by Donna Hosie
“Septimus, get me the Hell out of these straps. I won’t let them take any more children.”
I hear a groan, an exclamation, and then another dull thud. The intercom crackles once more.
“Healer Travis appears to have fallen onto my fist again,” says Septimus. “Never mind, he will have a story to tell in the medics’ quarters tonight.”
The room shudders and dark-blue light smothers the red, creating a dirty brown haze. “Hm. Evidently I am able to enter the decontamination room.” Warm hands release the bonds on my arms.
“I will leave you to unstrap the remainder, Miss Powell. You will find some clothes on the ledge underneath your bed.”
Septimus slips out of the room, and the rock door closes again. With fumbling hands, I slide my fingers across my chest, my thighs and finally my ankles and release the straps that held me to the bed. My skin, once smooth, is rippled with lumps: scars from the red mist infection.
I stand on the hot stone floor, completely naked, and so dizzy it’s a wonder I’m standing at all. Before I put clothes on, I have to remove the IVs from each hand. I don’t like blood—and I really don’t like dead blood—but Travis the healer won’t stay out of it for long and I have to act fast. With a high-pitched squeal, I pull the thicker tube out first. Yellow liquid, which looks like pus, throbs out of the end of the tube and onto my skin. I dry-heave at the sight and wipe my hand over the white sheet. The liquid immediately burns a hole in the fabric.
“What the . . .” I swear aloud.
Now I have to take the three prongs out of my right hand. The only thing that motivates me is my fear that Septimus, or Travis, will walk into the decontamination chamber while I’m standing here butt-naked.
The skin around the puncture points wrinkles as I slide the three prongs out of my hand. Two of the thin needles are dispensing bloodred liquid; the center needle is releasing red vapor that smells like coffee.
Finally free, I bend down and search for the clothes Septimus mentioned. I pull out a plastic bag and find navy cotton shorts, underwear and a bra, and a white V-neck T-shirt sealed inside. They fit perfectly.
“I’m ready, Septimus,” I call, and the room shakes once more as the rock door opens. Septimus is standing in the entrance, framed by blue light, and Mitchell, Alfarin and Elinor are standing directly behind him.
I want to run toward them, but my legs now feel as if they’re ten times too big for my body. Everything is disjointed and new.
“Ye will get used to it, M,” says Elinor. She slips past Septimus and takes my arm. “Ye should see Alfarin trying to walk. It’s like watching an elephant on a tightrope.”
“Where are your brother and the other angels?” I ask. “Are they okay? Septimus said they were here.”
“They will not let me see our John,” replies Elinor. She bites down on her bottom lip.
“We know they are here, though,” says Alfarin darkly. “We could hear Jeanne screaming.” He tries to push past Septimus and accidentally sends him flying into an alcove. “My apologies, Lord Septimus. My legs still don’t belong to my masculine form.”
“Why haven’t the angels been returned to Up There?” I ask. “The little boy—the Dreamcatcher—he found their Viciseometer.”
“Oh, M,” whispers Elinor. “It’s so unfair.”
“We will debrief you on the way to level 1, Miss Pallister,” says Septimus. “But I believe Healer Travis will be awakening soon, and I would truly hate for him to make accidental contact with my fist for a third time today.”
Walking is as awkward as a three-legged race. We stumble forward on shaky legs until we eventually reach an express elevator. For the first time in Hell, I’m not crushed by the dead, because the corridors are deserted on this level and eerily silent.
Why isn’t Mitchell speaking to me?
His face is a mess of scarred lumps and burned skin, and his scalp is bald in several small patches. He winces with every step, but his teeth are clenched together so rigidly that his jaw is jutting to the side.
“Septimus,” I say quietly. “Can devils immolate in Hell?”
My new boss leans forward and presses a black button with the raised outline of The Devil stamped in the center.
“One cannot immolate in Hell, Miss Pallister. Our immortal domain produces too many emotions in a person for that to occur. A devil may sense they are feeling true rage, but never underestimate the subconscious and the dilution of the senses that this can cause. A devil has never immolated in Hell before because our confines are too claustrophobic. Indeed, the vast majority of devils have never even heard of immolation, let alone managed it.”
