by Donna Hosie
“And?” asks Elinor. “What is it?”
“It is ridiculous,” mutters Jeanne.
“No, it isn’t,” replies Angela defensively. “And Team DEVIL did exactly the same thing.”
“Which merely proves my point,” says Jeanne, rolling her eyes.
“ANGEL stands for Armored Ninjas Going to Emancipate Life,” says Angela triumphantly. “I thought of it.”
“I like it,” I reply, not because I do, but because Mitchell and Alfarin have burst out laughing and now Angela looks a bit hurt.
“My point is proven again,” mutters Jeanne, but everyone ignores her.
“Armored Ninjas,” says Mitchell, still laughing. “That’s awesome.”
“I like the word emancipate,” adds Elinor.
“Well, He approved,” says Owen diplomatically. “And for angels, Up There’s approval is all that matters.”
“Can ye see Up There from down here, Owen?” asks Elinor. “Is it on one of the stars or clouds?”
“Heaven is an immortal domain, Elinor,” replies the soldier. “We aren’t in the skies, the same as devils are not trapped below the earth.”
Mitchell sits upright. “What do you mean? Hell’s in the center of the earth, isn’t it?”
Owen shakes his head. “We all exist in another realm. When we die, our forms move on, so while you might think you have been sent Down There, the truth is you exist in a different place altogether. One I believe the Highers created, just for the dead.”
“That cannot be true,” says Alfarin. “I have read many books in Hell’s library, more than most devils combined, as has Elinor. We have never heard of such a thing.”
“It isn’t broadcast, Alfarin,” says Owen wearily. “There are so many secrets. Some are kept quiet for the greater good, and some . . .” Owen trails off.
“But Hell feels the tectonic plates of the earth shift,” I reply. “We have to be in the center of the world.”
“Such arrogance,” mutters Jeanne. “You are devils, and yet you still believe yourselves to be at the heart of it all.”
“Shut up, Jeanne,” says Angela. “That’s not what Medusa meant at all, and you know it.” She’s clearly still pissed at Jeanne for mocking her team name, but regardless, I’m really starting to like Angela. She reminds me of a modern-day Elinor. Her heart may not beat, but it’s definitely in the right place.
And she’s stopped being so touchy-feely with Mitchell.
Jeanne rises into the air and hovers several feet off the ground. The nimbus surrounding her is even more pronounced in the darkness, and she glimmers with a golden sheen.
“You know nothing of life and nothing of death,” she snarls. “You are all so wrapped up in your sorrow and self-pity. There are millions of the dead who would glory in the opportunities that have been afforded to you by General Septimus, and yet you are totally ignorant about your existence and the domain where you dwell. Knowledge is power, and you fail to use it.”
“Knowledge is power?” I reply. “Are you kidding me? You came out on this mission with Owen knowing absolutely nothing. You didn’t know about the Skin-Walkers, for a start. Owen is the only one of you angels who knows a damn thing.”
“Hey, don’t get pissy with us,” says Johnny loudly. “And I’m getting a bit fed up with everyone making me out to be stupid.”
The tranquillity of the stars is broken as the two teams descend into trading insults. Even Elinor starts in on Jeanne for causing trouble; Jeanne in turn yells at Alfarin for one thousand years of ignorance.
“Why did you say that, Medusa?” asks Owen.
“Don’t get high and mighty with me, Owen. I’m sick of you and Jeanne always trying to pick a fight, but at least she’s obvious about it. This is your fault. You and your superior I’ve-read-your-file- Medusa-and-you’ve-died-twice garbage. You’ve been insinuating that you know secrets about us since we joined forces.”
“What did you say?” asks Mitchell suddenly.
“All I wanted was to enjoy one final moment of peace, before everything goes to shit,” I continue. “But no, the angels have to start fighting with us—again. We went looking for you, hoping you could help us save a little boy, but it was just too much to ask, wasn’t it?”
“What did you mean about Owen reading your file and you dying twice?” Mitchell demands.
