by Donna Hosie
I think back to the information Septimus showed us before we left Hell. Jeanne d’Arc was burned alive by the English in Rouen in 1431. That’s a long time to exist Up There with so much anger. I’m guessing she’s been here before, back in the land of the living. I’d like to ask her if she’s immolated before, but there’s no point; Jeanne wouldn’t answer. When I was alive, there were always stories about people having visions of saints. If Jeanne really did come back, something tells me this mission is already entirely different from her previous visits. I think her rage may turn out to be the most powerful weapon we have. Plus, she’s a leader, a strategic thinker. She led entire armies when she was alive.
And don’t Mitchell, Alfarin and Owen know it.
Now she has them standing in a straight line, and she’s pacing up and down in front of them like an army general issuing orders. Owen appears to be quite passive, but the looks on Mitchell’s and Alfarin’s faces are priceless. Mitchell’s mouth is open in shock, practically catching flies. Alfarin’s bushy eyebrows have imploded into the creases in his forehead. They keep swapping glances, but both of them are too scared of Jeanne to do anything other than listen.
Mitchell catches my eye, and I have to stuff my knuckles into my mouth to keep from giggling. I don’t want to piss her off, either. “Keep your friends close and angels with a vicious temper even closer” is another motto I’m going to exist by.
I leave Jeanne to her training and walk up from the shoreline to a long bank of pine trees. We’re well hidden here, and the entire landscape is unspoiled by the living. I just hope that by the end of this, it will be unspoiled by the dead, too. Elinor said that we’re toxic and that we leave traces. I remember watching those flower petals crumple to gray ash in Mitchell’s fingers at the cemetery. I would hate to ruin such a beautiful place as this.
It’s a shame I had to be dead to see it, but even though we traveled a lot when I was young, I never really saw anything other than the inside of one neglected house after another. Muir Woods and Stinson Beach were the nearest I got to nature, but even those memories are corrupted by evil.
I start thinking it’d be a lot of fun to go play in those white-capped mountains and make snow angels. Yeah, right. Nice thought, Medusa. You’d probably melt them and cause an avalanche or something.
Suddenly, I’m blown off my feet. My back hits the trunk of a tree, and a shower of pine needles falls on my head. I swear aloud. Not because my back is hurting—which it is—but because I’m never going to get all of those needles out of my hair. When she gets back with the supplies, Elinor will have to deneedle me like a monkey delousing a buddy.
Then I see that Alfarin has immolated again, and pine needles in my hair don’t seem so important anymore.
A caustic, ammonia-like smell hits my senses. The Skin-Walker called Visolentiae steps out from behind another tree, just a few yards away.
“The Viking has unveiled much hatred in his dead soul,” growls Visolentiae appreciatively. “That much fire, that much power . . .”
“You stay away from Alfarin,” I hiss. “You stay the Hell away from all of us. You should be hunting the Unspeakable.”
“He is already ours no matter where he runs, and there is little left of him to consume,” replies Visolentiae. His black tongue slides over his sharp teeth. “And as you’ve already deduced, we do not need to hunt him, for we are with you, and eventually, he will seek you out.” He regards me with a sinister smile. “You must know why, child. You must know by now what he wants. He wants you. Your soul. And we will be waiting. Yes, little one, we can smell it when a flesh soul is aroused by nefarious thoughts and deeds. A new chase is what we desire—it is what we always desire. This world with its hate and its violence—”
“Stop it!” I cry. “Stay away from me. You’re no better than the souls you take away.”
Visolentiae laughs, and the chill in his voice turns my skin to ice.
“Why, isn’t that what the living’s so-called justice serves to ensure? They execute the evil in the name of the law, never realizing that by deliberately taking a life, they become ours in death. The righteous are the most enjoyable, little one. Once they realize what their actions in life have condemned them to in death . . .” Visolentiae licks his teeth and his cracked, weeping lips again, and the stench of rotting souls makes me gag.
When I look up, the Skin-Walker is gone. He was simply here to bait me, to snack on my fear.
