by Donna Hosie
Owen is watching me carefully, and I feel an intensity building in my chest. The powerful feeling that came over me moments ago in the water is coming into sharp focus, and with it comes a strange sensation of relief. It’s time to finally shed myself of Melissa, once and for all. Melissa was scared and unprotected. She was friendless and untrusting. When she died, the Grim Reapers at the HalfWay House inadvertently gave her a clean slate with a new name. Since then I’ve learned to think on my feet, and to stand up for myself against hurtful people, like misogynistic bosses and mean girls with a pack mentality. It hasn’t been easy, and it hasn’t been fun. I carried Melissa with me the whole way, and all the self-doubt that came with her. But I did learn how to keep people from taking advantage of me. I learned to control my emotions. And finally, after going it alone for so long, I have friends, real friends, in Mitchell, Alfarin and Elinor.
It’s time to let Melissa go. And I need to let something else go, too. From now on, I won’t think of my stepfather as anything other than an Unspeakable. Rory Hunter, the man who lived, the monster who destroyed my life and has haunted my nightmares in death, will not be allowed to ruin my new existence as well.
I return Owen’s gaze and give him a small, reassuring smile.
“I’m Medusa now, Owen. The girl who fell from the bridge forty years ago is gone. She’s dead. The Unspeakable doesn’t understand that yet, but he’s about to. We’re going to learn how to immolate. And then we will rescue that child. When we do, the Skin-Walkers can take the Unspeakable back to Hell, where he will rot.”
I try to retain my confidence as Cupidore sidles up next to me. “Septimus knew what he was doing, trusting in you,” he sneers. “Yet I smell duplicity in your future. You are not what you seem, child.”
“Leave her alone,” commands Angela bravely as the Skin-Walker turns to face her.
“Cancer has its own special smell and taste, does it not, Visolentiae?” Cupidore remarks to his partner. His large nostrils sniff the air. “This one is still rank with it.”
“Every soul is unique,” replies Visolentiae. His black eyes are boring into mine; they’re large and round, like the eyes of a dog. The wolf-man doesn’t blink once. Then he turns to Elinor and Jeanne. “The two that scream, why, they smell of burning flesh and wood. And the Viking’s stench is salt and cold rain and blood.”
“You’re only here for the Unspeakable!” I shout. “How we smell is no concern of yours.”
The Skin-Walkers throw back their heads and howl. For a terrible moment, their perverse laughter obliterates the noise of the wind.
“We cannot help but smell you,” growls Cupidore. “But it is true, I am here to track the Unspeakable’s stench. It’s only fitting, as my quarry is the lustful.”
I immediately take several steps back, but the sand is treacherous and I stumble as my heels sink.
“So that legend is also true,” whispers Owen. “One Skin-Walker for each mythical circle of Hell.”
The circles of Hell . . . the circles of Hell. I wrack my brains, trying to think back to my literature classes. Dante’s poem was called The Divine Comedy. I never saw anything divine or comedic in Hell when I was alive, or since, but I know that the poem was split into sections: the circles of Hell, Purgatory and Paradise. The first circle was limbo—everyone remembers that one—and lust was the second one. I can’t remember the order of the next three, but gluttony was definitely in there, because my old teacher was obese in the extreme, and we all thought he was heading straight for it when he died. Heresy was next, then violence, then . . . violence . . . Visolentiae is the other Skin-Walker’s name.
“Violentiae is Latin for ‘violence,’ ” I say aloud.
“Clever girl,” says Visolentiae. “I knew from the fire in your eyes that you had already worked it out.” He takes a step toward me. “So you do not need me to tell you how I deal with the Unspeakables that exist in our inferno.”
I should be sickened, but I’m not. According to Dante, the damned who are trapped in the seventh circle of Hell—the one that represents violence—are continually boiled in blood and fire.
“Dante must have been a time-traveler,” I say. “A dead time-traveler. He used a Viciseometer to come back to the land of the living to write that poem. There’s no way he could have guessed all of that.”
“There are clues to the Afterlife spread throughout the ages and pages of this wretched little world,” replies Cupidore. “Only the living are too blind to see what is in front of them.”