“It’s nothing, Mitchell,” I say, shooting Owen a look. “Just some nonsense that Owen keeps going on about. In fact, I take it back, because Owen doesn’t know a damn thing, either. I’m starting to suspect that no one here has any knowledge and not one of us has any power. Every one of us is a pawn, and we have been since the day we died. Knowledge isn’t power, not when you’re dead.”
If I was expecting some sort of divine intervention or confirmation of my tirade, it doesn’t come. The mad rantings of a mad girl with mad hair evaporate in the air. They float up into the star-filled sky and disappear into the cosmos with every other word that has been whispered, spoken or shouted since the Highers created the living, because I’m irrelevant, and I have been since the day I was born.
“Owen, what did you mean when you said Medusa has died twice?” asks Mitchell for a second time.
Once again I see a flash of red around Owen’s pupils, and curiosity supplants my rage. Why do his eyes keep doing that? It doesn’t happen to Angela or Johnny, or even Jeanne, who is more devil than Team DEVIL combined. Does it happen when he’s angry, or scared?
Or does it mean he’s manipulating us? I’m suddenly struck by the thought that maybe Private Owen Jones isn’t an angel at all.
“Have you ever read Medusa’s personnel file, Mitchell?” asks Owen, stepping away from me.
“Most of it, but some of it was marked personal. And I didn’t read that, because it’s private.”
“It’s personnel, not personal. And seeing as you’ve just interviewed her for a role in the accounting office, I would have thought that the first thing you would have done is check the details on her records. If you had, you would have seen that Medusa, or Melissa Olivia Pallister, has had two dates of death recorded.”
“How do you know I’ve just interviewed Medusa?”
“Septimus has his spies in Heaven, and Heaven has its spies Down There, Mitchell.”
“Ignore him, Mitchell,” I say. “This is all just another war game to you, isn’t it, Owen?”
“No war is a game. But the winner is the one with the best strategy, all the same,” says Owen. “I’m not trying to scare you, or disarm you. I’ve said all along that you’re special, Medusa.”
He reaches out to touch me, but Mitchell gets there first. Owen reels back as Mitchell lands a right hook on his jaw. Jeanne drops down to intercept, but with a speed that betrays his huge form, Alfarin grapples the French warrior from behind, pinning her arms to her sides as she thrashes to release herself. She tries to fly away, but Alfarin sinks his heels into the ground and holds on.
“I will not hurt you, French wench,” he booms, “but you will not attack my friend.”
“Stop it!” scream Elinor and Angela as Owen picks himself off the floor and launches himself at Mitchell. Johnny looks completely torn as to which side he should be fighting on. Instead, he tries to become a peacemaker by forcing himself between Mitchell and Owen, but Mitchell is taller and Owen is broader, and the three of them are soon rolling around on the ground. Fists are flying, and I don’t think any one of them has any idea who they’re connecting with.
“Stop messing . . . with Medusa’s . . . head!” yells Mitchell. He extricates himself from the two angels and staggers to his feet. The second Owen stands up, Mitchell punches him again.
“You . . . know . . . I’m . . . speaking . . . the . . . truth,” groans Owen. “You all know.”
“Why am I feeling pain?” calls Johnny, rubbing his ribs. “I’m an angel, we aren’t supposed to feel pain.”
“It’ll be the Skin-Walkers,” sobs Angela. “They’ve done something to us.”
“I can’t remember.”
“Have ye died twice?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why you were outside my house that night. I don’t know, okay? I just don’t know.”
I start running. I was always good at long distances at school, and somehow I feel as conditioned in death as I did in life.
It feels strange not breathing as I power along the shoreline, but I want to defy this entire existence that was forced on me. I won’t breathe, I won’t breathe, I repeat in my head as I reach a narrow pathway, cleaved through the undergrowth that leads away from the lake. There are a million stars above, but without the moon and the small fire we lit by the shore, there is no light to guide me. I’m running blind, away from whatever this truth is that the others seem to know about me, and the lies I don’t want to say.
