The Devil's Banshee

by Donna Hosie

  “You can put me down now, Mitchell,” says Medusa. “Thank Hell you have long legs. I don’t think I would have been able to stretch over those crumbled steps.”

  Jeanne gives Mitchell a look of utter contempt.

  “Jokes and foolish gestures will be your undoing, Mitchell Johnson.”

  “And not learning how to take an occasional break to smell the coffee will be yours, Jeanne,” replies Mitchell as Medusa slides off him and heads straight for Elinor. “I bet if there’s one dead person who could still have a stroke or heart attack, it would be you. I can feel your dead blood pressure rising from here. But since I’m a gentleman, I won’t say any more, except thanks for saving Elinor and Alfarin back there.” Then he turns to punch me on the arm and whispers, “Totally called it, dude. I knew she was here.” Mitchell, reveling in his victory, rocks back on his heels for a moment. But then he cannot help himself and turns back to Jeanne. “I’ve gotta say, though, you’re not as sneaky as you thought. I knew you were here all along. So you might want to practice those covert ops skills a little more, because—”

  “Stop it!” cries Medusa. “Can’t you see something is still wrong with El?”

  Medusa is bent over Elinor. I thought they were having a girl moment, which is why I did not intrude, but now that Medusa has spoken, it is clear that Elinor is struggling.

  She became The Devil before she fell. I saw it with my own eyes. And I am put in mind of the time when Medusa told us of her encounter with the little boy—the former Dreamcatcher—in the land of the living not long ago. She said he spoke with The Devil’s voice. But she made no mention of his taking on The Devil’s features.

  Before I can get to Elinor, Virgil leans over her. He is muttering something in a language I do not know.

  “What is he doing?” I ask Mitchell.

  “No idea,” replies Mitchell, biting down on his lip with concern. “Alfarin, when I was trying to stop Medusa from falling, I heard . . . something. And then you said, ‘He’s gone . . . You have beaten him back.’ What did you mean?”

  I do not want to say the words aloud. Not because I am scared, but because I do not want Elinor to hear me say them. Mitchell mouths The Devil, and I lower my head.

  Without saying it, Mitchell and I come to an understanding. I would expect no less from a friend who is akin to a twin brother, although one who is different in height, girth and body hair. I saw The Devil in Elinor, and Mitchell heard him. Neither Mitchell nor I make any attempt to get closer to Elinor. It is not cowardice that holds us back. I would plunge into the abyss time and time again for her, and I know Mitchell would put his puny body on the line for her, or any one of us, without a second thought as well. But now my mind is thinking of our domain and the trickery of The Devil.

  It had never crossed my mind to question Medusa’s miraculous return from The Devil’s inner sanctum with our friend. I was a mess, traversing between rage and sorrow at what had happened to Elinor, and how she was changed. Yet there was also relief that Elinor was free of her torment as The Devil’s Dreamcatcher.

  But is this devil traveling with us truly Elinor? It is a question I have to ask. Was Team DEVIL really reunited in the heart of the library? Is this another one of The Devil’s nefarious tricks, and if so, where is my princess? If this is not our beloved friend, then I will tear apart the Afterlife to find her.

  And I will destroy any false apparition with my bare hands.

  “I am well, Virgil,” says Elinor, pushing the guide away. “I was not myself for a moment, but . . .”

  Then she sees the blood that has stained her T-shirt.

  “Alfarin, Jeanne—what happened to El? Why is she covered in blood?” asks Medusa.

  “Ask the Viking, not me,” replies Jeanne. “I should not have had to reveal myself to you all so soon. General Septimus said—”

  “Alfarin, what happened to me?” begs Elinor. “I cannot remember.”

  Her voice cuts to my soul. It is full of sadness and fear. I want to believe that this is my princess. I am certain I could not be fooled by anyone else, but the thought of conversing with an imposter tears at my insides with a ragged blade.

  “The peasant will struggle through the next circle,” says Virgil quietly. “Her fear will not be the sort that can be held at bay by shutting one’s eyes or blocking one’s ears. The simple heat of the Sixth will test and pull at her very existence.”

  “Yours, too, Jeanne,” adds Medusa.