“Will you give me your word that you will only take the Unspeakable?” I ask. “You won’t take anyone else, alive or dead?”
The two Skin-Walkers swap black looks. The edges of their elongated mouths rise just a fraction.
“Perfidious has ordered it so,” replies Visolentiae.
He and Cupidore slink away into the shadows. Their stench is diluted slightly by the smell of seawater.
“What was your Septimus thinking, letting them come with us?” asks Angela. “They’re evil. I don’t feel safe around either of them.”
“We aren’t safe, Angela,” I reply. “And I think that’s Septimus’s point. We still have no idea how the Unspeakable will use the Dreamcatcher if he doesn’t get what he wants. I think we should be thankful that it’s only two Skin-Walkers now, instead of nine.”
Owen leans into me and whispers in my ear.
“You took Latin in school?”
I nod.
“Perfidious.”
“I know,” I whisper back. “Tell your team. I’ll tell mine.”
Perfidia is Latin for ‘treachery,’ and the treacherous occupy the ninth circle of Hell: there they are encased in ice, and a three-headed Satan bites down on Brutus, Cassius and Judas Iscariot for the rest of eternity.
I don’t trust any of the Skin-Walkers, and Perfidious least of all.
We’re not safe from them, and neither are the living.
17. Aotearoa
We need to start training, but Mitchell is still so out of it, I’m not sure his soul is even conscious right now.
At least I know how he self-immolated, though. That’s a start.
We can’t practice here, that much is obvious. The weather is getting worse. The rain is lashing down even harder, and the wind is approaching gale force. Pockets of fog stretch out in the darkness, lingering like gray blankets, waiting to smother anyone who strays too far out of sight.
I call to Elinor, who, along with Jeanne, has wandered off into one misty patch. Watching Mitchell burn up has clearly resurrected old memories of their deaths for both of them, but neither wants to discuss it—at least with me. Elinor comes over and huddles against Alfarin; Jeanne stands alone with her arms folded tightly across her chest.
“I’m changing the plan,” I say, pulling the Viciseometer out of my pocket. “We’re not going to let the Unspeakable dictate where and when we meet. I have something he wants, and if it’s valuable enough to him, we’ll stay ahead of him and let him come to us—to me. We also need to train ourselves to fight, but we need to go somewhere in time where we won’t be disturbed. Does anyone have any ideas about where we could go?”
“Definitely not Washington,” says Alfarin. “Everything always goes wrong in Washington.”
“Not Los Angeles, either,” says Angela. “There’s so much plastic in that city, we’ll melt every actor in Hollywood.”
“I also suggest we do not go to New York,” says Alfarin. “Indeed, perhaps we should get as far away from North America as possible.”
“I cannot do this,” whispers Elinor. “I am a failure. Ye should send me back to Hell, M. I can’t burn, not again.”
“You’re going nowhere other than with us,” I reply firmly. “We’ll need someone to hang back with the Viciseometers. We can’t all become raging fireballs. And there’s no one I would trust more with our timepiece, Elinor, than you.”
She smiles at me gratefully. Why can’t all friendships be this easy and natural? Even
in the midst of this crazy, Hellish mission, I don’t have to work at this. It’s so . . . normal.
“I want to be a raging fireball,” says Johnny. “It looks . . . Angela?”
“Way cool,” she prompts.
“Way cool,” repeats Johnny. “When do we start?”
“To feel your flesh fall from your body, to endure the most agonizing pain you will ever experience, is not fun or cool,” says Jeanne. There is no anger in her voice; she sounds terrified.
“I—I d-didn’t mean—” stammers Johnny.
“I don’t think you’ll be able to self-immolate anyway, Johnny,” I interrupt as Elinor’s brother continues to stutter. “You’re an angel. You won’t have the same heat inside you that we do. Did you know our bodies build up so much fire in Hell that our eyes change color? Mine and Mitchell’s are usually pink, but you should see how red Alfarin and Elinor’s eyes are after hundreds of years there. They’re ferocious. We’re used to fire and heat, we absorb it. You don’t.”
“Are you saying we won’t be able to become weapons in order to fight?” asks Angela.
