The Devil's Dreamcatcher

by Donna Hosie

  Angela’s hand reaches out to me, and at first I think it’s just because she’s scared, but then I see a flash of silver in the light afforded by Jeanne.

  It’s the other Viciseometer.

  Rory starts to whisper to the little boy. Suddenly, a red mist starts to creep around our legs. It’s coming from the child, who is now crying silent streams of blood again.

  “What is this devilry?” yells Alfarin. He raises his axe above his head as the mist winds its smoky crimson tendrils around our legs. It’s burning hot.

  Elinor and Angela scream out, and so does Johnny, as the mist snakes higher and higher around our bodies.

  The ground splits apart with an earth-shattering roar. I throw myself forward and grab hold of a hanging root as the dirt beneath me starts to crumble into a deep fissure in the ground. Towering pines are uprooted, and I can only watch them plummet into the newly formed hole, which is at least the length of a tennis court. Red mist is now pouring out of the Dreamcatcher’s hands, and the screams of pain are getting louder.

  In the smoking crimson mass, I can just make out Alfarin and Elinor on my left; I can’t see Mitchell, Owen or Johnny at all.

  “Medusa . . . Medusa . . . help me . . . I’m slipping!” cries Angela. She is also hanging by a root, but hers is thinner than mine, and I can see that it’s coming away, dropping Angela farther and farther into the chasm. The red mist is winding its way around Angela’s bare arms, and although the light from Jeanne is dimming, I can see that Angela’s arms are starting to blister with yellow pustulating sores.

  I’m still holding on to the angels’ Viciseometer, and without thinking, I tuck it straight into my pocket and make to grab Angela. But as I snatch at her T-shirt, two things happen simultaneously: Angela screams, a high-pitched, primal shriek that jolts me back into the memory of my own death, and I feel the two Viciseometers connecting.

  “I’ve got you,” I whisper, thinking I’ve scared her because I’ve become invisible.

  “The mist . . . the mist . . .” sobs Angela. “It’s got Johnny.”

  Then Elinor screams, and I watch helplessly as a shadowy figure falls through the mist into the chasm below us.

  “Elinor!” roars Alfarin, and another, much bulkier figure drops down after her.

  An explosion from the deep throws me clear of the fissure. Angela lands next to me, and I hear a dull snap. A fireball explodes out of the hole as a blinding flash of lightning spears the earth. My friends down there are immolating.

  And all the while, the red mist is burning into our skin. The pain from the boils now erupting over my bare legs is agonizing.

  “Where’s Medusa?” groans a loud voice. “Did she fall? I can’t see . . . I can’t see.”

  Rory’s voice rises above the din. “Give me Melissa Pallister or there will be nothing left of any of you.”

  Every instinct I possess is pushing at me to help Angela, who is lying in a heap on the ground with one leg bent at a strange angle. The mist is sliding all over her body, tearing at her skin. She’s an angel and not supposed to feel pain, but she can feel this. They all can.

  I’m invisible, and I have a choice: do I show myself to Rory by helping the others, or do I try to take back the Dreamcatcher and end this now?

  “I am Medusa,” I hiss quietly.

  And I start running in the direction of his voice.

  23. Manifestation of Evil

  The red mist has covered everything and everyone, but the strange bubble that enclosed Owen and me the first time the two Viciseometers joined together is back. It distorts my view of everything around me, but I can also see the black outline of a lightning-shaped crack in the ground. Deep inside it is a golden glow. It isn’t fire, yet I can’t exactly make out the source of its light. But because I can see the fissure that Rory created with the Dreamcatcher, it means I can dodge around the edges without falling in.

  I can’t see or hear any of the others anymore, and it terrifies me. How deep is that hole, and what will happen to anyone who has fallen into it? They can’t die again, so it isn’t that which frightens me; it’s the thought of what will happen if the earth closes back up with devils and angels still trapped down there.

  The reality that the Dreamcatcher is finally being used as a weapon truly hits me as the sores spreading across my legs and arms reach my neck. The pain has been dulled a little by the pressure in the invisibility bubble, but my neck burns and itches and I can’t stop scratching. I only stop when I feel my skin peeling away, in thick strips that smell like bleach under my blunt fingernails.