  “I am not afraid,” Jeanne replies.

  “This is more than fear,” I say. “These are trials that seize on the very essence of our souls.”

  I must think. I am their leader. We are on the cusp of entering the Sixth Circle. There has to be a way to get through this. A possible solution dawns on me. “Can you take Elinor separately?” I ask Jeanne. “You have the gift of speed when you immolate. We will continue our passage on foot and will hunt for Beatrice Morrigan, but can you take her through to the other side and wait for us?”

  “You think I am a common mule, with no use other than for carrying your bodies?”

  I take a step toward her as Elinor struggles to stand. Even Virgil with his pious countenance has taken pity on what my princess has become. He supports one of Elinor’s arms while Medusa takes the other.

  “You are the Maid of Orléans, a legend through the ages,” I reply. “And I ask this favor of you now, warrior to warrior. The battle to come will be bigger than anything you or I have ever witnessed or feared. Lord Septimus sent you—you, Jeanne—to watch over us for a reason. I am turning to you for aid. Elinor has absorbed the very essence of The Devil, for no other reason that she was the purest of us all. I believe that her very proximity to the entrance of the Sixth, with its heat and flame, was enough to draw The Devil out of her. I fear she will not endure the next circle because of the manner of her death.”

  “She was burned, but she did not perish by flame,” replies Jeanne. “General Septimus told me that you were responsible for that.”

  “And in the depths of your torment on the pyre, did you not wish for an end to your suffering? For I would have done it, Jeanne. I would have put you out of your misery if I could.”

  Jeanne gnaws on her inner cheeks as she considers this, which makes her already thin face look almost skeletal. Her long dark hair is braided down one side. She flicks the plait over her shoulder and turns on her heels. Without another word, she erupts into a blinding light.

  When the pain in my eyes has subsided and the dark splotches in my vision have dissolved, it is just me, Mitchell, Medusa and Virgil.

  “That was a risk, Viking,” says Virgil. “Yet a sensible one. Your woman transformed, didn’t she?”

  “She did.”

  “Transformed . . . into what?” asks Medusa.

  “The fear of traveling through a circle where the Unspeakables are continually burned caused your friend to suffer a Turning,” replies Virgil, beckoning us on with a gnarled hand.

  “A Turning?” asks Medusa.

  “You have heard it before, Medusa,” I say. “In the Dreamcatcher.”

  “I knew it was The Devil’s voice!” says Mitchell. “His laugh. I hear it all the time. It makes me feel sick.”

  “Are you saying Elinor spoke with The Devil’s voice?” asks Medusa.

  “She did not just speak with his voice,” replies Virgil. “I could sense the change in our surroundings, and the smell and taste of death, unlike any other. The peasant girl must have worn his face. I wanted . . . to see . . . ,” he murmurs.

  Mitchell mouths his three favorite letters: W, T, and F. Medusa mouths the words in their entirety. I mouth the Viking translation. Why would Virgil want to see The Devil? He should be thankful he could not see the horror in Elinor we just witnessed. Just when I think our guide is becoming useful, he reminds me that he is actually the most unstable of us all.

  The remaining members of Team DEVIL have reached the arch of the Sixth Circle. Virgil has already passed through. The
reflections of bright-orange flames dance across the black stone. Medusa keeps opening her mouth like a fish, but nothing comes out. She is lost for words.

  “Look. We’re nearly halfway through the nine,” says Mitchell encouragingly. “We have Jeanne now, too, and while she is the Afterlife’s biggest pain in the ass, she’s gonna help us.”

  “Are you sure about that?” growls a voice from the flaming shadows.

  A Skin-Walker steps toward us. He seems to materialize from the fire. His wolf pelt is bristling with a black haze. Each individual hair—a mixture of black, gray and white—is standing on end. The head of a wolf is mounted atop his own. His long, black teeth are coated with what looks to be remnants of raw meat.

  “We aren’t protected anymore,” whispers Medusa.

  Wise Medusa is right. In sparing Elinor the torment of traveling through a circle where Unspeakables are constantly roasted in flames, we have left ourselves at the mercy of the Skin-Walkers.

