The Devil's Dreamcatcher (12 page)

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Mitchell trying to flex his pecs. He kinda fails, which I think is cute. Not that Mitchell would ever go for someone like me, with my crazy hair and skinny legs. Besides, he's probably already ridden the train wreck that is Patty Lloyd.

Anyway, none of that matters anymore.

“Is this where you saw the angels last time?” I ask him.

“I saw the army dude here. He was wearing his uniform. And see that white cross over there?” Mitchell points to another towering sculpture, a hundred feet away. “That's where I saw Jeanne. She was wearing an orange dress and a pink cardigan. You won't be able to miss her. She's the hottest girl I've ever seen.”

A sudden burst of heat fires through my stomach and chest, and I can feel my cheeks burning. No, I'm clearly not Mitchell's type at all.

“That's what you remember? A hot girl?”

“No,” says Mitchell. “I remember a lot of other stuff. I'm just saying she was hot.”

I stand up quickly. Too quickly. My head is thumping, and dots appear in front of my eyes.

“Typical boy,” I mutter, and I walk away.

I've gone about ten feet before I come to my senses.

And it horrifies me.

Why am I getting so jealous? I barely know Mitchell. We've been through a pretty intense time over the last few days, but that's no reason to get super-clingy, because I'm not like that. I tried to be—with Patty and her friends in Hell, just to fit in—but it was fake. I thought I had a good sense of self, even if it did mean ending up alone. So what's happening to me now?

From behind a headstone, I can hear Mitchell whispering rapidly to Alfarin.

“What did I do? I didn't mean Medusa isn't hot.”

“Of course not, my friend.”

“Because she
is
hot.”

“I understand, my friend.”

“Medusa's pissed at me, isn't she?”

“You are out of the fire and into the pan for frying, my friend.”

“Honestly, ye boys!” says Elinor. “Stop chattering. Sit here and keep watch. M and I will go up by the cross. Ye said Jeanne was wearing an orange dress, Mitchell?”

“And she is totally not hot,” replies Mitchell in an exaggerated, loud voice.

My back is still to him, so he can't see me smile. At least Mitchell's as bad at this as I am.

Elinor slips her arm through mine.

“We will wait up here. Hopefully we can intercept the angels before Alfarin has a chance to remove their wings. If they even have them.”

The grass is cushiony beneath my sneakers. Purple storm clouds are gathering in the sky, and they look like huge bruises covering Up There.

“Have you ever seen an angel before, Elinor?”

She shakes her head. “Only devils—but I wouldn't swap, not now.”

Elinor looks back fondly at Alfarin, and I look over my shoulder, too. The boys aren't keeping watch at all. They're doing something to Alfarin's axe.

“
Alfarin!
” shouts Elinor. “Will ye refrain from sharpening yer axe on the gravestones? It is disrespectful. Ye could be sharing a dorm in Hell with the person who was buried there.”

Mitchell flaps his arms in an attempt to quiet Elinor down. Alfarin hollers back an apology, and Mitchell throws himself backward with exasperation. I try to memorize this strange new happy sensation. I may be on the periphery, but I'm still part of a team who really care about one another. It may be chaos, but it's now
my
chaos. A shared disorder. I know I'll need to keep this feeling close, before the fear of Rory Hunter, and the fate of that little boy, become too much to bear. I quickly scan the gravestones. My stepfather said he would find me. Is he here, watching?

Elinor and I reach the towering white cross. It marks a resting place. I check out the age of the dead person before I read the name, because somehow that seems more important. This person died at eighty-eight years old. That's a good age to die. Not at sixteen like me; I was barely a whisper on the earth. A shadow that few remember.

“How old are you, Elinor?” I ask.

“Nineteen,” she replies. “I died on my birthday.”

“I'm so sorry, I should never have asked.”

“It could have been a lot worse,” she replies quietly as her hand clasps the back of her neck. “My death was quick, and for that I will always be thankful.”

I don't ask
the
question, but sometimes it takes real restraint not to.

We tuck ourselves in behind the cross. I never do look at the name. I don't feel queasy or disrespectful sitting on the remains of the dead. They won't mind. They're either in Hell or Up There now.