“I’m coming . . . Medusa,” groans a voice from the shore. “Medusa . . . I’m . . . coming.”
Crawling through the long, prickly grass is Mitchell. Gray smoke is billowing from his body, but at least he’s conscious.
“Don’t move, Mitchell,” I call, and I run down toward him. He’s immolated again, but he’s recovered far more quickly than the other times he’s done it, and his skin is reddened like a sunburn, not flaking in blackened layers.
It seems perverse to call such a sight an improvement, but it is. Jeanne is good. Really good.
“You’re doing so well, Mitchell,” I say, touching him gently on his burned face. “Do you need to take a break?”
“Only the weak rest,” calls Jeanne. “Get back here, Mitchell. You are a soldier, not a coward.”
“I swear that angel was never human in the first place,” groans Mitchell as he lifts himself up onto his knees. “What did that Skin-Walker say to you, Medusa? Did he touch you? I swear I will immolate on his wolf-head—”
“He’s gone,” I interrupt. “And I’m fine, honestly.”
“Why aren’t he and that other freak tracking down your stepfather?”
“Because there’s no fun in that for them. Visolentiae just told me there’s little left in him for them to enjoy. They’re going to wait for him to come to me, but then, I knew that.”
“Jeez, they’re sick. . . . What do you think their story is? Who created them?”
“The Highers, I imagine. Or maybe The Devil.” I give him a shaky laugh. “It’s comforting to know there’s a class system in Hell, as well as on earth. The good, the bad, the ugly and the downright evil.”
“Medusa, was that a joke?”
“Poor taste. Sorry.”
“It wasn’t bad, actually,” says Mitchell, finally pulling himself upright. Already the flaming red burns on his body have healed to a pinkish tinge.
“Mitchell, get over here now!” shouts Jeanne. “You are stalling.”
Mitchell is biting down on his lip; his eyes are closed.
“I would say take deep breaths and keep calm,” I whisper. “But seeing as you don’t need to breathe, that probably won’t help.”
“Joke number two,” replies Mitchell. “I’m impressed.”
Our gentle teasing is brought to a sudden end as Owen erupts into a bright white ball and shoots into the sky.
“What was his trigger?” calls Mitchell.
“A battle,” replies Alfarin. “I do not understand how something so glorious could be the cause of such rage. I believe Private Jones must have carried an affliction of the head with him onto the other side.”
“Owen does not see war as a necessary means to an end, Alfarin,” says Jeanne. “He sees it as wanton destruction of life.”
Mitchell nudges me. “I think those two are bonding,” he whispers.
I nudge him back, but I don’t know my own strength, or the sharpness of my own elbows, because Mitchell yelps in pain.
“I have known women in childbirth to make less noise!” cries Jeanne. “Now get in line, Mitchell.”
Reluctantly, Mitchell trudges back to the shoreline for more immolation training. I don’t know how Jeanne is making them control the fire and flight, but whatever her tactics are, they’re working.
Do the others think I’m a coward for not trying? If so, they aren’t wrong. I am a coward. But if I unleash the fire in me, if I let the rage consume me, I’m afraid there will be nothing left. Embracing Medusa and letting Melissa go doesn’t mean my pain and anger and m
emories will automatically disappear. My nightmares may stay with me forever. And right now, I don’t want to risk being overcome by fury before the Unmentionable finds me.
Where is he now? Is he already here? Watching, waiting? We would hear crying, surely? That poor little boy. My soul aches for him. In Hell we still feel pain and emotion, and I know now that it’s real. Because if this experience has taught me anything, it’s that we do more than just exist in the Afterlife.
I’d like to clear my head, but I know I can’t risk going off alone again in case the Unspeakable is here and I just haven’t been able to detect him. Also, I’m not wild about the possibility of running into Visolentiae again.
The thought of that vile Skin-Walker reminds me of our conversation. Visolentiae said the Unspeakable wanted my soul. And the message the Unspeakable left in blood in The Devil’s bedroom said he wanted his life back in exchange for the Dreamcatcher. But I’m not sure how he could get at my soul without the powers of the Dreamcatcher. It’s all so confusing, and I desperately need to talk to someone who understands. Someone who might have answers.
