The Devil's Dreamcatcher (20 page)

Mitchell continues to shake, and I can still feel the heat rippling through his body, but it's coming and going in waves.

I soften my voice even further. “Keep the anger, but control it, Mitchell. You can do this.”

But he can't, not any longer. Mitchell screams, and I am blown ten feet through the night air as he becomes a fireball once more. Yet this time, it
is
different, because instead of relying on the others to drag him back into the water to extinguish, Mitchell is able to stagger in by himself. The sea sizzles and steams as he falls beneath a breaking wave.

“That was slightly better,” offers Owen. “He definitely controlled it for a moment.”

“We'll need to practice near water,” I say as Mitchell emerges from the surf, lumbering like a smoking Godzilla.

“Can I make a suggestion?” asks Angela. “What about my home country of New Zealand? It's filled with lakes and open spaces. We might scare some sheep, but it isn't populated.”

“I thought you were from Australia,” I reply, but my mind is suddenly elsewhere, filled with another memory. Something about sheep. And Mitchell. Why are sheep making me think of Mitchell? He doesn't smell like sheep. He smells kind of nice, like fries and chocolate.

Angela rolls her pretty turquoise eyes. “Everyone north of the equator says that, but my accent is nicer. And New Zealand is far more beautiful than Australia. We have volcanoes, and ice-blue lakes with glaciers, and you should see the mountain ranges!”

“Can you think of somewhere specific that we could train?” I ask. “It has to be near water, and nowhere near people. Coming to Stinson Beach was a fortunate coincidence. I can't handle the thought of what would have happened to Mitchell if we had traveled from Owen's time to somewhere where we couldn't put out the fire.”

“Sure,” replies Angela. “We could head to the South Island and the Mackenzie District. I know it well. The flats of Twizel would be perfect for Jeanne to teach us how to control our speed, and the glacier lakes near Aoraki will put out any flames. If you travel to a time and date in the month of January, it will be summer and not too cold. We could camp out.”

“But January is a winter month,” says Owen.

“Not in the Southern Hemisphere, dummy,” replies Angela. “Oh, please say we can go, Medusa! I want to make a contribution. So far, all I've done is scream a lot and get my white jeans dirty. I want to help. Please.”

Tiny particles of sand are spinning around the spitting flames of the Viciseometer. I can feel them flagellating my skin.

“I'll need a date and time, Angela.”

“You're the best!” cries Angela, skipping forward. “Right, why don't we travel to the first of January 2015? We should go early in the morning, because the entire country will be hungover from New Year's Eve. No one will be about, not even the tourists.”

It sounds like a plan. I don't ask Cupidore or Visolentiae if they're coming. I know they're still here, watching us, watching me, from the shadows. Septimus might want them to accompany us, but
I'm not going to travel in the flames with them, and they don't seem to have any problem time-traveling on their own, anyway.

With the red needle held tightly between my right thumb and forefinger, I manipulate the hands of the milky-white face to lock in the time of seven o'clock. I flip it over and move the three black hands to the day and month and then the four slithering snakes that represent the four digits of 2015. An electrical current ripples up my back. I sense the static in my hair. The year 2015 is far into any future I may have had.

“I'll hold the Viciseometer, Angela,” I say. “But you need to be touching it. You need to visualize the place we're going to, and you need to see it in the morning, not evening.”

Angela's slim, pale fingers hover over the red, flaming face of Hell's timepiece. She looks nervously at Owen, and he smiles at her.

“Wait,” calls Jeanne. “Why do we continue to use the infidel's Viciseometer and not our own? Why should we have to travel with them? Why can it not be the other way? I do not want to see flames anymore. I want to see blue sky and sense the sun on my face, not the destructive force of fire.”

I pull my hand away from Angela, but as I do, a sudden charge from the Viciseometer surges through my hand. It travels up my arm and stabs painfully into my chest.

Does it know I'm planning to travel by another Viciseometer? Can this thing sense emotion and betrayal? A sudden thought flickers in my head. Is the Viciseometer a conscious object? I hadn't even considered that before, but the more I think about it, the more it seems possible. This little watch can change anyone's destiny, whether they're living or dead.

