The Devil's Dreamcatcher Read online

  ALSO BY DONNA HOSIE

  THE DEVIL’S INTERN

  THE

  DEVIL’S

  DREAMCATCHER

  Donna Hosie

  Holiday House / New York

  Text copyright © 2015 by Donna Hosie

  All Rights Reserved

  HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office

  www.holidayhouse.com

  ISBN 978-0-8234-3531-9 (ebook)w

  ISBN 978-0-8234-3532-6 (ebook)r

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hosie, Donna.

  The Devil’s dreamcatcher / by Donna Hosie. — First edition.

  pages cm

  Summary: “Team DEVIL reunites and takes another journey to the land of the living—this time, to stop a madman from unleashing the terror of The Devil’s most prized possession, his dreamcatcher”— Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-0-8234-3390-2 (hardcover)

  [1. Hell—Fiction. 2. Future life—Fiction. 3. Death—Fiction. 4. Time travel—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H79325Db 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2014048387

  For Team HOSIE:

  Steve, Em, Dan and Josh

  Contents

  1.Medusa

  2.Team DEVIL

  3.Lockdown

  4.Perfidious

  5.A Severing of Ways

  6.Thieves

  7.Angels Are Coming

  8.June 18, 1967

  9.A Grave Situation

  10.Johnny

  11.Two Become One

  12.Running from Shadows

  13.A Silent Scream

  14.Septimus’s Warning

  15.Immolation

  16.Circles of Hell

  17.Aotearoa

  18.Weapons Training

  19.Mother Love

  20.Don’t Follow the Crowd

  21.An Existing Paradox

  22.The Red Mist Descends

  23.Manifestation of Evil

  24.The Voice of The Devil

  25.The Devil’s Betrayal

  26.The Sacrifice

  27.The Nightmare Begins

  28.Secrets in the Labyrinth

  29.Nine

  30.A Proposition

  31.A Second Chance

  Acknowledgements

  The Devil’s Intern was four years in the making; The Devil’s Dreamcatcher was four months! Well, when I say four months, it took me that long to write it. Time increased exponentially once it went through my agent and editor, but I’m so glad it did. What you’re about to read is a labor of love where every motive was questioned, and every line dissected. This book is humorous but also dark, and deals with subject matters that are hard. Yet at its heart this sequel is not a story about abuse, or even death. It is the continuation of a tale about friendship and love and loyalty.

  So my friendship, love and loyalty go to the following:

  EditorExtraordinaire, Kelly Loughman. The relationship between author and editor has its foundation in trust. I have never trusted anyone so implicitly with my writing before, and that is so empowering. You just get what I’m trying to say (half the time before I’ve even said it!). There are no words to describe how much I love working with you on these books.

  AgentAwesome, Beth Phelan. You always have my back. You always ask the right questions. You love Ronald Weasley! Seriously, could you be more awesome?!

  Jenny Bent and the Bent Agency in New York. I know when Jenny has tweeted about me and my books because my email starts going crazy! I’m so lucky to be signed to a literary agency where the entire team gets behind all its authors.

  Aubrey Churchward, Sabrina Abballe, Mary Cash, John Briggs, Julia Gallagher, Sally Morgridge, Terry Borzumato-Greenberg and the wonderful staff at my second home, Holiday House. Thank you so much for all you do behind the scenes to get Team DEVIL out to the masses.

  My husband, Steve, and my children, Emily, Daniel and Joshua. For keeping me in the clouds with excitement, and on the ground with laundry!

  My mum and dad, Lorraine and Peter Molloy. It’s hard having my family on the other side of the world when I want to share every moment of this with you. My sisters, Anna Lane and Katie Molloy, are awesome and I miss you both more than you can imagine. And to my gorgeous nieces and nephews, Poppy, Sam, Beatrice and Arthur. You’re mentioned in a book now—you’re famous!