  A concentrated patch of red mist appears in front of me, and I momentarily stumble because it’s shaped like The Devil. For one hideous second, I think he’s here with us, but then it implodes on itself before taking the outline of the master of Hell once more.

  It’s Rory and the Dreamcatcher. It seems that the evil they have unleashed on us is manifesting itself in the shape of the being that created the dreams in the first place.

  Sprinting now, I try to block out the pain radiating from my wrecked body. Ahead I see Rory crouching over the Dreamcatcher. My forehead connects with Rory’s temple as I head-butt him as hard as I can. My fingers clasp the slippery hot skin of his face, and I stick one thumb into his eye with all the strength I have. He screams a terrible long shriek, almost like a wolf’s howl, and he claws in the direction of my face with his spare hand. But it doesn’t have the same effect as my attack on him because he has several fingers missing. The rough stumps feel as if they have been hacked off and left to rot, and the jagged skin scapes across my cheek.

  “Where are you, bitch?” he snarls, reaching for me, and I move my arms to his waist. I feel physically sick being this close to him, touching him, but the fact that the Dreamcatcher is still in his other arm helps keep my mind fixed on what I have to do.

  I’m going to drag Rory to the edge. He’ll have to drop the boy if he wants to hold on.

  Unfortunately, we’re still some distance from the chasm.

  Just then a familiar fireball slams into all three of us.

  “Not my brother!” Mitchell hollers.

  He must have been thrown clear when Alfarin exploded inside the fissure. Mitchell’s immolation has engulfed Rory, the boy and me. The pain I’m now in is a world away from anything I’ve ever gone through before. It’s beyond endurance—it’s not human.

  Then again, I’m not human, not anymore. But it’s hard to forget when you can smell your flesh melting.

  “Let go of the boy!” I cry.

  “He betrayed me!” screams Rory. “He let me out and betrayed me.”

  I don’t have time to try to figure out what—or who—he’s talking about. My nose and throat are too filled with smoke and the scent of burning flesh. I loosen my hold from Rory’s waist and pull on his free arm, trying to drag him toward the crater’s edge.

  The little boy is completely untouched by the red mist and Mitchell’s fire. I can see him, staring up at me, from his position underneath Rory’s arm. He stretches his arms out to me, but as he does, the blood from his eyes starts weeping again.

  “Help us!” I scream. “If anyone can hear me, help us.”

  Several bolts of lightning hit the fissure again, but something strange is happening. It takes me a moment to realize that the rays of light are not shooting down from the sky, but are rising up from the ground.

  The streaks of light are quickly joined by another enormous fireball that throws me at least thirty feet into the air. Alfarin, Elinor, Owen, Jeanne, Angela and Johnny somersault past me before I land with a steaming splash in Lake Pukaki. Everything is now in slow motion. Fire and light and screams and smoke. It’s all so unreal.

  Someone drops into the water next to me. I think it’s Elinor, but as I kick my way toward the body, I see a white T-shirt, stained with blood. It’s bubbling up like a flotation device.

  Rory has let go of the Dreamcatcher.

  I have him. I have the little boy.


  24. The Voice of The Devil

  With a strong front crawl, I swim toward the Dreamcatcher, who is floating on his back with his eyes closed. An orange glow illuminates the aquamarine water, making it look brown and dirty. Contaminated. I’m not sure if the fire on the shore is the small one we lit earlier, or whether devils are still immolating, but it calls to me like a beacon showing me the way to safety.

  “I’ve got you,” I say, gently levering my right arm underneath his tiny body. He isn’t moving at all and doesn’t register hearing my voice.

  I quickly scan the water and see someone else, about twenty feet from me, splashing and flailing. Long red hair confirms it’s Elinor.

  “I can’t swim!” she cries. “M, help me, I can’t swim.”

  A scream echoes into the night, followed by the excited howls of wolves.

  “Hang on, Elinor,” I call. “I’m coming.”

  More screams from the shoreline, and terrified shouts of “No, no, no!” The pitch of the wolves’ cries is rising. I can still only make out two distinct howls, but the noise coming from them is so rapid, it sounds like they’re hyperventilating.

