by Donna Hosie
“We will . . . consider,” says Perfidious.
“And I will be waiting,” replies Septimus, with a slight bow. “Now forgive me, but I have one last task before I return to my master.”
Septimus turns and winks at the space behind me.
“Now,” he says loudly.
A freezing cold hand grabs mine as a wall of flames erupts around me.
We are traveling through time once more.
14. Septimus’s Warning
“Ow, get off me, Johnny.”
“I ain’t on ye, Angela.”
“No, he’s on me. Jeez, you’re as bony as Medusa, Johnny.”
“Ye leave my brother alone, Mitchell. He just needs fattening up.”
“Unlike the Viking beast crushing my legs.”
“Shut up, Jeanne!” cries everyone.
We’re in darkness. I know by their voices that I have been taken away by Mitchell, Alfarin, Elinor and Team ANGEL. The air is light and crisp on my skin. It smells sweet. That means the Skin-Walkers are no longer here.
A match strikes. The small flame illuminates Owen’s tired face.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Keep your voices down,” he warns. “If my grandmother hears us, there’ll be trouble.”
“You’ve taken us back to your time in England?” I ask.
Owen nods. “1916, the day I signed up to fight. Septimus told me to take everyone somewhere safe, but I couldn’t think of anywhere, so I brought us here. It’s the coal shed at the bottom of my grandmother’s backyard.”
“A coal shed!” exclaims Angela. “I’m wearing white jeans, Owen.”
We are plunged into darkness once more as the match burns out.
“Are ye all right, Medusa?” asks Elinor. “They told me what ye did to save me from the Skin-Walkers. Ye are so brave.”
“You would have done the same,” I reply, although I can’t be sure that she would, that any of them would. I don’t see condemnation in their eyes when they look at me, but it has to be there, doesn’t it? They must blame me for this mess.
I offered myself to the Skin-Walkers because it was the right thing to do. Protecting Elinor was an instinct that I couldn’t fight. I didn’t want to fight it. Being decent and caring toward another devil felt natural. Empowering. I would do it for any of them.
Mitchell wanted to do it for me. A warm sensation fills my chest as I remember him offering himself in my place. He did do the same for me. Or he would have, if the Skin-Walkers had let him.
I can’t see where Mitchell is. I need to know he isn’t pissed at me for giving the Viciseometer to Owen.
Which reminds me.
“Owen, I need the Viciseometer back.”
Another small flame casts a dim tangerine glow over the four devils and four angels squished in the coal shed. Owen holds the match aloft between his thumb and forefinger. He’s looking for something.
“Owen,” I say more urgently. “My Viciseometer. I want it back.”
Mitchell clambers across the coal and plunges his hands into the small hollow where Owen landed. He starts to dig and quickly reveals the two Viciseometers lying inches apart. The miniature flames and stars flickering around each timepiece illuminate the shed better than the temporary light from Owen’s matches.
Mitchell throws me the red-faced Viciseometer. I catch it, and immediately a quickening sensation spreads through my whole body. It feels like a pulse, but just as soon as it arrives, it leaves me.
“The Skin-Walkers didn’t hurt you, did they?” asks Mitchell. He crawls back over the coal, across Angela’s legs, and settles down next to me.
“They threatened to, but then Septimus turned up,” I reply. “I couldn’t believe it. How did he know? They were on the verge of offering me up as a sacrifice.”
Mitchell looks at me sheepishly and pulls his black cell phone from one of the many pockets in his cargo pants.
“I had it the whole time. I thought I left it in my backpack in Hell like you guys. But when the Skin-Walkers took you, I immediately went for it to call the boss—it was just a reflex—and I remembered I changed into these pants before we left. . . .”
“And you realized you’d put your phone in a random pocket,” I said, smiling. I’m too relieved to be pissed. Jeanne, however, is not.
“Mitchell betrayed us,” she hisses, “and Owen allowed it to happen. Now everyone in Heaven will know that we have joined with the devil infidels.”
