt to quiet Elinor down. Alfarin hollers back an apology, and Mitchell throws himself backward with exasperation. I try to memorize this strange new happy sensation. I may be on the periphery, but I’m still part of a team who really care about one another. It may be chaos, but it’s now my chaos. A shared disorder. I know I’ll need to keep this feeling close, before the fear of Rory Hunter, and the fate of that little boy, become too much to bear. I quickly scan the gravestones. My stepfather said he would find me. Is he here, watching?

  Elinor and I reach the towering white cross. It marks a resting place. I check out the age of the dead person before I read the name, because somehow that seems more important. This person died at eighty-eight years old. That’s a good age to die. Not at sixteen like me; I was barely a whisper on the earth. A shadow that few remember.

  “How old are you, Elinor?” I ask.

  “Nineteen,” she replies. “I died on my birthday.”

  “I’m so sorry, I should never have asked.”

  “It could have been a lot worse,” she replies quietly as her hand clasps the back of her neck. “My death was quick, and for that I will always be thankful.”

  I don’t ask the question, but sometimes it takes real restraint not to.

  We tuck ourselves in behind the cross. I never do look at the name. I don’t feel queasy or disrespectful sitting on the remains of the dead. They won’t mind. They’re either in Hell or Up There now.

  I wonder where I’m buried. I’ve never really thought about it before.

  This graveyard is giving me the creeps. It’s dredging up too many thoughts and memories I want to keep locked away.

  “Oh, my!” exclaims Elinor suddenly. She is frantically gesturing to Mitchell and Alfarin.

  I peer around the cross just in time to see Alfarin throw himself on top of Mitchell, and that has gotta hurt.

  Farther along the path is a woman. She’s wearing a bright-red trench coat and knee-high black boots. She looks very stylish, but sad. She isn’t looking at the graves; she’s watching her feet. In her hands is a small bouquet of fresh yellow-and-white flowers.

  The color of her hair is familiar, as is the shape of her face and nose.

  “Is that Mitchell’s mom?”

  Elinor nods. “Poor Mitchell,” she whispers. “He went to pieces the last time we were here. She must be going to his grave. The last time, we saw her on her way out. It must be so hard to see family and know ye can never speak to them while they are alive.”

  Does my mom visit my grave? Did they find my body after I fell? Does she know I didn’t mean to let go? That my fingers slipped?

  “I hate this place,” I say. “I hope those angels hurry up.”

  A strange glimmer of light catches my eye. It’s like a flashing torch, and it’s coming from a white plinth, some ten rows away from us.

  It flashes again, and then I see two people. Even from this distance, I can tell they aren’t Owen and Jeanne, although they’re definitely male and female.

  The girl is dressed in tight white jeans and a pink T-shirt. Her hair is blond, short and spiky with turquoise tips. The boy is tall and gangly, with a shock of red hair.

  And they are both surrounded by a full-body halo.

  “Elinor!” I cry, pulling on the sleeve of her white dress. “Look, over there. I think there are more angels.”

  Elinor stands up next to me. The second she does, the boy sees her.

  And he starts running straight at us.

  10. Johnny

  His long face is a mask of concentration as his limbs power like pistons toward us. I grab Elinor’s hand. I want to shout to Mitchell and Alfarin, but I can’t risk drawing attention to them with Mitchell’s mom so close by.

  “They’re angels,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “They won’t hurt us, and if he tries, well, I work in Hell’s kitchens and I know how to pluck a chicken.”

  The red-haired angel is still running toward us. He reminds me of a gazelle, graceful yet powerful. I wait for wings to sprout out of his back, because I have nothing to go on except legend.

  My standard idea disappears as the angel does something no one is expecting.

  “Elinor,” he shouts. “Elinor!”

  “Oh, my,” whispers Elinor, and she drops to the ground.

  The angel reaches Elinor, sinks to his knees and crushes her into an embrace. He’s wearing jeans and a pristine white T-shirt. I push him away and he falls backward into the long, damp grass. I am quite prepared to bloody up his clean clothes to protect my friend. He might not need plucking, but I’m handy with my fists all the same.

  “Stay away from her if you know what’s good for you,” I growl as a roar bellows behind us.

  Alfarin has seen that Elinor is down.

  The gazelle is about to get stomped by the rhino, who’s now thundering down the path with his axe clutched between his hands. The fearsome grimace on Alfarin’s face is enough to make the angel swear.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Then out of nowhere streaks a flash of blinding golden light. It collides with Alfarin and sends him tumbling into a gray, tablet-shaped gravestone, which splinters with a loud crack.

  “Do not touch him, devil.”

&
nbsp; It’s Jeanne. I recognize her immediately from the photograph. She has light-brown skin and black hair that cascades in waves all the way down her back. She’s wearing exactly what Mitchell described: a short orange sundress that ends a few inches above her knees, and a pale-pink cardigan that has silver thread running through it. And that isn’t all Mitchell was right about, because Jeanne is the most stunning girl I have ever set eyes on. Her skin is flawless and glows without looking sweaty, and her eyes are shaped and colored like milk chocolate almonds.

  And she looks as if she would like nothing more than to kick Alfarin’s ass from here to the White House.

  Mitchell immediately runs over and hauls a disoriented Alfarin to his feet. Mitchell himself looks as if he’s in shock. I don’t know whether that’s because he has just seen his mom again, or because Alfarin is getting beaten up by a girl.

  The angel with spiked hair skips over. She is actually skipping, as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. The biggest grin I’ve ever seen lights up her heart-shaped face. Her eyes are turquoise and match the tips of her hair. In the photo she had pink tips, but I like these even more. And perfect skin is clearly a pass into Up There, because this angel is exquisite.

  “Move away from her, Johnny,” the angel says in an accent that I think is Australian. “You terrified the poor thing, running at her like a madman.”

  I’m stroking Elinor’s face, but the red-haired angel is still trying to reach her. Alfarin roars again, but he seems reluctant to take on Jeanne, who is standing her ground in front of him and Mitchell.

  Elinor starts to moan. Her eyes flicker, and then her hand immediately goes to the back of her neck.

  “Out of my way, wench!” shouts Alfarin. “I do not hit the daughters of the Valkyrie, but I will make an exception if you do not let me tend to my princess.”

  “I would like to see you try,” snarls Jeanne, calling Alfarin’s bluff. Her accent is definitely French.

  “I cannot hit a woman,” whispers Alfarin to Mitchell. “You must do it, my friend.”

  “I’m not hitting a woman, either,” replies Mitchell. “Especially one I just saw slam-dunk you. And she’s Joan of Arc. She’s a saint.”