The Devil's Dreamcatcher (7 page)

“Exactly,” replies Mitchell.

“Could the Dreamcatcher serve as a weapon?” asks Alfarin. “If
it holds The Devil's good dreams, as vile as they are, could these dreams become reality?”

“Yeah,” I answer slowly. “I'm guessing the Dreamcatcher
would
be a physical manifestation of evil.”

“Conquest, war, famine and death,” whispers Elinor. “The apocalypse in a nice, neat package for anyone crazy enough to take it.”

“It's the only explanation for the panic,” says Mitchell. “I don't think Perfidious and the Skin-Walkers care—they just want Medusa's stepfather back with the other Unspeakables. But the HBI and that Baumwither dude are scared about the Dreamcatcher. Septimus is, too, and that's the really terrifying thing, because the boss isn't afraid of anything.”

“What if the Unspeakable has escaped Hell?” gasps Elinor. “Medusa's stepfather has to be stopped if he's gone back to the land of the living with a weapon from The Devil.”

“No one can escape Hell, Elinor,” I reply, but my eyes widen as I suddenly remember that I'm sitting with three devils who have done exactly that.

“You all got out of Hell with a Viciseometer,” I say. “What if Rory got out the same way?”

“If he did, the HBI might think we were all involved!” cries Elinor.

But Mitchell and Alfarin are vehemently shaking their heads. “Septimus knows we had nothing to do with this, Elinor,” says Mitchell. “Plus, as far as I know, the Viciseometer we used is still locked in the safe, and I still don't know the new combination.”

I shake my head. This morning, when I woke up in my crowded dorm, the only things worrying me were the fact that someone new was sleeping at the bottom of my bed because we'd run out of space, and the fact that I couldn't find my favorite sneakers to wear to the interview. I eventually located them hanging from a torch out on the balcony—and I'm pretty sure my feet don't smell so bad they walked out on their own.

But now everything has changed, in no more than the space of a day. Because now I've found out that my hated stepfather has been
tortured in Hell by man-wolves called Skin-Walkers for more than forty years, and the bastard has retaliated by stealing a weapon from The Devil himself.

“Are you okay, Medusa?” asks Mitchell. He crawls over to my mattress. “You don't look so good.”

“Probably because I'm dead.”

I don't know why I use sarcasm and one-liners when I'm stressed. But unlike other devils, Mitchell doesn't seem to mind, which is another reason I'm really starting to like him.

“They'll find Rory, Medusa. The Skin-Walkers will track your stepfather down and take him back to where he'll rot.”

“What if they don't, though?”

Just the thought of Rory being on the loose in the Underworld . . . I'm not so worried about the missing Dreamcatcher right now. I'm worried about
him
. Finding
me
.

“They will, M,” says Elinor firmly. “The Skin-Walkers will find him, somehow.” She turns and tries to fluff up her thin pillow. “Now, I think we all need to try and get some rest. We have no idea what will happen tomorrow, and Mitchell gets very cranky if he doesn't get his beauty sleep.”

“What?” exclaims Mitchell.

“You may have my pillow, my princess,” says Alfarin. He throws it to Elinor, but he's so strong, it hits her full in the face and sends her toppling backward over Mitchell's chair.

Full of remorse and apologies, Alfarin rushes over to help her, tripping over the discarded pizza boxes.

“Still up for joining Team DEVIL?” whispers Mitchell into my ear. A tickling sensation swoops down my back as I feel the brush of his hot skin against mine. “We're a classy and coordinated bunch, as you can see.”

“Do you still want me? This mess is all my fault, you know.”

“I don't think any of this is your fault, Medusa. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that life isn't fair, and death is even worse. So, once more, are you up for joining Team DEVIL? I need a girl
around the office to fetch coffee and stuff, and plus, if we turn you upside down, you'll make a handy broom.”

I elbow him. Hard.

“Ow.”

“
Fetch coffee?
Get off my mattress, you gross boy. You're sweating on my bed.”

“You think I smell?” asks Mitchell darkly. “We're in an enclosed space with Alfarin, and he's eaten two meat feast pizzas. If you weren't dead already, you would be by morning. Suffocated by farts.”