I realize with a start that there is someone here who could possibly help me; I’m just not sure I want to hear what he has to say. But sometimes we have no choice. I keep pushing him away, telling him he’s wrong. . . . But what if he isn’t?
“Owen,” I call. “Owen, could you come here for a minute?”
Jeanne turns around and scowls at me for interrupting her training session. I ignore her. At the very least, Owen might know more about the Dreamcatcher than we do—which wouldn’t be too hard, seeing as we know practically nothing.
“What is it, Medusa?” replies Owen. He straightens his brown army uniform and stands at attention in front of me.
“Tell me everything you know about the Dreamcatcher,” I say. “Don’t leave anything out. We left Hell in a hurry and didn’t have time to read up, and Septimus didn’t end up filling us in all that well. But I know you were briefed. What powers does that little boy have?”
“My information may not be veritable fact, Medusa,” replies Owen. “Rumor and misinformation are as prevalent in Heaven as they are Down There. What I tell you could hinder as much as help.”
“Let me rephrase the question, then. What have you been told, or read, or heard whispered in the clouds about The Devil’s Dreamcatcher, Owen? I would rather be prepared for a rumor than prepared for nothing at all.”
Owen flattens down a patch of long grass with his boot and sits. He pats the ground next to him, and I make myself comfortable. I’m so tired I could lie down and sleep for a month.
“It is my understanding that the Dreamcatcher is used as a trap,” says Owen carefully. “Whenever The Devil has dreams—or nightmares, depending on how one views these things—the Dreamcatcher will absorb the toxicity of the thoughts into its own consciousness.”
“And what happens to those thoughts once they’re in the Dreamcatcher?”
“The Devil isn’t human, Medusa. He allegedly has powers that the rest of us normal people couldn’t possibly comprehend. He can move about through time and space without the need of a device, and he could unleash Hell on earth, or in Heaven, if he wanted to. This is just my own opinion, but from what you have told me, and from what I’ve overheard, I think the Dreamcatcher has the same powers as The Devil, because they are one and the same. I believe your stepfather, the Unspeakable, is going to use the Dreamcatcher to give himself back some kind of mortal form.”
“How?”
Owen opens his mouth and then quickly shuts it. He won’t look me in the eye. I know that face too well. I perfected it.
“Owen, how?”
“The Unspeakable is after you, Medusa.”
“I know, but I’m dead. He can’t get his life back through me.”
“His soul and existence are mutilated. What if the Dreamcatcher had the power to restore life by using someone else’s soul? I think the Unspeakable just has to learn how to tap into those powers. . . .”
“You think he wants my . . . my body for something?”
“I think he wants your soul in his body. It’ll be mixed with what’s left of his own. It will make him stronger,” says Owen. “Look, it’s just a theory.”
“He plans to destroy me.”
“There’s something special about you, Medusa,” whispers Owen. “And your stepfather knows it. That knowledge indicates to me that he can’t be acting alone. He would have needed help from someone to escape from the Skin-Walkers, and that same someone could have told him about you.”
“But I’m not special.”
“You are. You have no idea how special you are. You changed time. Do you know how few people have done that? You died twice.”
Up until now, Owen’s insight has been frightening and intriguing. But bringing up my death is exactly what I wanted to avoid. “Stop it, Owen. Just stop it!” I cry. “No one can die twice. Isn’t it bad enough we die once?”
A dark shadow looms over us. Mitchell and Alfarin are glaring at Owen. Mitchell’s knuckles are pure white as he clenches them tightly. The morning sun glints off the blade of Alfarin’s axe and reflects into his pale-blue eyes, making them look as if they’re ringed with silver.
“What do you think you’re doing, Owen?” growls Mitchell. “I hope you’re not trying to trigger Medusa, because if you are—”
But Owen jumps to his feet and pushes past Mitchell. Jeanne has immolated and is speeding into the sky.
And I can see from here what her trigger is this time.