I wonder where I'm buried. I've never really thought about it before.

This graveyard is giving me the creeps. It's dredging up too many thoughts and memories I want to keep locked away.

“Oh, my!” exclaims Elinor suddenly. She is frantically gesturing to Mitchell and Alfarin.

I peer around the cross just in time to see Alfarin throw himself on top of Mitchell, and that has gotta hurt.

Farther along the path is a woman. She's wearing a bright-red trench coat and knee-high black boots. She looks very stylish, but sad. She isn't looking at the graves; she's watching her feet. In her hands is a small bouquet of fresh yellow-and-white flowers.

The color of her hair is familiar, as is the shape of her face and nose.

“Is that Mitchell's mom?”

Elinor nods. “Poor Mitchell,” she whispers. “He went to pieces the last time we were here. She must be going to his grave. The last time, we saw her on her way out. It must be so hard to see family and know ye can never speak to them while they are alive.”

Does my mom visit my grave? Did they find my body after I fell? Does she know I didn't mean to let go? That my fingers slipped?

“I hate this place,” I say. “I hope those angels hurry up.”

A strange glimmer of light catches my eye. It's like a flashing torch, and it's coming from a white plinth, some ten rows away from us.

It flashes again, and then I see two people. Even from this distance, I can tell they aren't Owen and Jeanne, although they're definitely male and female.

The girl is dressed in tight white jeans and a pink T-shirt. Her hair is blond, short and spiky with turquoise tips. The boy is tall and gangly, with a shock of red hair.

And they are both surrounded by a full-body halo.

“Elinor!” I cry, pulling on the sleeve of her white dress. “Look, over there. I think there are more angels.”

Elinor stands up next to me. The second she does, the boy sees her.

And he starts running straight at us.

His long face is a mask of concentration as his limbs power like pistons toward us. I grab Elinor's hand. I want to shout to Mitchell and Alfarin, but I can't risk drawing attention to them with Mitchell's mom so close by.

“They're angels,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “They won't hurt us, and if he tries, well, I work in Hell's kitchens and I know how to pluck a chicken.”

The red-haired angel is still running toward us. He reminds me of a gazelle, graceful yet powerful. I wait for wings to sprout out of his back, because I have nothing to go on except legend.

My standard idea disappears as the angel does something no one is expecting.

“
Elinor
,” he shouts. “
Elinor!
”

“Oh, my,” whispers Elinor, and she drops to the ground.

The angel reaches Elinor, sinks to his knees and crushes her into an embrace. He's wearing jeans and a pristine white T-shirt. I push him away and he falls backward into the long, damp grass. I am quite prepared to bloody up his clean clothes to protect my friend. He might not need plucking, but I'm handy with my fists all the same.

“Stay away from her if you know what's good for you,” I growl as a roar bellows behind us.

Alfarin has seen that Elinor is down.

The gazelle is about to get stomped by the rhino, who's now thundering down the path with his axe clutched between his hands. The fearsome grimace on Alfarin's face is enough to make the angel swear.

“Oh, shit.”

Then out of nowhere streaks a flash of blinding golden light. It collides with Alfarin and sends him tumbling into a gray, tablet-shaped gravestone, which splinters with a loud crack.

“Do not touch him, devil.”

It's Jeanne. I recognize her immediately from the photograph. She has light-brown skin and black hair that cascades in waves all the way down her back. She's wearing exactly what Mitchell described: a short orange sundress that ends a few inches above her knees, and a pale-pink cardigan that has silver thread running through it. And that isn't all Mitchell was right about, because Jeanne is the most stunning girl I have ever set eyes on. Her skin is flawless and glows without looking sweaty, and her eyes are shaped and colored like milk chocolate almonds.

And she looks as if she would like nothing more than to kick Alfarin's ass from here to the White House.

Mitchell immediately runs over and hauls a disoriented Alfarin to his feet. Mitchell himself looks as if he's in shock. I don't know whether that's because he has just seen his mom again, or because Alfarin is getting beaten up by a girl.

The angel with spiked hair skips over. She is actually skipping, as if she doesn't have a care in the world. The biggest grin I've ever seen lights up her heart-shaped face. Her eyes are turquoise and match the tips of her hair. In the photo she had pink tips, but I like these even more. And perfect skin is clearly a pass into Up There, because this angel is exquisite.