  The wolves are excited. That can mean only one thing. They have someone.

  The little boy is a lightweight, and he barely slows me down as I swim on my side with him toward Elinor. I make a grab for her dress, but she’s panicking so much that all three of us are suddenly dragged under the water.

  “Elinor!” I shout as I surface. I’m forced to let go of her. “Stop thrashing! I can get you out, but you have to stay calm and trust me.”

  Different noises are now coming from the shore. Along with the screams and cries, I hear a wet tearing sound, like something is being shredded. Torn apart.

  “He’s not to be trusted,” says a high-pitched voice next to me.

  Now it’s Elinor’s and my turn to scream. I’ve heard that voice before—moments before my interview for the other intern job.

  The Dreamcatcher is speaking with The Devil’s voice.

  “M, that was The Devil! What’s happening?” cries Elinor.

  The three of us go under the water again. The Dreamcatcher repeats the same sentence, but because we are under the lake, the voice sounds deeper and even more menacing.

  I kick to the surface and tread water as I try to stabilize Elinor on her back. The Dreamcatcher is still underneath, and I can see the bubbles—which clearly aren’t air—floating up to the surface as he continues to talk. Each bubble breaks as it reaches the top and disperses into bloody ripples.

  The awful sounds from the shoreline, the ice cold of the water, and the sight of blood rising from the Dreamcatcher’s words are too much. I push the red slick away, and the sight of my blistered arms, covered in yellow sores, is the last straw. I start to gag. The sound of that is enough to make Elinor gag, and then she starts to panic again and she goes back down under the water.

  “Why me, Septimus?” I scream. “Why us?”

  The Dreamcatcher rises up and I grab his T-shirt. I no longer care about being gentle; I’m going to get him and Elinor to the shore if it’s the last thing I do.

  “He’s not to be trusted,” says the Dreamcatcher again, his eyes still closed.

  “I know,” I sob. “He was my stepfather. I know all about him.”

  “Not the Unspeakable,” he replies, continuing to speak with the same voice as the overlord of Hell. “The Devil is a bad man.”

  “I’m scared, M!” cries Elinor. “And it hurts.”

  “I know, Elinor,” I reply, pulling her and the boy onto their backs again. “I’m hurting, too, but this will be over soon. We’ve got the Dreamcatcher. We can take him to Angela’s mom and . . . and . . .”

  I stop supporting Elinor and, in a blind panic, plunge my blistering arm into the lake toward my shorts pocket. The Viciseometers are gone. The fact that I’m visible to Elinor has only just registered.

  Where are the two time-traveling devices? We can’t get the Dreamcatcher away if we don’t have them. He’ll be taken back to Hell.

  My strength is failing fast. I can barely keep the three of us afloat as my exhausted legs feebly kick us back to the shore. I’m shocked when my feet touch the stony bottom of the lake. Inch by inch, I carry and drag Elinor and the little boy out of the water. Elinor collapses on the ground, but the little boy, now wide awake, wraps his tiny fingers around my wrist.

  “He meant for this to happen,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I don’t have time to find out. I have to find the Viciseometers. They must have fallen out of my pocket as I was thrown into the lake.

  I lead the Dreamcatcher behind a large bush. “Stay here,” I tell him. “Don’t let anyone see you. I’ll come back for you soon.”

  He nods, and I start running toward the dark pine trees. I’ve gone about fifty yards when I’m stopped short by the sight of Mitchell and Alfarin, who are lying on the ground, groaning. Alfarin’s axe is several yards away from him, but he isn’t even making the effort to reach for it.

  Then, as I get closer, I see why. Their skin is splitting apart with weeping boils that are pulsing with bloodstained pus. Their sores are a thousand times worse than mine and Elinor’s.

  The lake must have diluted some of the effect the red mist had on us. But we were the only ones who got cleansed. Everyone else stayed out here.

  I have to get Team DEVIL back to Hell, but I can’t do that without the Viciseometer.

  “You are wasted with Septimus, child.”

