The Devil's Dreamcatcher (25 page)

“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.”

“To Hell with the Skin-Walkers!” cries Elinor. “M, what is Owen talking about? Does this have something to do with why we were outside yer house in San Francisco?”

“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.

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 vanquished. 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.”

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?