“Move away from her, Johnny,” the angel says in an accent that I think is Australian. “You terrified the poor thing, running at her like a madman.”

I'm stroking Elinor's face, but the red-haired angel is still trying to reach her. Alfarin roars again, but he seems reluctant to take on Jeanne, who is standing her ground in front of him and Mitchell.

Elinor starts to moan. Her eyes flicker, and then her hand immediately goes to the back of her neck.

“Out of my way, wench!” shouts Alfarin. “I do not hit the daughters of the Valkyrie, but I will make an exception if you do not let me tend to my princess.”

“I would like to see you try,” snarls Jeanne, calling Alfarin's bluff. Her accent is definitely French.

“I cannot hit a woman,” whispers Alfarin to Mitchell. “You must do it, my friend.”

“I'm not hitting a woman, either,” replies Mitchell. “Especially one I just saw slam-dunk you. And she's Joan of Arc. She's a saint.”

“I was not slam-dunked. I slipped on the wet grass.”

“She totally owned you, Alfarin.”

The angel called Angela bends down over Elinor and strokes her long red hair. Her eyes twinkle with starlight. It's hypnotic.

“She's just as pretty as you said, Johnny,” she says warmly. “We thought you would all come here. We've been waiting for ages. Jeanne wanted to leave, of course, but Owen said we had to stay.”

Then she leans forward and hugs me.

The angel hugs me! Surprisingly, it's like being wrapped in ice.

“Wow, you're really hot!” she exclaims. “I don't mean hot as in I fancy you, although you are very pretty. Your
skin
is very hot. I'm Angela, by the way—Angela Jackson. Dead five years and counting, thanks to cancer. Seventeen years old forever, although I had cancer from the age of five. Totally sucked. Family trait, unfortunately. The Big C also got my mum and granny.”

“M-Medusa,” I stutter.

“Where is Owen?” snaps Jeanne. “He needs to know we have found the devil infidels.”

“
Jeanne!
” exclaims Angela. “Be nice.” The angel called Johnny is still staring at Elinor.

“Hang on,” I say, shaking my head, trying to comprehend
everything that has happened in the last couple of minutes. “You just said Elinor was as pretty as
he
said.” I point to the angel called Johnny. “But he doesn't know Elinor. They've never met. Elinor's a devil, and she's been dead for hundreds of years. And why were you waiting for
us
? We came here to find
you
. What's going on?”

“Say nothing, Angela,” snaps Jeanne. “We were told to trust no one, especially devils.”

Angela rolls her eyes at me; she's still stroking Elinor's hair. Static from her fingers is causing the thick red strands to dance like a marionette's limbs.

“Elinor,” whispers Johnny. “Wake up, Elinor.”

Elinor stirs again. This time her bottle-green eyes open and stay that way. She looks up into Angela's face with wonder, and I see the starlight reflected in Elinor's inky pupils.

“Nice to meet you, Elinor,” says Angela. “I'm sorry we scared you. You didn't hurt yourself, did you? That was a pretty impressive drop—very elegant—but I think your brother was rather excited at seeing you again after all this time.”

“
Brother?
”

The cacophony of our chorusing voices echoes around the graveyard.

“Our John, is it really ye?”

“Hey, sis. Long time no see.”

Elinor scrambles to her feet and throws herself into the angel's arms. Mitchell, Alfarin and I gape at each other with wide-open mouths. I can actually see Alfarin's molars, although I wish I couldn't because they don't look too good. Did Septimus mention at any point in the office that the fourth angel was Elinor's brother? I'm sure he didn't. Now that I think about it, Johnny's last name had been redacted in the information Septimus shared with us about Team ANGEL. Septimus must have done that because Elinor would have said something right away.

First Mitchell, now Elinor. How many more family members are we going to come across? I don't know how to feel about this turn of events. I'm an only child, so I know I don't really get the
bond between siblings, but I'm moved almost to tears by the sight of Elinor and Johnny, who are now jumping up and down and laughing. They're so happy to see each other. I'm not jealous, but I do wonder if anyone would ever be that happy to see me.