  Finally, a girl needs friends. Amazing friends. Friends who will support and encourage and promote like mad! No one does that better—or harder—than the following: Peggy Russell (I can’t imagine ever writing a book and NOT thanking you), Erin Dolmage (total Goddess), Erna Brodocz (captain of the German Team DEVIL), Charlotte Evans (captain of the UK Team DEVIL), Melissa Lawson (the most amazing school librarian on the planet—I hope the book club gets a kick out of reading that!) and my New York Team DEVIL posse who made my visit there so magical: Elizabeth McIntyre, Tuuli Edwards and the adorable Sampo, Eileen Hegmann Connell, Denise Dowd, Moriah Moore and Kelly Bohrer Zemaitis.

  1. Medusa

  “How did you die?”

  Why does every job application in Hell ask that question? If hiring devils bothered to read through the devil resources files that accompany the application forms, they’d know the answer.

  Most of them don’t bother, though. Or if they do, the information doesn’t actually interest them. On the application for my current position as trainee patisserie chef, I wrote that I died after falling into a vat of meringue. The head chef, Michel Duberry III, didn’t bat an eye. He gave me the job before I even sat down. He just thrust a red apron at me and told me to whip up three tons of custard.

  Before that I worked in the law office. On that particular application form I wrote that I died after having an allergic reaction to dental floss. My supervisor there was a strange man, even for Hell. His name was Dominic Shayman. He was enormous: tall and fat, with a stomach that made him look like he was nine months pregnant, yet he had a tiny bald head. His favorite pastime was making female devils cry—and he was very good at it. The misogynistic pig made a pass at me once. After that, I told him exactly where he could shove his job, once he removed his tiny head from it first.

  I haven’t had a lot of luck with bosses in Hell. That’s one of the reasons that I’m so desperate to get the other intern position in the accounting office, because accounting interns report to Septimus.

  Septimus is The Devil’s head accountant and right-hand man. He’s a former Roman general, and he’s also the coolest person in Hell. All of the women in the kitchens have the hots for him, but then, a lot of them died in menopause so they have the hots, period. I guess we all do, though. Hell is a furnace.

  I like Septimus because he remembers my name when he visits the kitchens. My new name. The one I was given by the Grim Reapers at the HalfWay House after I died. For me, the name meant a fresh start—even in death. That might not seem like a big deal, but when you exist in the heat and monotony of Hell with millions and millions of other dead souls, fresh starts aren’t exactly easy to come by.

  So, for the first time in my death, I’m going to take advantage of that good feeling and be completely honest on a job application—and not . . . weird, as some of my former friends here have called me.

  I start writing.

  Name: Medusa (formerly Melissa) Olivia Pallister

  Age: 16

  DOD: December 2, 1967

  How did you die? I fell from the Golden Gate Bridge.

  I underline fell twice in thick red ink because I’m telling the truth here, and I want the truth to be clear. This really matters to me. Truthful words are important, even the ones that remain unsaid. Today I manage to put my truth on paper. But I’m still not willin
g to talk about it.

  I’ve never been this high up in the central business district before. It’s a good thing I don’t suffer from vertigo. Hell’s kitchens are on level 267. Now, for the first time in over forty years of death, I’ve made it to level 1. I’m trying not to get nervous, but I really, really want this job. Not only would it be awesome to work for Septimus, but getting out of the heat of the kitchens might help calm my hair down.

  Maybe I should have tied it back. When people talk to me, they don’t look at my chest, like they do with my former friend in Hell, Patty Lloyd, but they don’t look at my face, either. They’re mesmerized by my hair.

  Now I’m starting to feel self-conscious. I look down at my clothes: long black shorts and a bright-red shirt. My Converse sneakers are bright white. Too casual? I can’t wear a skirt and heels. I’d look like a baby giraffe trying to walk for the first time in that kind of outfit.

  Patty Lloyd has just swept past me decked out in exactly that kind of outfit, except it should be illegal to call what she’s wearing a skirt because it barely covers her ass. I’ve got longer underwear than what she has on. She ignored me, which is no loss. She had an interview as well, but everyone knows she only applied for the job because she wants to nail the other accounting intern, Mitchell Johnson.