Walking along the shoreline are four people: Elinor, Angela, Johnny and a woman with long blond hair.
“What has Angela done?” groans Owen, half running, half stumbling toward her.
Mitchell and Alfarin both turn around. Alfarin’s axe handle hits my hip bone, but I am too dumbstruck to cry out.
“Who’s that woman?” says Mitchell. “Alfarin, get rid of your axe.”
“In the name of the goddess Freya, what is going on?” booms Alfarin. “Angela has deceived us.”
Even though they’re still some distance away, it’s clear that Elinor, Angela and Johnny are all happy to be in the woman’s presence. Elinor and her brother are beaming, and Angela has her arm wrapped around the woman’s slim waist.
I jog toward them. Angela has a smile that looks as if warm chocolate is sliding down her throat.
“Medusa, Owen, I’ve got someone I want you all to meet,” she calls.
The three boys aren’t being choosy about the curses they’re now uttering, but I keep my mouth shut, because the closer I get, the more obvious it becomes just who the woman is. She has the same turquoise eyes, the same smile. Even her dimples are in the same place.
Angela has brought us her mother.
20. Don’t Follow the Crowd
“You must be Medusa,” says the woman with a wide smile. Her arm is outstretched and her thin hand, covered in glittering rings of every gemstone, takes mine. He skin is beyond cold, colder than the angels’. I pull my hand away for fear that I’ll stick to it if I hold it for much longer.
“Angela and Elinor have told me all about you,” adds the woman in a voice that’s an exact copy of Angela’s. She peers around my shoulder. “The young men don’t seem to be as welcoming as you are, but give them time.”
“But I thought . . . Angela said . . . aren’t you dead?” I splutter.
Internal brain slap. What did you say that for? Could you be any ruder?
But Angela’s mom laughs. It sounds strange, like an out-of-tune musical instrument.
“Of course I’m dead, dear Medusa. Did you think two angels and a devil would just turn up at my house if I weren’t?”
Mitchell’s swearing has now gone up to a whole different level. I think he’s actually making new words up. Either that or he’s fluent in Swedish.
“You went to see your dead mother?” I say faintly to Angela. “You were supposed to be getting food and sleeping bags.”
; “But we did get food, M,” replies Elinor. She slips a bag off her shoulder and walks to Mitchell and Alfarin, who dive straight into it. The smell of bacon wafts over to me.
Mitchell and Alfarin stop swearing and start stuffing their faces with crusty round rolls of white bread, stacked high with sausages and bacon.
But Owen doesn’t eat, which means he can carry on where Mitchell and Alfarin left off.
“What have you done, Angela?” he cries. “We were expressly told not to have anything to do with anyone back in the land of the living.”
“But my mother isn’t living, Owen,” replies Angela, placing her hands on her hips, “and so I haven’t broken any rules and laws by seeing her, have I? And before you start shouting and pouting, you should know that I’ve told her all about our mission, and she and Granny are very proud of us.”
I’m going to throw up. I want to put my head between my knees, but I’m distracted by Alfarin, who’s performing the Heimlich on Mitchell because he’s choking—an uncomfortable situation even when you don’t have to breathe.
“There’s . . . a . . . granny?” gasps Mitchell as Alfarin continues to shake him up and down.
“Ye are taking this as well as I expected,” mutters Johnny sarcastically. “I knew Jeanne would do her head in, but I thought ye all would see what Angela and our Elinor are trying to do.”
“Ye aren’t angry with us, are ye, M?” asks Elinor, taking my hand. “We were just trying to help.”
“But we don’t need help, Elinor. And certainly not from . . . not from . . .”
“Nonsense, of course you do,” says Angela’s mother. “You poor devils can’t even eat without choking.”
She pushes Alfarin away from Mitchell and wraps her arms around Mitchell’s chest, and with her hands clasped in a tight ball, she expels half a sausage from his open mouth.
“Chew your food properly, young man,” she says, slapping him on the back for good measure. “You may be dead, but that’s no excuse for laziness and poor manners.”