“Ye should not use language like that around ladies, Mitchell,” calls Elinor. “And Alfarin does not fart, he exudes manliness.”

I don't remember falling asleep. I never can. I can always remember the fight that goes on with my eyelids beforehand, though, and never more so than tonight. Mitchell and Alfarin and Elinor may have happy dreams about their past lives, but not me. A Dreamcatcher would be wasted on me. I only ever have nightmares. They're all I'm capable of having. What's worse is that I don't just see them, I feel them. And I can't fight off the terror they bring. Ever. The only thing that helps is waking up.

“Medusa . . . Medusa!” someone calls.

It's Mitchell's voice, but my fear from tonight's dream is still too close for me to answer. This one was a nightmare I haven't had before. There was a small child, a boy, with a thick mop of blond hair that looked like straw. He was crying, but not wailing like most children his age would when they're throwing a tantrum. His tears were streaming silently down his pink cheeks. Then I saw his ruby-red eyes, and I noticed that his tears were no longer clear. He was crying blood. It was slowly dripping from his nose, too. He held his arms out, as if he wanted to be picked up. Then Alfarin was there, holding someone back. I realized it was Mitchell. I couldn't see Elinor, but there were another two people in the nightmare. They had a halo of light around them. One was a guy, maybe a couple of years older than I am, and he was dressed in an old brown army uniform.
The other was a stunningly beautiful girl with light-brown skin and long, wavy hair as dark as coal.

“Jeanne, you can't help him,” called the army boy.

That's when I started to scream.

“Medusa!” Mitchell calls again. I feel strong hands holding my wrists. I stop fighting, not because I think I'm safe, but because I don't have the energy to battle the nightmare anymore.

“Were ye having a bad dream?” Elinor wraps her arms around me and strokes the curls away from my sweaty face. No girl in my dorm has ever done that before. I feel safe.

“I saw a little boy,” I pant. “He was crying blood.”

I drink some water from a cup. It's Septimus who passes it to me. When did he come back?

“I do not have words of comfort for you, Miss Pallister,” he says. His deep voice sounds like a double bass being plucked. “Considering the events that transpired yesterday, and unfortunately, those events that may yet come to pass, I fear the nightmares that plague your sleep may only intensify.”

“Have you found him? Have you found Rory and the Dreamcatcher?” I ask.

Septimus shakes his head. “Alas, they have not been recovered. I understand that Perfidious and the Skin-Walkers have now severed all communication with the HBI and The Devil's office and will act of their own accord. There will be meetings all day today about the recovery of the Dreamcatcher, and in the absence of Sir Richard Baumwither, I have been asked by The Devil to chair. It is apparent, however, that Mr. Hunter has departed Hell.”

“It had nothing to do with us, Septimus,” says Mitchell quickly. “I don't have the combination to the safe anymore, not since—”

“Mitchell, if I were to unlock the safe now, I have no doubt that Hell's Viciseometer would still be sitting on the shelf,” interrupts Septimus. “No, I do not believe the Unspeakable left Hell with either our travel timepiece, or indeed the one from Up There. He wouldn't need it. The Dreamcatcher absorbs immense powers
from The Devil, and it won't surprise you to learn that that includes his ability to travel to any place, to any time, at will. I believe the Unspeakable left Hell via the power of the Dreamcatcher.” He pauses, and a frustrated look crosses his face. “How the Unspeakable knew the way to wield it, though, is something I have yet to ascertain.”

“Is the Dreamcatcher a weapon, Lord Septimus?” asks Alfarin.

“You are very astute, Prince Alfarin. In the wrong hands, it could certainly be used for nefarious activities.”

“Septimus, sir?” asks Elinor timidly. She's rubbing the back of her neck again. I make a mental note to check her for eczema or some other skin condition when the boys aren't looking. I doubt they've even noticed she does that.

“Yes, Miss Powell?”

“Ye said ye will be chairing the meetings today. Why? Doesn't Sir Richard want to be involved? That's his job, surely?”

Septimus sighs. It is a long, sad exhale. Too long, especially for someone who doesn't need to breathe.

“I warned Sir Richard Baumwither that it would be prudent to show Perfidious more respect. To challenge a Skin-Walker in such an arrogant, foolhardy way as he did yesterday . . .”