“What's wrong, Medusa?” asks Alfarin. His eyebrows are furrowed into a unibrow.

“I just . . . it just felt . . .”

I swap looks with Elinor. I'll test out my theory on her, Mitchell and Alfarin later, when we have time away from the angels. We aren't a team of eight; we are two teams of four, and I must never forget that.

“So we travel with our Viciseometer this time?” asks Owen, and once more I see a flash of red in his eyes.

“Are you certain, Medusa?” asks Alfarin. “We will follow your lead.”

“Why not?” I reply. I must admit, I'm eager to see what traveling by the blue Viciseometer is like.

I watch Owen input the same coordinates. The red Viciseometer shocks me again as I tuck it back into my pocket, and pinpricks stab at my scalp. Mitchell is propped up between me and Alfarin, and although he's still wobbly, he can at least support his own weight. Elinor holds hands with Alfarin and her brother while Jeanne moves in on my left. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but nothing comes out. There's definitely a hint of a reconciliatory smile, though. She's warming to me, I think. Slowly. Very slowly. Maybe in four hundred years or so, Jeanne will call me by my name and not
infidel
.

“Okay, Angela,” says Owen, holding the blue Viciseometer on the flat of his palm. It floats up, just a fraction, until it's hovering above his pale skin. Brilliant white stars twinkle around the silver rim.

“I'm taking us to Lake Pukaki,” says Angela. She screws up her heart-shaped face in concentration as her slim fingers touch the Viciseometer.

We all huddle even tighter. Jeanne drops all pretense of being badass and takes my hand. I give it a quick squeeze to show I understand, but I don't look at her. I know what it feels like to
want
to trust people, and the intent right now on her part is good enough for me.

The blue face of the Viciseometer starts to swirl. The blue is becoming lighter and lighter. Instinctively, we all lean in.

Then, just as Angela calls out “
Now
,” the stench of rotten meat washes over us, and the sound of the breaking waves is replaced by howls and screams.

Cupidore and Visolentiae are traveling through time with us.

The panic alarm in Hell was bad enough. Hearing the sound of the scream I made as I plummeted toward the Golden Gate Strait,
a channel of water that might as well have been concrete considering the force I hit it with, was horrific. But the terror bleeding into our ears now is far worse. With the Skin-Walkers among us, I don't just hear the screams of the tortured in Hell, I can feel them. Their dread, their fear. The spirits flying through time with us now are not just begging for death, they are begging for nothing. A cessation of their existence. Their screams are burrowing into my bones, biting and scratching. Their pain is mine, and it's excruciating.

The terrible sounds continue, but we've stopped flying. I'm lying on my back, staring up into a cloudless blue sky. I want to move, I need to run, but my limbs are like lead. A hand reaches for mine. It's Mitchell. His hand is so hot I fear it will melt away before I can grab it back.

I realize that the moaning and screaming I'm hearing are coming from Team ANGEL. They're in pain.

But angels can't feel pain, can they? I thought that was one of the advantages of getting into Up There.

I manage to raise my aching neck and back off the ground. My arms don't appear to belong to me as I force them back into the ground. It's like manipulating pastry dough.

Angela is the first angel I see. She's sitting, but her legs are drawn up tightly into her body. I can't see her face because she's buried it in her knees, but from the way her shoulders are convulsing, it's clear she's crying.

Johnny is the only dead man standing. He's brushing at his arms, torso and legs, trying to dislodge something that's no longer there.

Jeanne is dry-heaving into the base of a large fir tree. She hollers after every painful retch.

And Owen isn't moving. He's not seeing. He's just lying there. His eyes are wide open and his mouth is a silent scream.

“Medusa,” groans Mitchell. “Is everyone . . . here? I can't see.”

I crawl closer to him. His burning hand is still touching mine. As gently as I can, I brush the blackened skin on his cheek.

“We're all here, Mitchell.”

“How could we hear that?” gasps Mitchell. “The victims of the Skin-Walkers. They have their tongues torn out. So how could we hear them scream? That sound was beyond pain. It was awful.”