We enter the elevator with difficulty. Mitchell still won’t look at anyone; his restored pink eyes are burning through the floor. It’s as if he’s staring into the very pit of Hell.
The nine circles of Hell are here, somewhere. The Skin-Walkers and the Unspeakables could be right under our feet.
It’s Rory Hunter who’s on my mind as we stumble along the level 1 corridor toward the accounting chamber. I can sense my body absorbing the heat of Hell once more, but I’m shaking, and my skin feels cold, as if there’s an icy breath blowing on me.
I know The Devil was the one who let Rory out. I know he tricked Septimus and the HBI and everyone by letting Rory take the Dreamcatcher back to the land of the living.
But why?
“Medusa, what’s wrong?” asks Elinor.
The others have reached the door to the accounting chamber, but I’ve stopped walking without realizing. There are a million thoughts racing through my head, and none of it makes any sense.
The enormity of what I’m about to do is paralyzing. I can’t tell Elinor what’s wrong, because that means I’ll have to say good-bye.
Good-bye . . . Oh, no.
With a flash of understanding, I realize why Mitchell isn’t speaking to me—to any of us.
He’s saying good-bye to us by saying nothing at all. Mitchell Johnson is going to offer himself to The Devil, too.
I suddenly find the strength to move.
“Mitchell,” I say, grabbing his arm.
“Drop it, Medusa. He’s my brother.”
“But—”
“I said drop it.”
“You—”
“Did you think I wouldn’t guess your plan, Medusa? You’re the most selfless person I’ve ever met, but what right do you have to offer yourself? Did you seriously think I would stand by and let someone else—let you—sacrifice yourself?”
“I am confused,” interrupts Alfarin. “I thought we were here to return the Viciseometer after another marauding in the land of the living. What in the name of the gods are we sacrificing, and to whom?”
“Mitchell and Miss Pallister are both prepared to offer themselves as a replacement for the Dreamcatcher,” says Septimus solemnly. “They do not want the next device to be a mortal child.”
“What?” cries Elinor. “Ye cannot allow this. Ye mustn’t, Septimus.”
“It is not my choice, Miss Powell,” replies Septimus. “I do not want this, and if there were any other way, I would gladly take it.”
“So ye will sacrifice one of yer interns?” she screams. “Ye mustn’t!”
“There must be something else that can be used as a Dreamcatcher,” says Alfarin. But whatever Septimus is about to say remains unspoken, because the doors to the Oval Office have opened, and a little woman has walked out.
She’s old. I think she must have died when she was at least eighty. Her hair is gray but is swept up into a severe bun that stretches back the skin around her eyes. It makes them look catlike. She can’t have been dead for long, because her pupils are pink. The old lady is wearing a black skirt and a pink twinset with a pearl brooch.
“Keep the noise down, Septimus,” she scolds in an Italian accent. “The master is going through his official papers, and you know he cannot concentrate if there is noise.”
“I apologize, Lucretia,” says Septimus.
“You should not have brought children up here,” she replies. “The master isn’t sleeping, and if he were to see one of them—”
“We aren’t children,” interrupts Mitchell.
“Again, my apologies, Lucretia. We will come back later. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Well, I don’t care what The Devil’s doing,” announces Mitchell. “He’s not taking my brother.”
And he forces his way through the doors, quickly followed by Alfarin and Elinor.
“Septimus, you have to stop him,” I beg.
I run after Mitchell into a large oval room. Long drapes hang along the walls, each topped off with elaborate tasseled pelmets. The entire room is a riot of color; I can sense a nosebleed coming on just looking at it. One side has pink curtains made from plush velvet. The other is covered in gold-and-green fabric imprinted with shapes that are actually moving in a hypnotic cycle.
And directly ahead, sitting behind a large mahogany desk, is The Devil.
The Devil himself. A mythical entity who is, in fact, very real. And I’m actually standing in his office. I swap looks with Alfarin and Elinor, and they are as dumbstruck as I am. Elinor is, in turn, grabbing at her neck and then wringing her hands.