“Something's happened to him, hasn't it?” I ask, even though I have a feeling I don't want to know the answer. Perfidious's very presence in that room was a terrible reminder that just because we devils can't die again doesn't mean bad things can't still happen to us here.

“We found Sir Richard this morning on level 43 . . . and also on level 99, and then on level 427. I believe his head was found floating in a toilet on level 666,” replies Septimus. “He had been butchered, torn into pieces by what the rather nervous new head of the HBI says was an animal.”

At that, the loudspeakers crackle and whistle. We all jump, even Septimus. And every devil in Hell hears the howling laughter of wolves.

Hell is no longer in lockdown, but it doesn't matter. After the Skin-Walkers' little public service announcement over the loudspeakers, most devils are too terrified to leave their dormitories.

Septimus has given the four of us permission to stay in the accounting chamber, but Alfarin wants to check up on his family, and Mitchell decides to go with him. I don't have any family here—at least, as far as I know. My dad ran out on my mom and me when I was little, so even if he were here he could go screw himself. Mom is definitely still alive, because if she were a devil, she would have found me.

Because that's what moms do, isn't it?

“Do you have any family you want to check up on, Elinor?” I ask.

“No. Our John and our William were the only ones I really worried about,” she replies, “and they went Up There with our Alice. My brothers, Michael and Phillip, are in Hell, but they are older than me and can handle themselves.”

“Won't they be worried about you?”

Elinor's bloodred eyes lower to the ground. “I doubt it. They've never really bothered with me. Death didn't change anything there.”

“I didn't have any brothers or sisters, at least not any that I know about,” I say. “Maybe one day, when we know each other better, we can be sisters to each other.”

I could kick myself. What in Hell made me say something as stupid and sentimental as that? But instead of laughing at me, Elinor smiles.

“I would like that very much, M,” she says. “I don't know why, but I feel like I know ye so well already.”

And I know what she means, because I feel it, too. It's as if there's a dark veil in my mind, and I'm overwhelmed with the feeling that if I grab hold of it somehow and pull it back, I'll be able to remember something really important. I've never believed in reincarnation or anything like that—with my luck I would return to life as a bug or a hairy spider and I'd get squished within seconds—but fate I can believe in, for better and worse.

I rub my temples. Maybe I can't remember anything because I'm too busy trying to get the image of Sir Richard Baumwither's head floating in a toilet out of my brain. I wish I had never met him. Or Perfidious.

And I wish they didn't know about me.

I had nothing to do with Rory disappearing, but are the Skin-Walkers going to believe me? Would they care?

“What are ye thinking about, M?” asks Elinor. She's sitting on Mitchell's chair and plaiting her hair into a thick red braid.

“I was just thinking about the Skin-Walkers.”

“Ye mustn't. They're evil.”

“I know. That's what scares me.”

Every sound, both inside the accounting chamber and outside on the level 1 landing, is magnified tenfold. My overactive imagination is fooling me into thinking I can hear the Skin-Walkers. In the corner of my eye, I think I can even
see
the Skin-Walkers. They're laughing at me, hunting me, because of my association with Rory.

“Elinor, that night outside my old house in San Francisco, was that the only time you've seen the Skin-Walkers?”

Elinor lets her hands fall to her lap, and the long braid immediately falls apart.

“No,” she says. “We had seen them before, the same night we left Hell.”

“Were they chasing you because you were running away?”

“No. They were heading in the opposite direction. They had an Unspeakable with them. It was horrible, M. They were torturing him.”

I'm not an evil person at all, even if I am in Hell, but I don't share Elinor's obvious horror. I'm glad these Unspeakables are punished in the Afterlife. They deserve it.

“How many Skin-Walkers are there?”

“We saw eight that first time, and then two of those again in San Francisco. Yesterday was the first time we saw Perfidious, though.”

“And how many Unspeakables are there in Hell, do you think?”

“I don't want to think about it,” replies Elinor, once more starting to braid her hair. “It is too much evil to understand. The Skin-Walkers haunted us while we time-traveled. They came at us in the darkness. When I sleep, I still see them coming.”