The Devil's Dreamcatcher Page 8

  Elinor takes my hand, and the four of us run across the brittle grass to a small thicket of trees. I look back once. There are two grubby dormer windows on the first floor. The curtains are closed. I saw Team DEVIL from one of those windows. I thought they were angels coming to save me.

  We climb over broken branches and discarded car tires. Deep in the trees is a circle. The earth is blackened. There have been several fires here; I lit one of them myself when I was younger. Alfarin and Elinor sit down first and look at me expectantly, but I don’t know what Septimus wants me to do. We don’t even know if Rory is here.

  “I don’t know what to do, Mitchell,” I whisper. “What does Septimus want from me?”

  “We need to think,” says Mitchell. “And I can’t do that without food.”

  “Did ye put food in yer backpacks?”

  “We did, but we left our backpacks back in the office. I wasn’t thinking straight after seeing the office like that, and what with the panic to leave so quickly after Alfarin knocked Septimus down . . .”

  “I concur, my friend,” says Alfarin. “The sun is rising, as is my hunger. Breakfast must be our first destination.”

  Elinor rolls her eyes at me and I smile, but there’s something different about her. Even in the weak light, I can tell that her appearance is changing.

  “Your eyes, Elinor,” I gasp. “You have green eyes now.”

  “And yours are like pools of chocolate, Medusa,” says Alfarin. “Which is doing nothing to vanquish my need for sustenance.”

  I glance at Mitchell. Pink eyes are cute on a boy, but blue eyes are gorgeous. Alfarin has blue eyes, too, but his are pale, almost gray. Mitchell’s are like the Mediterranean Sea.

  Get a grip, Medusa.

  “Your eyes are really pretty, Medusa,” says Mitchell. He smiles at me, and my insides suddenly feel hot and cold. It’s weird and nice at the same time.

  “Well, are ye two going to find food?” prompts Elinor.

  “Your wish is my command, O princess of Valhalla.” Alfarin stands up, slaps Mitchell on the back and sends him flying forward into a tree trunk that splinters as Mitchell lands on it.

  “My apologies, my friend. I forget that you are built like the women of my Norse ancestors. Let us go forage for sustenance amongst the peasants of this time.”

  “Ten seconds back and we’re already stealing,” mutters Mitchell. “My old man would kick my ass if he knew death had turned me into a thief.”

  Mitchell is still grumbling at Alfarin as they walk off into the dim light of early morning, leaving Elinor and me alone. I peek through the trees for another look at my old house. Everything is so quiet, so still outside.

  It’s amazing how looks on the outside can betray what goes on inside.

  “Why don’t ye look in the envelope that Septimus gave ye?” suggests Elinor. “That is, if ye want to.”

  My fingers reach inside my shorts, but my pockets are empty. The only thing I have on me is the Viciseometer. I pull my pockets out, but they contain nothing except for some crumbs.

  “It isn’t here!” I cry.

  “Did ye tuck it into your shirt?” asks Elinor. She looks horrified as I start patting myself down.

  This is a disaster. The brown envelope that Septimus gave me is gone. I run out of the trees, back the way we came. Maybe it fell out as we landed. I jump over the gate, and in the weak light, I search the dirt and threadbare grass with my fingertips for the information on the Dreamcatcher.

  All I find are cigarette butts and broken glass. A jagged edge slices through the tip of my index finger, but I don’t cry out. I can’t let anyone in that house see or hear me.

  Elinor is walking across the grass. In her white dress she looks like a ghost. Her long hair catches the light from the sunrise, and it flames with a vivid red glow.

  I shake my head at her. “It’s not here,” I say.

  I have to think. I leapfrog back over the gate, grab Elinor’s hand and drag her back to the trees.

  I must have dropped the envelope in the office after Mitchell grabbed hold of Alfarin. I was so concerned with using the Viciseometer, I wasn’t really concentrating on anything else. Now we have nothing to go on at all and no money. We’re here to search for something desperately important, but how will we know it if we find it?

  Then I hear crying. It’s a child. But it’s not making the type of wailing that sets your teeth on edge. It’s soft. Sad.

  “Do ye hear that?” asks Elinor, looking around.