“No one will know, Jeanne,” says Owen wearily, “because no one consequential in Heaven knows we’re here.”
“That was quick thinking, Owen. Asking for the Viciseometer. It never even occurred to me to become invisible,” I say.
“And of course you couldn’t have shared that little nugget of information with the rest of us,” says Mitchell. I can hear the resentment in his voice. He doesn’t know I was going to tell them.
I guess I find it too easy to keep secrets. I don’t like to lie, but when I withhold information, is it any different?
“I thought we could track you, but it was Mitchell who went to call Septimus. I think he deserves the credit,” replies Owen diplomatically.
“Speaking of Mr. Septimus,” says Elinor, “should we wait for him outside? It will get even more crowded in here when he arrives.”
“Septimus is coming back?” I ask.
“He told us to wait for his signal, and then to grab you and leave with the Viciseometers,” says Mitchell. “He said he would find us. I didn’t care about the details. I just wanted to get you—us—out of there. And I’m telling you all now, I am never going back to Washington again. That place has been nothing but trouble since the day I died.”
Outside, a cat suddenly shrieks. There’s a thud against the shed door, like a boot kicking the wood, and Elinor and Angela both scream. Jeanne jumps to her feet and grabs a small spade that’s propped up against the crumbling brick wall. She’s joined by Alfarin, who clambers to his feet, squashing both Elinor and Johnny in the process. Mitchell tries to get up as well, but he’s jammed into the space between me and the wall. Most of the coal has been dumped here, and it’s making movement difficult—and painful.
Three knocks rap in quick succession on the wooden door.
“It must be Septimus,” says Mitchell. “We decided the last time that Skin-Walkers wouldn’t knock, remember?”
I laugh as if I recall the conversation, but I don’t. Maybe it’s just that Mitchell has an ironic sense of humor that appeals to me.
“Where’s the latch, Owen?” asks Johnny.
“Stand back, young Johnny,” says Alfarin. “We need no latch. My axe will make light work of such poor craftsmanship.”
But before Alfarin makes a move, the door opens from the outside to reveal Septimus standing there, surrounded by a thin red nimbus.
“I have been on the receiving end of your axe once, Prince Alfarin,” he says in his deep drawl. “I would prefer it if we did not repeat the incident.”
“Lord Septimus,” says Alfarin. He goes down on one knee, knocking Jeanne forward and sending her flying into Septimus’s arms.
“I am honored, Mademoiselle d’Arc,” says Septimus formally; he bows. “We did not have the time for pleasantries earlier. I have long been a great admirer.”
“General Septimus,” replies Jeanne, and she takes us all by surprise by reciprocating his bow, although hers is much shorter and quicker. A quick bend of the shoulders and she’s upright once more. “Your legend precedes you.”
“Private Jones, Miss Jackson and, of course, Mr. Powell. I am always pleased to make the acquaintance of the dead, devil or otherwise,” says Septimus, with three nods of the head to the others. “Private Jones, your quick thinking back in Washington is to your credit. As is yours, Mitchell. I had taken a calculated guess that the Skin-Walkers would track you all. Your immediate action saved Miss Pallister and me a lot of time and, dare I say it, pain.”
Septimus beckons to Mitchell and me. “P
lease forgive my haste, everyone, but I must speak to my two interns in private now. Just so you are aware, Private, I heard a stirring from within the house, and I believe your grandmother may be awake. I am acquainted with Minnie Jones in Hell, and I imagine she is as terrifying in life as she is in death. I suggest the rest of you stay in here and keep quiet while the three of us discuss a few things in a more secluded spot. I will, of course, return both Mitchell and Medusa as soon as possible.”
Mitchell and I try to move, but we’re still stuck in the coal. Septimus extends his left hand and pulls us both out with a single heave. We close the door of the shed behind us, which barely muffles the protestations from Jeanne.