But then hot hands grab me and I tumble into the prickly bushes. Mitchell scoops me up and pulls me around the thick trunk of a tree. He puts his hand over my mouth as two figures crash past us, but Owen and Johnny can’t see us in the darkness.
A solitary shooting star flies high above.
“It’s Jeanne,” whispers Mitchell. His mouth is so close to my earlobe I can feel the soft fuzz on his face against my skin. “Alfarin is staying with Elinor and Angela, but Elinor is freaking out, Medusa. You need to come back.”
“I’m not right, Mitchell,” I whisper back. My hands have grabbed hold of his T-shirt and he is pressing against me. “There’s something wrong with me—there always has been.”
“San Francisco doesn’t matter, not anymore,” he whispers. “The only things that matter are the Unspeakable and the Dreamcatcher.”
“But if I’ve died twice, how do I know what’s real anymore? I could be an existing paradox.”
“You’re here, with me and Alfarin and Elinor. That’s what’s real now.”
Mitchell’s mouth moves a fraction so his lips are brushing my cheek.
“What’s wrong with me, Mitchell? Why don’t I exist properly?”
His lips graze my jaw. Mitchell’s doing this deliberately; I can feel the slight bend in his back as he lowers toward my mouth. I let go of his T-shirt, only to slide my hands underneath it. His skin is blistering hot. I spread my fingers, trying to touch as much of him as possible. My mouth finds his, and it’s so gentle on mine, but his fingers are desperate, clawing into my hair as we fall back even harder against the tree. One of his legs moves into the space between mine and he leans into me fully, from head to toe. With my arms now around his neck, we continue to kiss as if our existences depend on it. I can taste strawberries on his mouth. My stomach is flipping and fighting, and for one glorious instant, my night under the stars is the most perfect moment ever. The past and the future are forgotten as Mitchell and I are cocooned against the universe.
Then the cries of a child break through my shield.
22. The Red Mist Descends
A sensation of intense cold washes over me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention, as if an electrical current has been fired through every nerve ending in my scalp. For once, any self-conscious thoughts I have about my hair are gone. Nothing matters, except that little boy.
But the two teams are now two fractured groups. Owen and Johnny have run off into the darkness, and Jeanne is flying in the heavens. Alfarin is with Elinor and Angela, but what if the Unspeakable is near them now?
Mitchell and I break apart. “This is it, Medusa,” he gasps. “Shit, we’re not ready.”
“Go back to Alfarin!” I cry, pushing Mitchell away. “If the Unspeakable’s here, the Skin-Walkers will be here, too. You have to look after Elinor and Angela.”
“What about you? I’m not leaving you.” Mitchell grabs for me, but I push him away again. Harder, so he knows I mean it. For a few seconds, I experienced something wonderful, and now the Unspeakable has contaminated that, too.
The Unspeakable. My anger surges through me. In life, in death, that . . . that . . . thing has haunted me.
Now I am going to end him.
“I’m going to find Owen,” I explain. “I need that other Viciseometer.”
Neither Mitchell nor I want to part, but we do. He heads off in pursuit of Alfarin; I go in the other direction. My feet stumble through the undergrowth. Twice I fall, head over ass, as my Converse sneakers catch in roots and broken branches. My hands sting violently as thorns and other objects I cannot see pierce my skin.
Dare I call out to Owen? I can still hear the cries of the Dreamcatcher, but they’re higher-pitched than before. It sounds like he’s hurting, and I feel it, too, deep in the pit of my stomach, because I know what it’s like to be scared and alone and in pain.
Now I hear shouting that seems to be coming from several directions in the dark. After a moment of careful listening, I think they’re actually concentrated on the shoreline, but in this impenetrable darkness, under a canopy of thick fir branches, I can’t see enough to confirm it.
I have no choice—I have to call for Owen and Johnny. They need to find me, because I know I won’t be able to find them.
Just as I’m about to holler for them, a heavy weight tackles me to the ground. It pushes down on my body and I feel the fabric of my shirt tear. Hands are grasping at my skin, and I’m paralyzed by a fear I haven’t felt in over forty years.
“You’re coming with me.”