The Devil hasn’t seen any of us. We could back away now.
But Mitchell won’t—and neither will I, regardless of how terrified the mere aura of this office is making me feel.
“Lucretia, I can’t decipher Hannibal’s writing,” The Devil wails. He is bent over a document lying on the desk in front of him. His face is so close, the swirl at the end of his goatee is touching the paper.
“Sir, you have visitors,” announces Lucretia.
“Not the French delegation again,” sighs The Devil dramatically. “How many times do I have to tell them? I’m allergic to cheese. Brings out the worst boils on my—”
Then he looks up and sees Team DEVIL, pockmarked and battle-weary, from a fight that he sent us into. Completely unprepared. Completely in the dark. It might have been Septimus who gave the orders, but it was The Devil pulling the strings. He released my stepfather from the circles of Hell; he told Rory how to unleash whatever toxin was stored in the Dreamcatcher. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out to be The Devil’s blood that was used to write that message.
“Interesting,” says The Devil, with a smile that bares his pointed teeth. “So this is Team DEVIL. They appear to have recovered better than the other lot. Speaking of which, how is the other lot doing, Septimus?”
“The effect was the same for all, Sir,” replies Septimus, but I’m shocked by how cold his voice sounds. The Devil picks up on it immediately.
“Oh, come now, Septimus. You were taking too long. Sometimes the bull has to be taken by the horns. It was only a test.”
Alfarin and Elinor are swapping confused looks, but Mitchell has nerves of steel, because he’s looking The Devil squarely in the face with a ferocious glare.
“Operation H,” Mitchell says. “This whole thing was a setup to release Operation H, wasn’t it?”
“Clever boy,” says The Devil. “Septimus speaks very highly of you, Mitchell. And this must be Medusa. What a fabulous name. I do love snakes, you know. My favorite drapes are the ones in the ballroom—”
“We don’t give a crap about your curtains. That’s not why we’re here. I’m offering myself as your next Dreamcatcher,” interrupts Mitchell. “My little brother, my living brother, is next on the list. I’m offering myself in his place.”
But I run forward and place myself in front of Mitchell.
“Don’t take Mitchell, take me!” I shout at The Devil. “I have nightmares that can’t be worse than your dreams. I can take it.”
“Back off, Medusa.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing, Mitchell. You don’t know what it’s like to be truly haunted. I do.”
The Devil stands up and walks around the desk. His long fingers stroke the goatee on his pointed chin.
“Well, this is fun, and I must say that both you interns would make fine additions to my intimate staff, but alas, neither of you could be a Dreamcatcher. You’ve both been corrupted.”
Behind me, I hear the sound of Septimus whispering furiously to Elinor. From what I can tell, he wants her to leave the room, but she’s refusing to go without me and Mitchell. Then The Devil giggles, and I want to retch at the sound.
“You’re going soft on me, Septimus,” he says with a smirk.
“Miss Powell, leave now,” orders Septimus loudly.
“What do you mean, corrupted?” I ask, with a nervous glance toward Elinor. Both of her hands are on the back of her neck.
“A Dreamcatcher needs to be pure of heart, innocent in body and spirit,” replies The Devil. His shoes tap across the floor as he starts walking toward us. “Medusa, my dear, you have been corrupted by filth. The fact that it was not of your doing or acceptance is irrelevant. And Mitchell is a young man, and as I know all too well, all young men have minds as dirty as the squalid beings from the Dark Ages. Neither of you is capable of being a vessel for my glorious dreams.”
“Miss Powell, leave now,” orders Septimus. “Sir, we will find an alternative—”
“But we have one,” says The Devil quickly. “And how rare to find one of such beauty and maturity.” He raises his high-pitched voice, and it’s like nails down a blackboard. “Restrain the others!” he screeches.