  I know that voice. Visolentiae the Skin-Walker is suddenly at my side. Blood is smeared all across his mouth and down his chest. The wolf head on top of his is licking its bared, sharp teeth with a black tongue. The stench from his body hasn’t changed.

  “You have the Unspeakable!” I cry. “Go back to Hell and tell Septimus we need him.”

  “And why should we help you?” asks Cupidore, stepping out from behind Visolentiae. He is covered in even more blood than his partner. It’s dripping from his hands. I start swaying.

  “Mitchell and Alfarin have to get treatment; they’ve been infected with something. It’s destroying them. Please . . . we helped you get the Unspeakable.”

  “And what a treat he was,” says Cupidore; he starts sucking and licking his fingers. “It’s always better when they fight, but he was a fool to trust him. The Unspeakable was the conduit. He was never going to get his life back, although what a vessel you would have been.”

  Mitchell and Alfarin have stopped groaning. I kneel down beside them and take their swollen hands in mine. Tears are streaming down my face, and the salt stings my sores.

  The Skin-Walkers are enjoying this verbal torture. I don’t care what they’ve done to Rory, but they said they wouldn’t hurt any of us.

  Then the Skin-Walkers’ laughter suddenly stops short. I look up to see them lowering their bodies to the ground; their heads are so low, the wolf snouts are almost touching the grass. They look exactly like cowering dogs.

  “Wh—” I start to say, and then I feel the sweet touch of the Dreamcatcher as he wraps his fingers around my wrist again.

  “You were supposed to stay put,” I say.

  “The angels,” he says in the voice he’s absorbed from The Devil. “He meant to hurt the angels. All of them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The Dreamcatcher lets go and drops down beside Mitchell. He slips his little hand into Mitchell’s pocket and pulls out a black cell phone.

  “You can call Septimus with this,” says the Dreamcatcher.

  Cupidore and Visolentiae are whimpering like pathetic dogs. Their bodies are lurching, as if they’re trying to move back. But they can’t, and they don’t like it one bit.

  “We will get Septimus,” whimpers Visolentiae. “Just take the weapon away.”

  “Bullshit,” I spit harshly.

  “He’s not to be trusted,” says the little boy. He holds his arms up to me, as if he wants to
be held, but I lower myself to his height and take his hands in mine.

  “You can’t be seen by Septimus,” I say. “You need to run and hide again, and stay where you are this time. I mean it. I’ll find you, I promise. But if anyone else sees you, they’ll take you back. You have to hide.”

  I kiss his head and gently push him away. I know that the moment the distance is far enough, the spell on the Skin-Walkers will break and I will be at their nonexistent mercy, but there’s nothing else I can do. I have no Viciseometer, and Mitchell, Alfarin and Elinor need to get to Hell’s sick bay—fast.

  But the Dreamcatcher isn’t running and hiding. He won’t move. I push him again, but he shakes his head.

  “You have to hide. Otherwise Septimus will take you back,” I plead. “Please, run away.”

  The little boy is pointing over my shoulder. I turn around to see what it is he won’t run from, and my blistered legs give way.

  Septimus is standing right behind me.

  25. The Devil’s Betrayal

  After living for sixteen years, I thought I knew what anger looked like. After existing in Hell for forty years, I believed I had seen pure hatred.

  But I was wrong. What is radiating out of Septimus right now is beyond any of those emotions.

  It’s his eyes that give him away. It’s always the eyes. The Devil and the Skin-Walkers have black, inky pupils, like pools of shimmering tar. Septimus’s eyes are crimson red in Hell, but here, back in the land of the living, his anger has turned his eyes into pools of fire. I can see the flames licking at the whites, and in the darkness, they’re terrifying, because he doesn’t look like he was ever human. He’s a monster, a god, something you should never, ever betray.

  And he’s just heard every word I said.

  Septimus is tall and thin, just like Mitchell, but he’s looming over us in such a way that his body looks twice as large. Everything about him seems enormous, from the golden hoops in his earlobes to the knot in his black silk tie.

  “Where are the angels?” asks Septimus. He surveys the area, and as he turns his dark head from left to right, I hear his neck crack. It’s an unsettling sound.