Free The Devil's Dreamcatcher by Donna Hosie Page B

“I didn’t even feel this! Who knows how long it’s been there?”
    â€œThat is why I prefer not to wear pants with any pockets at all, my friend,” Alfarin replies. He’s wearing a pale-blue tunic over baggy black shorts that skim his knees. “At least these shorts allow my manly calves to breathe.”
    At this point, Elinor and I are doubled over with laughter. “Have ye two been shopping?” asks Elinor, gasping.
    â€œMen do not shop,” replies Alfarin, offended. “We fight, drink beer and make merry with women.”
    â€œAnd how many on that list have ye done, Alfarin?” asks Elinor as the Viking passes her a large brown paper bag.
    â€œI am very good at fighting,” mumbles Alfarin. His round face is bright red and sweaty. I can’t help grinning. Mitchell smiles shyly as he hands me a bag. His pink eyes look tired.
    I open it up and pull out a white T-shirt, a pair of red Converse sneakers and some jeans that I know right away will be too long, but I don’t care because it means no more stinky clothes.
    â€œWhere did you get this from?” I ask.
    â€œWe knew you girls would never get back to your dorms in this crush, so we got some stuff for you,” replies Mitchell. “I’m not very good at guessing sizes, but it was the best we could do.”
    â€œAnd who is Primrose Weaver?” asks Elinor, holding up a pair of cream-colored ballet flats with black marker pen etched on the pristine soles.
    â€œEr,” says Alfarin.
    â€œUm,” says Mitchell.
    â€œDid you steal these?” I ask warily.
    â€œYe thieves.”
    â€œWe’re devils. We improvised,” says Mitchell indignantly. “But look, they’re practically brand-new, Elinor. You won’t catch anything gross.”
    Just then, another suited man walks past us. I recognize him as the devil who Septimus asked to fetch a glass of water when I was being interrogated.
    â€œIt was really nice of you to think of me, Mitchell,” I say quietly, “but I’m not sure wearing stolen stuff is going to help me right now, seeing as everyone in Hell is looking for a thief.”
    â€œI wasn’t thinking,” says Mitchell, stricken. “I’m so sorry, Medusa.”
    â€œIt’s cool, honestly,” I reply. “I can’t believe you even thought of getting us fresh clothes.”
    â€œThat’s me, Mr. Considerate.”
    He ruffles my hair—again. I flick his forehead with my finger—again. I get called “short-ass”—again.
    â€œEver get the feeling of déjà vu?” I ask.
    â€œConstantly,” replies Mitchell.
    Mr. HBI walks past again, just to ruin the moment.
    â€œCan we help ye?” asks Elinor, and she smiles sweetly.
    â€œLord Septimus may have vouched for you lot, but I’m watching,” replies the man. His finger is pointed at me. It’s small and stubby, with a blackened nail that is far too long.
    Mitchell and Alfarin immediately square up to him.
    â€œAnd if you continue to harass Medusa, I’m going straight to The Devil himself,” says Mitchell. “Let’s see how brave you are when your ass is hauled into the Oval Office.”
    The HBI dude says nothing, although judging from his flaring nostrils it’s clear he would like nothing better than to continue the argument. Alfarin swings his axe onto his enormous shoulder, and the man slinks away into the shadows.
    â€œLet’s go inside,” mutters Mitchell, opening the door to the accounting office. “Septimus might be back with an update.”
    But as we walk into the office, it’s clear that someone has been in there, and that person wasn’t Septimus.
    Before, it looked like a bomb had hit it. Now it looks like a nuclear device was detonated. Papers are burning in piles on the floor, a table has been tipped over and the chairs have been ripped apart in long, serrated