The rasping voice is not the one that has haunted my nightmares, but I know it’s him because of the smell: oil and beer and salt. My stepfather is pinning me down, and the bravery I thought I possessed is gone. To the Skin-Walkers he’s an Unspeakable: a person who inflicted such incredible cruelty on earth that he’s forced to endure an existence of unbearable torture in the nine circles of Hell.
But he’s so much more than that to me. He’s the monster my mother brought into our lives.
And he destroyed them both.
I thought I could dismiss him. That he wasn’t worth naming. But I realize that Rory Hunter can never be an Unspeakable to me. I am who I am because of him.
And I hate him.
I hate him.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
My body starts to shake uncontrollably. I know what’s about to happen, and I release myself to the inevitability of fire. In real time, it could be seconds, but as I immolate, the last fifty years of life and death flash before my eyes. I can see my mother’s proud smile as she brings home a handsome young man; the smile turns to a frown as she puts down a telephone; she sobs into her hands; then I see my grandmother with open arms, reaching for me. . . .
. . . water droplets on an orange steel structure; my feet, slipping . . .
. . . Alfarin with snarling wolfhounds at his throat; Elinor in a burning building . . .
Rory screams and the fire in front of my eyes is extinguished. I did it. I immolated and I’m still here, lying supine on the forest floor. I’m too shocked to move. What were those other visions? I remember my living memories well enough, but those images with Alfarin and Elinor weren’t real, were they? It felt as if I had experienced them, beyond knowing about them from just words.
Scalding hands reach for my throat, and my arms are no longer pinned by my side. Self-preservation kicks in, and my fists start pummeling every part of Rory I can reach. I hear a whimper, and I realize that he has the Dreamcatcher on his back, and the little boy’s arms are wrapped around his scarred neck.
“Bitch.” My cheek burns as his spittle sprays my face. Then Rory slaps me.
The explosion from my next immolation throws my stepfather into the dark. He could be six or sixty yards away; I just can’t tell.
. . . a tree with branches shaped like tusks . . .
. . . splashing with Team DEVIL in a shallow pool . . .
“Medusa!” cries an English voice, and the flames are van
quished. The voice is quickly followed by a streak of golden light that illuminates the entire area.
Owen and Johnny crash through the trees, but momentum has them both and they trip and roll down the bank toward the rock-strewn shore.
I see Rory. He’s about twenty feet away from me, and now he has the Dreamcatcher tucked underneath one of his arms like a sack of potatoes. The boy isn’t struggling at all. His arms hang limply toward the ground.
Why doesn’t my immolation last as long as Mitchell’s and Alfarin’s? And why do those visions seem so familiar to me?
Rory is inching toward me now. “He told me it would be you,” he says in a cold, rasping voice. He heaves the little boy up toward his armpit to get a better grip. “You’ve been betrayed, you stupid bitch, and you never had a clue. Now come with me, or I will use the kid, I fucking swear it.”
I don’t know what to say to him. Who betrayed me? I want to scream and tear his head off. I want to run away and never see his face ever again. I feel so dirty and ashamed and sick of everything that Rory Hunter was, and still is.
I hear rustling in the surrounding foliage. “Stay back, all of you,” growls Rory. He yanks the Dreamcatcher up in front of his scarred body like a human shield. The little boy is conscious, with wide-open eyes, but he’s no longer crying. Long dark stains have left a trail down his T-shirt.
Stepping through the undergrowth are Mitchell, Alfarin, Elinor, Owen, Angela and Johnny. Jeanne is still high above, illuminating the scene like a searchlight. Rory is surrounded by a heptagon of devils and angels. Alfarin is the only one who’s armed, but the others are shadowed with a fierce determination. I don’t think Rory understands, but every time he repositions the Dreamcatcher in front of him, he only increases our resolve to rescue the boy.
Two fractured teams have finally become an army.
“Put the boy down,” booms Alfarin. “This will not end well for you, deviant.”
“Don’t test me . . . I’ll use it. I’ll destroy you all with it. He told me how to use it, and I will. I’ll fucking destroy all of you.”