“We won’t know until we try, but you angels have speed. I’ve seen Jeanne streak across the earth twice now. Once to kick Alfarin’s ass—”
“I slipped!”
“—and once to move Owen out of the line of sight of the paradox Mitchell,” I continue. “I don’t think your weapon is fire. I think it’s the air—wind.”
Owen looks thoughtful. He bites down on his thumbnail.
“Fire and wind,” he says. “They could be pretty formidable weapons to take on the Unspeakable and rescue the Dreamcatcher.”
“Not my brother!” roars Mitchell. “I won’t let them!”
Not again. Just when he starts coming to, Mitchell begins to smoke. This time, instead of dragging him into the surf, I place my hands on either side of his face.
“Look at me, Mitchell!” I shout. “Concentrate on my voice. We will not let anyone hurt your brother.”
“I won’t let them take him,” he groans. I can feel the heat burning through him. His entire body is vibrating under my hands, but I keep hold of him, even though my fingers are starting to blister.
“Listen to me, Mitchell.” Instead of shouting even louder, I decide to go the opposite way. If I’m calm, maybe Mitchell will refocus. “Concentrate on my voice. Trust me. We will not let them take M.J.”
Mitchell continues to shake, and I can still feel the heat rippling through his body, but it’s coming and going in waves.
I soften my voice even further. “Keep the anger, but control it, Mitchell. You can do this.”
But he can’t, not any longer. Mitchell screams, and I am blown ten feet through the night air as he becomes a fireball once more. Yet this time, it is different, because instead of relying on the others to drag him back into the water to extinguish, Mitchell is able to stagger in by himself. The sea sizzles and steams as he falls beneath a breaking wave.
“That was slightly better,” offers Owen. “He definitely controlled it for a moment.”
“We’ll need to practice near water,” I say as Mitchell emerges from the surf, lumbering like a smoking Godzilla.
“Can I make a suggestion?” asks Angela. “What about my home country of New Zealand? It’s filled with lakes and open spaces. We might scare some sheep, but it isn’t populated.”
“I thought you were from Australia,” I reply, but my mind is suddenly elsewhere, filled with another memory. Something about sheep. And Mitchell. Why are sheep making me think of Mitchell? He doesn’t smell like sheep. He smells kind of nice, like fries and chocolate.
Angela rolls her pretty turquoise eyes. “Everyone north of the equator says that, but my accent is nicer. And New Zealand is far more beautiful than Australia. We have volcanoes, and ice-blue lakes with glaciers, and you should see the mountain ranges!”
“Can you think of somewhere specific that we could train?” I ask. “It has to be near water, and nowhere near people. Coming to Stinson Beach was a fortunate coincidence. I can’t handle the thought of what would have happened to Mitchell if we had traveled from Owen’s time to somewhere where we couldn’t put out the fire.”
“Sure,” replies Angela. “We could head to the South Island and the Mackenzie District. I know it well. The flats of Twizel would be perfect for Jeanne to teach us how to control our speed, and the glacier lakes near Aoraki will put out any flames. If you travel to a time and date in the month of January, it will be summer and not too cold. We could camp out.”
“But January is a winter month,” says Owen.
“Not in the Southern Hemisphere, dummy,” replies Angela. “Oh, please say we can go, Medusa! I want to make a contribution. So far, all I’ve done is scream a lot and get my white jeans dirty. I want to help. Please.”
Tiny particles of sand are spinning around the spitting flames of the Viciseometer. I can feel them flagellating my skin.
“I’ll need a date and time, Angela.”
“You’re the best!” cries Angela, skipping forward. “Right, why don’t we travel to the first of January 2015? We should go early in the morning, because the entire country will be hungover from New Year’s Eve. No one will be about, not even the tourists.”
It sounds like a plan. I don’t ask Cupidore or Visolentiae if they’re coming. I know they’re still here, watching us, watching me, from the shadows. Septimus might want them to accompany us, but I’m not going to travel in the flames with them, and they don’t seem to have any problem time-traveling on their own, anyway.