“That girl is a pain in the ass,” mutters Mitchell. He blows in my face and then wipes my cheeks and nose. “Coal dust,” he mumbles, before sticking his dirty hands in his pockets.
“Mademoiselle d’Arc was a fearsome warrior in life,” replies Septimus softly. “I believe she struggles with existence after death more than most. Yet she could be an important ally. My advice is never to burn any bridges. You never know when you may need assistance from Up There.”
“Speaking of assistance from Up There,” says Mitchell, “how are you traveling through time, Septimus? Last time you had the Viciseometer from Up There. But the angels have it now.”
The Devil’s number one servant barks a short laugh. “In Hell, Mitchell, who you know is as important as what you know,” he says cryptically.
“Well, that answers it,” says Mitchell sarcastically in my ear. I repress a giggle and elbow him in the ribs to shut him up.
Septimus leads us through a high wooden gate that is built into a brick wall. I look back. All of the houses are tightly compacted together in a row. We turn left and walk down a cobbled alleyway. The bright moon, larger than I have ever seen it, illuminates us all in a silvery shadow.
Septimus opens another gate, which leads into a small paved backyard.
“The occupants are not home,” he whispers. “We will be quite safe here and undisturbed. Now, Miss Pallister, Mitchell, I assume you have many questions, but as usual, time is of the essence. So I must ask you to allow me to direct this conversation in order to make our briefing as short as possible.”
Mitchell and I nod dumbly.
“Good. Now, you can probably imagine my distress when the effect of Prince Alfarin’s axe wore off and I discovered that the envelope I gave you was left in the accounting chamber, along with your backpacks and belongings. I take full responsibility for the fact that you were not prepared for this mission, and I offer my humblest apologies.”
At this, Septimus puts a hand on each of our shoulders.
“I know you’ve had few resources and very little information to go on as a result, but can you tell me whether you’ve had any success in tracking the Dreamcatcher?”
“I think so,” I reply. “The Dreamcatcher . . . is it . . . is it a little boy?”
“I am afraid so,” says Septimus gravely. “I do not expect you to accept or understand why this is so, and you would be quite right not to. But that is not your battle to fight. So can I therefore deduce that you have also had at least one encounter with Mr. Hunter?”
“He was outside my house, my old house. But then he picked up the little boy and disappeared.”
Septimus drums his fingers on his chin for a thoughtful few seconds. “Listen to me very carefully,” he says. “You have done well to join forces with Team ANGEL, and you should know that I was aware that their fourth member was Miss Powell’s brother. I did not tell you in Hell because the mission must remain at the fore of your minds, and I was concerned that Elinor’s heart would persuade you down a different route.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Septimus inhales, but nothing comes back out. His shoulders tense up and his bloodred eyes flicker to Mitchell for a split second.
“Do not underestimate the power of love, Miss Pallister. It can blind us all, for better and worse. Miss Powell passed over because she placed the welfare of her brothers ahead of her own. Because you left information about Team ANGEL behind in my office, you had to find the Dreamcatcher first and realize what he was on your own, before tracking down the angels. Miss Powell might have persuaded you to travel differently, to think or act differently, if she had known about her brother, and I could not allow that to happen. The Dreamcatcher remains your number one priority. It must be returned to Hell.”
“Would you stop calling the Dreamcatcher it, Septimus?” says Mitchell irritably. “The Dreamcatcher is a little boy, and the whole thing is sick.”
“I agree,” I say. “The angels say they want to save him, and that’s why they’re here, but I’m not sure I believe them. I’m with Alfarin in thinking they want him for a weapon, especially with Owen and that psycho Jeanne in charge. But I can’t return that little boy to Hell, Septimus. I just can’t.”
Septimus makes a sound like a cough, but more strangled. The sweat on his bald forehead shimmers like tiny crystals in the moonlight.
“You have no choice, Miss Pallister.”
“Of course I do.”