  And mercy is not a word in the Skin-Walkers’ vocabulary.

  “We just want passage through,” says Mitchell bravely. “Virgil is our guide. We’re looking for Beatrice Morrigan, the original Dreamcatcher.”

  “Fools,” snarls the Skin-Walker. “Do you think an old man who had blackness in his heart before he died, and who found his piety too late, can lead you to what you want? Or where you want to go?”

  “Virgil showed Dante,” I reply, inching myself in front of Medusa.

  “Dante was but one soul, and we took payment from him in the end,” replies the Skin-Walker, licking his fleshy split lips with a black tongue. “We took his eyes when it was his time. Payment in kind.”

  “So you want payment from us?” I ask.

  “You’re not getting my eyes!” exclaims Mitchell. “I might not like having pink ones, but they’re still mine.”

  “We’ll take the girl,” says the Skin-Walker, leering at Medusa. He takes a step toward her and we all take two steps back. “Cupidore may even let us have a taste first.”

  “There’s only one,” whispers Mitchell, turning his back to the Skin-Walker to talk to me. “Can you take him down with your . . .”

  Mitchell trails off. His eyes widen as he peers over my right shoulder. I know he’s not breathing, but his Adam’s apple is bobbing as if it has been placed in water. His black pupils have dilated so much that just a sliver of pink surrounds them.

  My own senses have betrayed me. They have become so acclimated to the rotten stench of death and decay in this forsaken place that I did not notice their silent arrival.

  Behind us, slinking out of the dark like the monsters of the deep, are three more Skin-Walkers. The custodians of the Circles we have already passed through.

  We are surrounded.

  Átján

  Alfarin and Elinor

  “Is Hell, or Valhalla, what ye expected it to be, Alfarin?” asked Elinor. New devices called computers had been installed in devil resources, and I was attempting to connect a mouse to the back end of one. The pesky little creature would not comply and had already bitten me twice.

  “Hell is not what I expected,” I replied testily, my annoyance increasing. “I do not understand why there is always so much change, for one thing. What is wrong with paper and pen for record keeping? And how is a mouse supposed to help? Surely it will just eat its way through the records.”

  The cursed creature had run up my arm and was taking refuge in my armpit. As a result, I was squirming as if there were ants in my pants.

  “Hell is not what I expected, either,” replied Elinor. “When I was living, Hell was always spoken of as a place to be feared, but I like the structure here and knowing where I am in the bigger picture.”

  “I understand your sentiment, Elinor,” I said. “If Hell means having to work for the rest of your existence, then I have nothing to fear. Vikings are born hardworking.”

  “And clearly ticklish,” said Elinor, smiling. “Alfarin, ye picked up the wrong kind of mouse again, didn’t ye?”

  I nodded, abashed. I had made a mistake in the hardware—again. Who was the imbecile who named the hard plastic device for controlling a computer a mouse? Why, it didn’t even have whiskers. Unlike the little beastie that was now gnawing a hole in my tunic . . .

  “Lift up yer arms, Alfarin,” said Elinor. “I will get it out.”

  I did as I was instructed. Elinor had soft hands, and her fingers were gliding over my body like feathers as she played chase with the mouse. Elinor and I had hugged, and even walked arm in arm before, but this was terrifying and glorious. A woman was actually touching me. I wanted to suck in my stomach, for I wanted her to notice my muscles, but that just made my chest pump out like I had the bosoms of a woman. Elinor was giggling and talking to the mouse like it was a child as she chased it with her delicate hands; I was so self-conscious of the contact between us I forgot there was a mouse there at all.

  I was fairly sure I couldn’t even remember my name.

  By the time Elinor had the creature hanging by its tail, my tunic was shredded and I was heaving with hiccups.

  I was also rather keen for the mouse to go back to my armpit.

  “I bet ye didn’t think ye would be doing this in Valhalla,” said Elinor, laughing as she placed the mouse on the ground. We watched the escapee from the laboratories scuttle off into a safe, dark crevice. Elinor turned her attention to smoothing what was left of my tunic. “But do ye wish, Alfarin, just occasionally, that ye could visit Up There?”