  “Yeah. It’s a kid. What’s a kid doing out here this early in the morning?”

  “Hello,” calls Elinor gently. “Can ye hear us?”

  The crying continues. “Can we help you?” I call out, trying to make my voice just loud enough to be heard by this one child and not the whole street. It’s not just my mom in a drunken stupor in that house.

  Then we hear a wolf howl. It’s long and drawn out and sends shivers up my spine. The hairs on my bare arms rise like the dead. I’ve heard that exact howl before. Over the loudspeaker system in Hell.

  “Oh, my!” exclaims Elinor, grabbing hold of my hand. “Oh, no. They’re here already. We need to hide.”

  But I pull my hand away from Elinor.

  “There’s no way I’m leaving a little kid out here if there are Skin-Walkers around,” I reply. I force my voice to get a little louder. “We won’t hurt you. We can help you. We’ll take you back to your mommy.”

  Another howl, only this time it’s duplicated. There’s more than one Skin-Walker on this street, and my fear turns to panic. Where are Mitchell and Alfarin? Are they safe?

  I see the outline of a small child in the distance. It’s a little boy. He has a mop of hair so blond it looks like snow. He’s walking down the middle of the street, and he’s completely alone. His tiny feet are bare, and he’s wearing a long T-shirt that comes down to his ankles.

  Elinor and I instinctively run toward him. We have to get him away from danger—a danger we caused just by being here. He sees us and holds his arms out to be picked up. His chubby face is clean, but as I get closer I can see tearstains on his deathly-pale skin.

  The howling from the Skin-Walkers has picked up. There’s a whole pack here. My stomach is twisting and knotting. A sharp pain stabs at the space where my heart once beat. Where are Mitchell and Alfarin? Can’t they hear this?

  And then he steps out from behind my house.

  I forget about protecting the boy. Absolute hate and total fear combine to stop me in my tracks. I don’t want to look at him, but I am too scared to look away.

  Rory Hunter doesn’t look the way I remember him. When we were both alive, he had long blond hair and sideburns all the way down to his pointed chin. Now he’s bald, and his scalp is crisscrossed with jagged purple scars. His gray-blue eyes are wide—too wide—and he isn’t blinking. A few more seconds pass before I realize he has no eyebrows, either.

  His chest is bare, and like the little boy, he isn’t wearing shoes. Round puncture marks form straight lines from his neck all the way down his arms and torso.

  Another two figures appear out of nowhere, and they move to my side. The relief dilutes the fear, just a little. Mitchell has a long piece of wood in his hands; Alfarin’s axe is raised, and the blade glints with a silver-pink sheen as the sun slowly continues to rise.

  “Stay the Hell away from her, or I swear there’ll be nothing left of you by the time we’ve finished!” yells Mitchell.

  But Rory says nothing. His bulging eyes continue to bore into me as he sidesteps across the street toward the little boy. With a beckoning of his bloodied fingers, three of which are missing completely, Rory orders the tearful child to his side.

  “No!” I scream at Rory. “Stay away from him.”

  “I knew you’d come here,” he says, but there’s something weird about his voice. It isn’t the slurred tone I’d come to fear so much. It’s deeper and gravelly. It’s as if he’s learning to talk again. His teeth aren’t missing, but
they’ve been broken off. They look like fangs. But that wouldn’t explain the sound, would it?

  Then I remember what Elinor said about Unspeakables. They have their tongues torn out. They literally can’t speak anymore in Hell, presumably to stop their screams. Someone, or something, has reattached Rory’s tongue.

  Just the thought of it makes me gag.

  “Stay away from that little boy. I won’t let you hurt him!” I cry.

  “You couldn’t stop me from hurting you,” says Rory. “What makes you think you have the strength now?” Then he laughs and spits blood onto the ground. It sizzles as it makes contact with the pavement.

  The little boy holds out his arms to Rory. I start to run toward him, but Mitchell and Alfarin grab hold of me. They’re shaking their heads with frantic intensity because they have both been struck dumb by what is slinking out of the shadows. Nine more figures: men with gray-and-white wolf skins. I recognize Perfidious at once, because he’s taller than the other eight Skin-Walkers. All have wolf heads on top of their own, but they are no longer howling.