“I don't know,” I reply. “The Skin-Walkers feed off pain. I think what we heard was what those monsters have absorbed, but it's okay now. They're gone. The Skin-Walkers aren't here.”

I knew this as soon as we landed because the scent of summer is clean and flowery around us. And while Team ANGEL doesn't sound so hot right now, the spirits and pain of the tortured dead, trapped in the nine circles of Hell, have gone, too. Hell knows where the Skin-Walkers have disappeared to, and I hate the thought of them roaming the land of the living while they wait for the Unspeakable to find me. They gave us their word they wouldn't hurt anyone else, but treachery is in their nature, and I don't know how long they'll have to wait.

Alfarin pulls himself up by his axe, which sinks into the earth. We are surrounded by long yellow grass and dark-green fir trees. Small bushes with tiny thorns are everywhere.

“In all of Valhalla, I have never seen such a sight,” says Alfarin. “Come, my princess. The beauty of this place is but matched by your own.”

I continue to stroke Mitchell's face. One eyelid is swollen shut; his other eye is open, but bloodshot. I'm so used to pink and red irises, it seems strange seeing that color in the whites of his eyes, but the blue is still there. So deep, so pretty.

“How are we going to do this, Medusa?” he whispers. “This is so sick, so evil, I can't even . . .”

“I know, I know,” I say. Already his skin is starting to heal as the burned flesh changes under my fingertips. Scaly black becomes swollen red, and swollen red becomes pale pink before my eyes.

One problem at a time, I decide. We train and then we fight.

“You have a plan, don't you,” whispers Mitchell again. It isn't a question.

“What makes you say that?” Our heads are so close, my hair is bouncing on his forehead.

“Because you look . . . you look . . . alive.”

“You just can't see very well,” I whisper back.

My mouth is so close to his now. The smell of burned flesh is gone. Mitchell is whole again, truly whole. I can't understand why he's in Hell. He almost combusted in the rage he felt for a little boy he has never even met.

He's an angel.

My thoughts are interrupted by coughing. Alfarin and Elinor are standing—arm in arm—and staring down at me and Mitchell. I immediately pull away, although I don't want to.

Alfarin pulls us to our feet, and we both gasp at the scene before us.

Angela has taken us to the edge of an enormous lake, surrounded by mountains, the largest of which are covered in snow. I've never seen water like it. The lake shimmers as if it's filled with aquamarines.

“Is this real?” asks Mitchell.

“It reminds me of the home of my fathers,” says Alfarin. “I have seen this place in many a book in Hell, never knowing that one day I would witness it with my own eyes. You see that mountain in the distance? That is Aoraki, the son of the Sky Father. This land is Aotearoa, one of the most beautiful places known to man.”

“Ye know a lot about other cultures, Alfarin,” says Elinor, clearly impressed.

“I am a Viking prince, not a heathen,” replies Alfarin, swinging his axe onto his shoulder.

Team DEVIL stands together, drinking in this amazing piece of Up There on earth, and I can think of no better place to prepare for what we're about to do.

The angels are still struggling to cope with the fact that they just time-traveled with two of the Skin-Walkers. Team DEVIL has already recovered. I am so proud of my friends' resilience.

My grandmother once told me that strangers were just friends you hadn't met yet. After everything that happened when we moved away from her, I stopped thinking of that sentence in a positive way, but now I get what she meant. Strangers can become friends, and I desperately want to believe that Mitchell, Alfarin and Elinor see me that way now, too.

I'm not sure how friendship works with angels. Angela and Johnny appear to have some kind of bond, but Owen and Jeanne are still in a lonely state of shock. They could take comfort from each other, but they don't.

Death and then an existence in Hell have hardened me up for what we're about to do, but I'm starting to think that maybe we need to cut our losses and break off from Team ANGEL sooner rather than later. I'm not sure they have the nerves for what I'm planning. Not even Jeanne.

Then again, I need that other Viciseometer. It's one thing to become a weapon, but to be invisible is a tool like no other. The Skin-Walkers didn't see or even appear to sense the others when they rescued me in Washington. The only way we have a chance to
retrieve the Dreamcatcher from the Unspeakable is if he can't see us as we fight him.