Guards, completely camouflaged within the drapes, rush forward and grab Mitchell, Alfarin and me. The Viking tries to fight them off, but they overpower him with a metallic mesh net that sparkles like diamonds in sunlight. I’m screaming words, but I have no comprehension of what they are. Powerful hands are wrestling Mitchell and me to the floor. The only part of me that I can move is my eyes, and they are being dragged like magnets to Elinor. We’re all yelling at her to run, to fight, but we know full well she can’t. I’m retching and howling as Septimus’s protests fall silent.
“It’s your lucky day, Elinor Powell,” says The Devil.
Elinor is paralyzed with fear as The Devil runs his fingers through her long red hair. The guards are still coming out of the walls in droves.
“My next Dreamcatcher will be you or young M.J.,” continues The Devil. “Choose wisely, Elinor Powell, for I don’t need to remind you that I have access to your own brother in my laboratory, and, as He well knows, I do like to hear angels scream.”
27. The Nightmare Begins
Mitchell, Alfarin and I are swept out of the Oval Office on a tide of gaudy-looking guards. We are thrown into the level 1 corridor, and the doors shut with a solid thump. The guards’ colors shift once more and they become glistening black. They dissolve into the walls of the central business district and are gone.
“Elinor!” roars Alfarin. “Elinor!”
He pounds the door with his huge fists, but it makes little difference. Mitchell joins him and the two boys throw themselves, again and again and again, at the doors, trying to force them open.
Suddenly I remember there’s another way in: through the accounting chamber. I run into Septimus’s office and grab the door handle. It sizzles against my skin and burns an imprint of The Devil’s smiling face onto my palm. It’s locked, and my smoldering skin is the notice.
“Septimus!” I cry. “Get El out of there.”
I fall back as a strange sense of déjà vu takes hold of me once more. I’ve never called her El before, but it also feels as if I’ve called her that for years.
“Stand back, Medusa!” cries Alfarin. He rushes into the room with his axe raised high. His pale-blue tunic is torn from the shoulder to his waist. The skin beneath it is red and raw from where he was slamming his weight into the doors of the Oval Office.
He starts swinging the axe at the large oak door, but it just bounces off.
“Septimus will stop him,” says Mitchell. “Septimus will save Elinor.”
/> But the brief glance he and I exchange at his words lets us know neither of us believes it. Elinor is trapped in a locked room with the master of Hell: a maniac who released an Unspeakable and tricked him into taking a toxic virus to the land of the living with the sole intent of testing its effect on angels.
“What have I done?” I cry, ignoring my spitting and sizzling palms as I pull at the door handle again. “This is my fault. I thought I could reason with him.”
“Elinor, Elinor!” Alfarin continues to wail. He’s thrown his beloved axe aside and is now beating on the door like he’s beating a drum.
“I just wanted to save my brother,” sobs Mitchell. “I didn’t want this.”
He falls back onto the floor and crawls on his hands and knees to the rune-covered cabinet.
My stomach is heaving. Every part of me has gone into uncontrollable spasms. The pain in my chest is worse than anything I felt when I was alive; it’s worse than the burning from the toxic red mist. Something is eating me from the inside out, but while it chomps with a heavy gnawing, it speaks to me in my own voice. Its mocks me for being so arrogant as to think I could take on The Devil and win.
We’ve lost. Lost horribly.
We’ve lost Elinor, and for no other reason than she was the best of us all.
Days have passed. I’ve begun having that same nightmare over and over, night after night, again and again and again. There’s a small child, the boy again, with a thick mop of blond hair that looks like straw. Tears are silently streaming down his pink cheeks. When I see his ruby-red eyes, the tears are no longer clear. He’s crying blood. He holds his arms out, as if he wants to be picked up. Mitchell is holding Alfarin back. I can’t see Elinor, but there are two other people in the nightmare with a halo of light surrounding them. One is a young guy with bright-red hair. The other is also male, late teens, and he’s dressed in an old brown army uniform.
“Johnny, you can’t help her,” calls the soldier.
Then the screaming starts.
I turn around, and the little boy is no longer there. It’s Elinor, and she’s bleeding torrents of thick blood from her eyes into a pool around her bare feet. Someone has written on the walls in blood. The words read: You can never have her back.