  They are whimpering. All, including Perfidious, have bowed their heads in submission.

  Rory scoops up the little boy. The child places his head on Rory’s bared, scarred shoulder and turns to look at me. His arms reach out once more, and I can still see the tears falling in a thin stream down his face. They’re no longer clear. His tears are like tiny red raindrops.

  “You have something I want, Melissa,” says Rory. “And I have something you want. But now isn’t really the best time to discuss this.” He glances at the cowering Skin-Walkers with a smug smile before turning back to me. “We’ll meet again. But don’t think you can find me by chasing me randomly through time. When you do track me down, it will be where and when I want to be found.”

  Rory and the child disappear, leaving red smoke and small pockets of sizzling liquid on the ground.

  The Skin-Walkers howl in anger, and it’s a terrifying noise with a physical quality that almost knocks me off my feet. All nine throw themselves forward and, on all fours, start running at Team DEVIL. An invisible toxic wave hits us as the stench from the Skin-Walkers returns. It is the smell of hate and blood and pain.

  “Run!” I scream.

  But there’s only one place to go.

  “Inside—now!” I yell as I pull open the screen door of my house. My mother never locks anything. I used to complain to her about it, but I’ve never been so grateful.

  The four of us throw our weight against the inside door, and I pull back the locks. They won’t hold for long. We need more time.

  “I’ll get the back door. You stay and start putting another time into the Viciseometer,” says Mitchell.

  I don’t ask him how he knows where the back door is.

  “Get us out of here, Medusa!” bellows Alfarin.

  I hear the floorboards creaking above us. I push Alfarin and Elinor into the small room on our left: the good room, with a new television, that Mom keeps perfect for the guests we never have.

  I pull the Viciseometer from my pocket. I can still hear the terrible howling outside, and the neighbors starting to shout out of their windows.

  Taking a deep breath, I grasp the red needle and change the date to June 15, 1966. The time can stay the same because right now we’ve run out of it.

  Mitchell runs back into the room.

  “Get us out of here, Medusa.”

  “Hold on to someone,” I say in a steady voice, which is the complete antithesis of the fear that’s rattling my insides. “I’m taking us to Muir Woods.”

  The deep-red face of the Viciseometer starts to swirl and sing with the high-pitched whistle once more. I zone out of everything around me. The Skin-Walkers, Rory, the little crying boy, and even my mom upstairs become blurred ghosts on the periphery. Every ounce of concentration I have is willed into seeing the giant redwoods standing majestically in a carpet of deep-green ferns.

  We are sucked into the darkness once more. There’s a faint yellow glow in the distance as the wind tightens around our bodies. Elinor is the only one who lands on her feet. Mitchell is splayed out like a starfish, while Alfarin is lying facedown in a patch of fine green grass.

  I am panting heavily, but I feel strangely exhilarated. I did it. I kept calm and got us away from the Skin-Walkers.

  Then I remember the little boy and I feel sick. Who is he, and what is Rory planning to do with him? What does Rory want from me? I’ve got nothing he hasn’t already taken.

  Mitchell crawls over to me. “Are you okay, Medusa?” he asks simply. He tucks my hair behind my ears again. I feel it pop right back out, and I get the feeling that Mitchell knew that would happen, but it’s sweet that he continues to try.

  “I lost the envelope Septimus gave me, Mitchell. We’re flying blind.”

  He lies back on a mattress of ferns. It’s darker here than it was in San Francisco, probably because the towering redwood trees are blocking out what little light is coming from the sunrise.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  But we all know it does.

  “Ye were amazing, M,” says Elinor. “Ye kept yer head so well.”

  Mitchell suddenly bursts out laughing and then quickly apologizes as Alfarin growls unintelligibly at him.

  “Sorry,” says Mitchell. “Inappropriate humor . . . what with Elinor saying about you keeping your head . . .”

  But Elinor giggles. “It is okay, Alfarin. I like Mitchell’s sense of humor.”

  “There are some things that are not amusing, my friend,” says Alfarin moodily.