  I have my own, very different, reason for wanting to meet Mitchell, and—after wanting to work for Septimus and calming down my hair—that’s the final reason I’m here.

  I can hear voices coming from behind the smoldering stone door of the accounting office. The deep drawl is definitely Septimus’s, and I’m guessing the exhausted, I’ve-lost-the-will-to-exist voice is coming from Mitchell.

  But there’s another voice: slightly hysterical and high-pitched.

  Is that The Devil? Goose bumps break out on my skin. Shivers . . . now, that’s a sensation I haven’t felt in forty years. I press my ear against the door. I’ve never heard The Devil speak before. Except for pictures, I’ve never even seen him.

  “I want to see it now, Septimus!” screeches The Devil. “He has pushed me to the edge of reason. I want to see the virus tested now. He has sent me an invoice for the damage the cherubs have done to the Pearly Gates. He says I have corrupted them. I’ll show Him corruption. He won’t be whining about graffiti when I have unleashed Operation H on His foul, vile, disgusting angels. We’ll be hearing their screams from here. In fact, I intend to record their agony and will release it as a free download— Oh, hello, Mitchell, I didn’t realize Septimus had company.”

  I’m jerked back from the wall against my will; I think a shadow just yanked my hair. There seem to be more shadows up here than on my floor. They’re a lot bigger, too.

  I don’t like shadows. I don’t like anything that creeps around silently. It reminds me too much of the last few years of my life before I died.

  Shaking with nerves, I sit back down and straighten my shorts. My skin is hot. Maybe I should have worn long pants. By now I have sweat stains on my clothes.

  Unfortunately, there’s no time to even think about going back to the dorm to change, because the door to the accounting chamber opens with an eerie creak, and a head belonging to a guy with spiky blond hair sticks out. He looks left and right, and I immediately notice his pink eyes.

  Mitchell Johnson clearly hasn’t been dead for very long.

  “Is Mr. Septimus ready now?” I ask, hoping beyond hope that The Devil won’t be present during the interview. If I have to stand in a room with the master of Hell, panic is likely to dissolve me into something that hasn’t been categorized by social services yet. Devils black out all the time in Hell, from fear, or despair, or pain. They say it’s like dying again, because you panic with primal fear, just before your existence goes black. If The Devil’s coming to my interview, I’m going back to the kitchens and crazy hair. I don’t need reminding of my death—it’s not something I can ever forget.

  “Miss Pallister?”

  Naturally, Mitchell’s talking to my hair.

  “Yes.”

  A phone starts to ring. Mitchell ignores it, but his voice mail picks up for all to hear.

  “This is Mitchell Johnson, The Devil’s intern. Please leave a message after the screams. . . .”

  The Banshee-like wails are cut off as the devil on the end of the line disconnects the call.

  “Sorry about the wait. Septimus has had to leave,” says Mitchell.

  “Oh.” My stomach plummets to my white sneakers. I wanted The Devil to leave, not Septimus.

  “It’s okay,” replies Mitchell quickly. “Septimus asked me to do the interview. Do you want to come in for a minute while I pack up?”

  I follow Mitchell into the accounting chamber, which looks like a bomb hit it. Cabinets are overflowing with folders that are too fat to be filed properly, and stacks of paper cover every surface. Plus, there’s a strange smell, like Mexican food gone bad. This office definitely needs a woman’s touch.

  And a hosing down.

  With bleach.

  “Septimus gave me some money to take you out,” says Mitchell. His face is inches from a computer monitor, and his right hand is maneuvering a mouse across a pad that has an image of The Devil on it.

  My eyes narrow. Is this a joke? Mitchell Johnson had better not have placed that ad as a ruse to get girls up here. He may score with Patty Lloyd—most devils do—but I’m more likely to smack him with the baseball bat if he tries anything with me.