  “Up There is not a domain that plays or weighs heavily in my dead heart, Elinor,” I replied. “But I am aware that there are many devils in Hell who wish to at least visit kin and friends of old.”

  “I would love to see my brothers and sister again,” said Elinor.

  “Do you think passage between the two domains will be possible one day?” I asked. “I cannot see the master of Hell agreeing to that.”

  “I never saw open fields or unsullied landscapes when I was alive,” said Elinor wistfully. “I have seen paintings and photographs now in books, but I lived in the crowded slums. I would like to sit atop a horse one day and just gaze out toward a horizon that never ends.”

  “Elinor, a horse has teeth larger than my great-aunt Dagmar’s,” I replied, watching her as she skillfully installed and then traversed the correct computer mouse across her new desk. “Never sit astride a beast with a mouth that can swallow you whole.”

  “It’s just a thought,” said Elinor. “Ye know, I think I can take on the extra work that’s on offer from the housing administration team now that I have this computer ready to go. I will be able to check names of the dead in two places now, just to make sure. Ye should learn how to use one, too, Alfarin. Apparently they have games you can play, and you love sport, I know you do.”

  “The only sport I need is a good fight,” I replied, picking the remnants of my tunic up off the floor. “And Hunt the Mouse will be today’s quest.”

  “Oh, be off with ye,” said Elinor, smiling. “He’s already beaten ye once today. Do ye really want to repeat the exercise?”

  I didn’t tell Elinor that I actually did.

  18. Plan C

  Skin-Walkers from the four circles of treachery, fraud, violence and heresy have surrounded us. Perfidious, their leader, stands several inches taller than the others, but all have an aura of hatred swirling around them that assaults the senses. Perhaps their true nature is more defined here in their dwelling. The dark auras begin to manifest in shadows of the tormented Unspeakables begging and clawing for a way out. The shadows reach up the rock walls, as if they are almost escaping, and then they are dragged back down into the dark, swirling haze that surrounds the Skin-Walkers. The smell that emanates from the Skin-Walkers is so rank it pushes down on me. It is too overpowering to be categorized as one odor. It is toxic, bitter and sickening. It is a stench beyond that of rotting death.

  My first thought is the preservation of my two friends, but that is closely followed by
thankfulness that Elinor is not here. She has been threatened by Skin-Walkers before. I know Jeanne will keep her safe, even if her tongue is sharp while doing so.

  Four Skin-Walkers. Three members of Team DEVIL. The odds are with the sickening wolf-men. Mitchell would sacrifice himself for Medusa in a dead heartbeat, but he is weaponless. Medusa is quick-thinking, but she is what the Skin-Walkers desire because of her close connection to the evil that courses through her Unspeakable stepfather, Rory Hunter. Virgil has already walked ahead of us into the Sixth Circle, but even if he were here, he is a blind old man who has knowledge of the Circles, nothing more.

  I am armed, but I cannot take on four of Hell’s first creations.

  “I see fear in your bloodred eyes, Viking,” says Perfidious. The wolf pelt on his head opens its mouth and shudders, as if it’s laughing.

  “Let us go on,” I reply. “We have not come here to cause trouble for you.”

  The lone Skin-Walker standing behind us growls. “But we welcome trouble, don’t we, Visolentiae?” it says. “And doesn’t this one owe you a Minotaur?”

  “The Viking would be a worthy replacement, Haeresilion,” snarls the Skin-Walker called Visolentiae. “So much propensity for violence in one soul . . . It’s a wonder he escaped eternity with me, considering how many of his murderous brethren I now have the pleasure of keeping so . . . entertained down here.”

  A shudder rends through my spine as I sense the Skin-Walker named Haeresilion sniffing the air behind me. Mitchell’s right hand is now wrapped around the strap of his backpack. He has already slipped his left arm out of it. He could use that as a weight to smack a foe, but it would only serve to delay the fight, not stop it—and Medusa has no bag at all.

  Then I feel an electric pulse against my spine. My skin is damp, for it is so hot, and the moisture acts as a conductor as the charge beats against my back, reminding me that I lived once. The sensation is strange, yet familiar. The pulsing makes me think of land and sea and the blue sky.