  I have no idea what they’re talking about, but for some reason I suddenly have a cloudy vision of myself standing over a sink, washing blood from Alfarin’s axe. I’m a newcomer to Team DEVIL—I’ve never even touched that weapon—yet the vision seems so real.

  “So that scarred man was your stepfather, Medusa?” asks Alfarin, bringing me back.

  “Yes, but he’s changed. They’ve mutilated him.”

  “We won’t let him hurt you,” says Mitchell. “Not now, not ever.”

  “What of the boy?” asks Elinor. “Did ye know him?”

  I want to say no because I don’t know him, but something is nagging away at me. A memory . . . another image?

  No, a nightmare.

  I do know that boy.

  “I’ve seen him before! He was in my nightmare, the first night we slept in the accounting office. And two of the angels were there, too. There was blood, and one of the angels, Owen, he was yelling to Jeanne that we couldn’t help the boy . . . oh, shit, no!”

  The realization—and enormity—of what we have to do hits me. I stumble to my feet, lurch toward a tree trunk that’s at least six feet wide and vomit into the bracken surrounding it. For the first time in my existence, I’m glad I can no longer breathe, because I know if I were alive, I wouldn’t be able to do it. The hidden evil of Hell has been revealed to me, and I want to scream.

  We aren’t looking for a willow hoop covered in pretty feathers and beads at all. How could we have been so naïve, so stupid, as to think The Devil would stick to traditions and customs of the living on earth?

  That beautiful, sad little boy is what we have to take back to Hell.

  Because that child is The Devil’s Dreamcatcher.

  9. A Grave Situation

  “M, are ye all right?”

  Elinor is the one who asks, but Mitchell’s the first one to reach me. He rubs my back as I continue to throw up into the bracken.

  “Better out than in,” he says in a strained voice. “At least that’s what my mom used to say.”

  “Is Medusa suffering from Osmosis of the Dead?” asks Alfarin. “I thought that only happened to lone time-travelers.”

  “That’s what was written in the book from the library,” replies Elinor. “This must be something else.”

  I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and straighten, still panting.

  “It’s the boy,” I gasp.

&nb
sp; “What’s the boy?” asks Mitchell. “You know him?”

  I shake my head and stumble back to Alfarin and Elinor. Mitchell now has hold of my hand, but I wish he would let go, because that was the one I used to wipe puke away from my mouth.

  “The boy . . . the boy is The Devil’s Dreamcatcher.”

  “Ye cannot be serious,” whispers Elinor.

  “Not even The Devil would be that nefarious,” says Alfarin.

  The sun has risen a little more; its pale-golden rays are starting to seep through the gaps in the towering trees.

  “He’s The Devil, Alfarin,” says Mitchell darkly. “If I told you half of the stuff I overhear . . .”

  Mitchell leans back against a tree trunk and closes his eyes. His entire body seems to absorb the sunlight, and there’s a faint nimbus surrounding him.

  “But that means the child, that lovely little boy, is a weapon!” cries Elinor. “Septimus said so back in the office.” Her thin, pale hand is covering her mouth, and her startling green eyes are now swimming in tears. “Why would anyone do that?”

  “His being the Dreamcatcher would explain the Skin-Walkers’ reaction,” says Alfarin solemnly. “They would have attacked the deviant, I am certain of it, but they whimpered in fright and backed away once he had the boy in his arms. The boy is a weapon that even the Skin-Walkers are afraid of.”

  “Then how the Hell are we going to do this?” asks Mitchell. “We left our backpacks in the office, we have no supplies, no money, no nothing. We can’t even call Septimus and beg for help because our cell phones are in the backpacks. At least the last time we left Hell I was prepared for it, but Septimus has sent us here to bring back a weapon that made the Skin-Walkers crap their fur.”

  “Why don’t we just go back to San Francisco, five minutes earlier, and grab the Dreamcatcher?” I ask. “Before Rory gets the chance to disappear?”

  “We can’t,” replies Elinor. “Our visit there is now a fixed point in time. We can’t change anything that happens in time when we use the Viciseometer.”

  “We’ve got to go back to Hell,” says Mitchell. “We don’t have a choice. We can’t do this.”