Free The Devil's Dreamcatcher by Donna Hosie Page A

replaced, ye see. So then we time-traveled to Washington to the point where Mitchell died, and Mitchell was going to prevent his death, but he realized if he did, then M.J. would never be born. So he chose not to change his death. And then . . .” Elinor suddenly stops talking. She’s looking at me strangely.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” I ask. “Are you okay, Elinor? You don’t look well.”
    â€œAnd then . . .” She pauses again. “Then we ended up in San Francisco because we were looking for something,” she says, gazing at the wall. “But we don’t know what. Not one of us can remember.”
    â€œCouldn’t have been important, then,” I reply, trying to lighten the black cloud that suddenly seems to be filling the office. I see movement in the corner and realize the shadows are with us. I think they’re listening.
    Elinor is grabbing at the back of her neck again.
    â€œWhy do you do that, Elinor?” I ask. “Does it hurt? Would you like me to look at it?”
    â€œIt’s a habit,” she replies. “I’ve been doing it for hundreds of years now. I just like to check . . . you know . . .”
    Elinor is suddenly very preoccupied with tidying the papers on Mitchell’s desk. It looks like question time is over for now. My priorities shift. I really want to change out of my clothes. I’m still wearing my black shorts and the red shirt I wore to the interview that never was, and I hate wearing the same gear for more than one day. Not because I’m vain like Patty Lloyd, who changes five times a day, but because I sweat a lot. This is Hell, you know. Fire and brimstone and more fire. My grandmother used to have a saying:
Horses sweat, men perspire, women glow
.
    I say that’s bullshit. No one glows in Hell. We
all
sweat. I bet when they were deciding the rules of Up There and Hell, the Highers allowed angels to fart rainbows, but devils have to feel pain and sweat and bleed blood that looks like custard.
    â€œElinor, I need to go change. We could go together if you want.”
    â€œI only have this dress,” replies Elinor, pointing to her long white gown, “but I will go with ye if ye would like the company.” As she speaks, Elinor’s eyes widen and she leans forward just a fraction. I’m good at reading body language. I had to be when I was alive, and I was usually looking out for the warning signs that something bad was about to happen. But what I read here is only that Elinor is expectant, hopeful. It kinda chokes me up. I wonder if Elinor will want to hang with me, share clothes with me and, you know, just be like a normal dead girl with me, once this storm of crap is over.
    Unfortunately, getting into my dorm is hopeless. There are just too many devils. They fill every corridor, every gap. For the first time,I truly appreciate just how many of us are in here. Elinor and I trudge back toward the accounting office and find level 1 practically deserted. No one wants to be near the Oval Office. We hang out by the elevators, watching as men in black suits prowl the torch-lined corridors. The slightest noise makes them jump.
    It’s been over twenty-four hours since the alarm was sounded.
    It’s been over twenty-four hours since my stepfather took The Devil’s Dreamcatcher.
    And over twenty-four hours since he disappeared from Hell.
    I find I’m glad when Mitchell and Alfarin step out of the level 1 elevator. They’re carrying backpacks and bulging paper bags, and Mitchell has changed into a white V-neck shirt and olive-green cargo pants, which he’s complaining about. Loudly.
    â€œThe pants are fine, but the pockets kill me. This is why I normally wear jeans. I shove too much stuff in the pockets, and then I forget what I’ve stashed where. See?” He pulls what appears to be an ancient granola bar out of a pocket by his right knee.