The Devil's Dreamcatcher (28 page)

“Hold on, Miss Pallister,” says Septimus. “I will leave the boy. Just hold on.”

I'm lying in a shallow, stone-filled hole. I try to raise my head, but I can't. I want to say good-bye to the Dreamcatcher, but my throat is now so swollen, nothing comes out. He looks back at me once as he follows Septimus through a line of trees. The Devil's accountant still won't touch him, and I'm overwhelmed by the feeling that if I could speak, I wouldn't be saying good-bye to him, I would be telling him to run.

The world is dissolving into time and space. The images I'm now seeing, haunting me before my eyes, don't make sense. I can see the HalfWay House, glinting under a rainbow, but that dissolves into an image of Elinor throwing a young boy out of a burning building.

So much fire. I'm burning up. No wonder Jeanne was so scared of the flames.

Alfarin is on fire, too, but not through immolation. Instead, he's lying on a longboat in choppy water.

I've changed my mind. I want to be an angel. I don't want to feel this pain anymore. I don't want to feel anything anymore.

But I have offered myself up as the next Dreamcatcher, and I know that soon, I will never feel anything but pain.

“Don't let me go, don't let me go.”

The words are in my head, but they aren't mine. They belong to another Medusa. The one who disappeared from time?

“Don't let me go.”

Septimus is back. We disappear on the wind.

When I wake up, I'm lying supine on a rock-hard bed. It's comfortably warm. I blink several times as tiny red spotlights shine down on me.

Where am I?

There's a slight whiff of antiseptic in the air, and something else, too. I think it's lavender, because it reminds me of the flowers my grandmother used to have in huge clumps in her garden.

“Don't try to move,” says a bored-sounding voice over an intercom. “You won't get very far if you try.”

So, of course, I do—and quickly find out that I can't. There are thick straps holding down my arms and legs. I raise my head, just a fraction, and see wires and tubes of various colors, pumping liquid into my limbs.

“What's going on?” I ask. “Where are the others? Where are Mitchell, Alfarin and Elinor?”

“You really need to stay still, you know,” replies the voice, completely ignoring my question. “The antiserum takes far longer to work if the . . . patient . . . is resisting.”

“Antiserum . . . what are you putting in me?” I cry. “Where's Mitchell? Where's Septimus?”

There's a crackle, and then another voice—with a deep southern accent—drawls throughout the room.

“You are in quarantine, Miss Pallister,” says Septimus. “As is the remainder of Team DEVIL.”

“What happened? Where are you? I can't see where you are.”

“Healer Travis, could you leave us for one moment?” asks Septimus. “Miss Pallister needs to be debriefed, and as I am still unable to enter her decontamination chamber, I will have to do it over the speaker system.”

“Can't do that, General Septimus. Orders from The Devil. All eight are to be kept under observation.”

My neck is aching, so I lie flat once more, trying to take in my surroundings. The room looks small, only fifteen square feet at the most, and it's windowless. I know I'm back in Hell when I note the black stone walls, but unlike the rest of Hell, they don't drip with moisture. There aren't any shadows, either, even with the red lights above glaring down.

I'm naked underneath a white sheet. There's no sensation of pain anymore. The only part of me that I can really see is my hands, and they are a pale orange. There's a drip with three red prongs inserted into the middle three fingers on my right hand. On the left, there's a thick yellow tube dispensing liquid into my wrist. My skin is actually bubbling up as the mixture pumps through my body.

The next sound I hear is a dull thump, quickly followed by the clatter of several metal implements falling onto the rock floor.

“Miss Pallister?” says Septimus over the intercom.

“Septimus, what's going on?”

“Healer Travis has just—accidentally—fallen onto my fist. It is ironic just how many times these days I find myself saying these next words, but we do not have long.”

“The little boy?”

“Is gone. The official report is that he was destroyed when the Unspeakable unleashed him as a weapon. You and I are the only ones who know the truth, but the lie has been accepted and the truth will stay with us. There is to be a meeting in the next twenty-four hours, when the next Dreamcatcher is chosen.”

“Not Mitchell's brother.”

“He was the next name on the list. A threat to ensure that Team DEVIL did not fail. This is not a situation of my choosing, but I am running out of options, Miss Pallister.”

“You have to get me out of here, Septimus.”

“You need to think this through very carefully, Miss Pallister. Your intentions, while very brave and noble, could unlock a chain of events over which you will have no control. I strongly counsel you against this course of action.”

“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.

The little Italian lady takes a long, hard gaze at each of us in turn.

“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.