  Mitchell has obviously sensed my discomfort. He raises his hands and blushes furiously. His cheeks now match the color of his eyes.

  Pink eyes are very cute on a boy.

  “No, no, no!” he exclaims, stepping back. He trips over a wastepaper basket. “It’s not like that, honestly. Septimus gave me some money.” He shows me a thin wad of bills. “I don’t have this much money—in fact, I don’t have any money! Plus, I thought we could meet up with my friends. If they like you, that’s good enough for me. And you aced the written test with the best score by a mile. I’m not pulling a fast one on you or anything like that. Septimus was here just a second ago, but The Devil came in and . . .”

  The words are tumbling from his mouth, and here I was, thinking verbal diarrhea was something only I suffered from. Mitchell looks so worried, I can’t help smiling. Sensing he isn’t about to get pummeled, he slowly inches around the desk.

  “So are we cool?” he asks.

  Mitchell looks down at me; I look up at him. I’m not all that short—I stand around five foot seven in my socks—but Mitchell is definitely over six feet tall.

  I remembered him being tall.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Mitchell looks wary. Is he thinking of lying? I hope not, because I hate liars. It’s one of the reasons Patty Lloyd and I fell out a few years ago. Mitchell’s eyes have narrowed, and he’s biting his bottom lip.

  “No, sorry,” he mumbles eventually. “We’ve met before?”

  “San Francisco—1967,” I prompt. “Does it mean anything to you?”

  Mitchell shakes his head. “You’re getting me mixed up with someone else. I wasn’t born until 1992, and I died in 2009. And I’ve never been to San Fran—” Suddenly he breaks off and his pink eyes widen. His mouth is a perfect circle.

  I make a whistling sound, which is easy because I have a small gap between my front teeth. “And there it is,” I say. “You do remember me.”

  I’ve played this moment over and over in my head, ever since I found out I’d gotten an interview for the second accounting internship and knew I’d have a chance to speak to him. I first saw Mitchell in Hell a few weeks ago, when I was working in the kitchens. He was with Septimus, carrying a pile of dry cleaning and a tray of coffee. That was when I knew he worked with Septimus. They only came in for a strawberry cheesecake—which was added to Mitchell’s pile—and then they were gone. I didn’t get a close look, but I was sure it was him: the embodiment of an apparition I was certain I saw while I was still alive, many years
before, on the night he died.

  The feeling of being remembered by Mitchell is just as great as I hoped it would be. It may be just a brief glimpse of me that he recalls, and he may have needed prompting to get there, but I am in someone’s memory.

  I wasn’t forgotten after all.

  Mitchell is still in a daze. “There was a house. We—I mean Alfarin, Elinor, and I—couldn’t remember why we were there, but that was you,” he gasps. “You’re the one I saw at that house. They were taking a man away in an ambulance. I saw you—and you saw me.”

  “Yes, yes!” I say excitedly. “So that pretty girl with long red hair was Elinor? And the huge guy—that was Alfarin? Are they here in Hell, too? What are they like?”

  “They’re the best.”

  “I knew what you were as soon as I saw you. I mean, I knew you were dead.”

  “How?”

  “You were surrounded by light. I thought you were angels.”

  Mitchell snorts and digs his hands into his pockets. For some reason, he’s shaking. “Yeah, right idea, wrong direction.”

  “So you’ve only been dead for four years?”

  “And counting,” replies Mitchell. “I . . . I got hit by a bus.”

  I’m overwhelmed by a strange urge to hug him, but I don’t. I’m not like Patty Lloyd and her dorm sorority of the Underworld. I would sooner throw myself into an actual vat of meringue than throw myself at a guy, regardless of how he died.

  I have so many questions for Mitchell, now that we’re finally talking. What was he doing that night outside my house, for a start? And how was he there in 1967, dead, when he hadn’t even been born yet?

  Unfortunately, Mitchell beats me to the punch. “How did you die?” he asks. “Septimus said you’ve been dead for over forty years. You must have passed over not long after I saw you.”