“Yes, she does, she could just say no,” says Mitchell. “Life and death are about choices—you’ve taught me that, Septimus.”
So is this my first test? To see whether I can blindly follow orders? Well, I’m not that kind of devil. I’m sure to be a huge disappointment if Septimus is looking for a capitulating kiss-ass.
“If I don’t return with the little boy, I’ll lose the intern job, won’t I?”
“The end result will be so much worse than that,” replies Septimus, “and I see now that I will have to be more open with you both. I had hoped your loyalty to me would see this through to the end, but your hearts are not as black as mine. I took advantage of you all, and for that, I am so very sorry.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice catching.
“There has to be a Dreamcatcher, Miss Pallister. Without it, The Devil’s waking hours and dreaming state combine into one continuous toxic loop of terror. His mind is already dangerous, but without a Dreamcatcher to keep those subconscious nightmares away, the effect on the many—both living and dead—will be too horrific to contemplate.”
“But why a little boy? I’ve seen him in my dreams, Septimus. He bleeds tears. It’s torture.”
“You are seeing the Dreamcatcher in your dreams, Miss Pallister, because of your link to the Unspeakable. The three of you are now bound in death because of the Hell you and the Unspeakable shared in life. And the Dreamcatcher must be a child, because the young are not infected or corrupted with the insidious effects of living,” replies Septimus. “The Dreamcatcher is chosen because he is young, not in spite of it.”
“So if we don’t bring back this Dreamcatcher,” I cry, horrified, “then you’ll simply choose another one?”
“That is how it has been for many millennia, and how it must remain,” says Septimus. His voice is becoming more and more detached, like an echo. “A list is drawn up every year, pooled from all under-fives on the earth. One is then claimed for The Devil. They do not . . . they do not last long because of what they absorb and filter.”
“This is sick, absolutely sick . . . and I won’t . . . I just won’t . . .” Tears start running down my face. I feel so helpless. How can this be right?
It isn’t right, I answer myself. Of course it isn’t, because this is The Devil and Hell and myths and monsters. And if Hell can exist on earth, where living children are hurt every day, then of course it’s going to exist in the Afterlife. This realization makes me feel powerless, and feeling powerless makes me angry.
Is anything ever fair?
“I’m gonna puke,” groans Mitchell. “I can’t be a part of this, either, Septimus. You should have told us.”
“Two of the Skin-Walkers will now be following Team DEVIL and Team ANGEL,” says Septimus, ignoring our protests. “I have persuaded the rest to return to Hell. It will be perverse to hear, but t
o have met them all in the cemetery in Washington so soon into your quest was your good fortune. Skin-Walkers feed off fear. For you to have met all nine in Hell would have been even more dangerous. The terror swirling around Hell over the last day would have been a banquet for them, and I fear they would have lost control. We’ve been fortunate that Sir Richard Baumwither has been their only victim so far.”
“Wow, this just gets better and better!” shouts Mitchell. “Why us, Septimus? We’re just interns, for Hell’s sake. Medusa hasn’t even started work yet—”
“You have been drawn into this by powers out of my control, Mitchell,” interrupts Septimus. “I wish I could protect you both from this, but I cannot. And so I must try to influence the outcome of these events without anyone realizing my involvement. Miss Pallister is here because of her tragic connection to Mr. Hunter, and you . . .”
But Septimus trails off. He makes that strangled choking sound again, and suddenly I’m afraid of the words that are trapped in his throat.
“Me? Clearly I’m here because of Medusa and Team DEVIL,” says Mitchell.
“Mitchell,” Septimus says quietly, “if the Dreamcatcher is not returned to Hell, you will be affected more deeply than you realize.”
A few beats of silence follow. I think Mitchell is trying to work out what Septimus is trying to tell him, but I already know. I understand the horrors of death better than most because I had horrors in my life. I know firsthand that twisted people will do twisted things to get what they want. But Mitchell . . . poor, loved Mitchell . . .