With the red needle held tightly between my right thumb and forefinger, I manipulate the hands of the milky-white face to lock in the time of seven o’clock. I flip it over and move the three black hands to the day and month and then the four slithering snakes that represent the four digits of 2015. An electrical current ripples up my back. I sense the static in my hair. The year 2015 is far into any future I may have had.
“I’ll hold the Viciseometer, Angela,” I say. “But you need to be touching it. You need to visualize the place we’re going to, and you need to see it in the morning, not evening.”
Angela’s slim, pale fingers hover over the red, flaming face of Hell’s timepiece. She looks nervously at Owen, and he smiles at her.
“Wait,” calls Jeanne. “Why do we continue to use the infidel’s Viciseometer and not our own? Why should we have to travel with them? Why can it not be the other way? I do not want to see flames anymore. I want to see blue sky and sense the sun on my face, not the destructive force of fire.”
I pull my hand away from Angela, but as I do, a sudden charge from the Viciseometer surges through my hand. It travels up my arm and stabs painfully into my chest.
Does it know I’m planning to travel by another Viciseometer? Can this thing sense emotion and betrayal? A sudden thought flickers in my head. Is the Viciseometer a conscious object? I hadn’t even considered that before, but the more I think about it, the more it seems possible. This little watch can change anyone’s destiny, whether they’re living or dead.
“What’s wrong, Medusa?” asks Alfarin. His eyebrows are furrowed into a unibrow.
“I just . . . it just felt . . .”
I swap looks with Elinor. I’ll test out my theory on her, Mitchell and Alfarin later, when we have time away from the angels. We aren’t a team of eight; we are two teams of four, and I must never forget that.
“So we travel with our Viciseometer this time?” asks Owen, and once more I see a flash of red in his eyes.
“Are you certain, Medusa?” asks Alfarin. “We will follow your lead.”
“Why not?” I reply. I must admit, I’m eager to see what traveling by the blue Viciseometer is like.
I watch Owen input the same coordinates. The red Viciseometer shocks me again as I tuck it back into my pocket, and pinpricks stab at my scalp. Mitchell is propped up between me and Alfarin, and although he’s still wobbly, he can at least support his own weight. Elinor holds ha
nds with Alfarin and her brother while Jeanne moves in on my left. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but nothing comes out. There’s definitely a hint of a reconciliatory smile, though. She’s warming to me, I think. Slowly. Very slowly. Maybe in four hundred years or so, Jeanne will call me by my name and not infidel.
“Okay, Angela,” says Owen, holding the blue Viciseometer on the flat of his palm. It floats up, just a fraction, until it’s hovering above his pale skin. Brilliant white stars twinkle around the silver rim.
“I’m taking us to Lake Pukaki,” says Angela. She screws up her heart-shaped face in concentration as her slim fingers touch the Viciseometer.
We all huddle even tighter. Jeanne drops all pretense of being badass and takes my hand. I give it a quick squeeze to show I understand, but I don’t look at her. I know what it feels like to want to trust people, and the intent right now on her part is good enough for me.
The blue face of the Viciseometer starts to swirl. The blue is becoming lighter and lighter. Instinctively, we all lean in.
Then, just as Angela calls out “Now,” the stench of rotten meat washes over us, and the sound of the breaking waves is replaced by howls and screams.
Cupidore and Visolentiae are traveling through time with us.
The panic alarm in Hell was bad enough. Hearing the sound of the scream I made as I plummeted toward the Golden Gate Strait, a channel of water that might as well have been concrete considering the force I hit it with, was horrific. But the terror bleeding into our ears now is far worse. With the Skin-Walkers among us, I don’t just hear the screams of the tortured in Hell, I can feel them. Their dread, their fear. The spirits flying through time with us now are not just begging for death, they are begging for nothing. A cessation of their existence. Their screams are burrowing into my bones, biting and scratching. Their pain is mine, and it’s excruciating.
The terrible sounds continue, but we’ve stopped flying. I’m lying on my back, staring up into a cloudless blue sky. I want to move, I need to run, but my limbs are like lead. A hand reaches for mine. It’s Mitchell. His hand is so hot I fear it will melt away before I can grab it back.
