The Devil's Banshee

by Donna Hosie

  “You are a witless fool who blindly follows General Septimus without question!” Jeanne screams at Mitchell.

  “Me follow Septimus blindly?” yells Mitchell. “Look who’s talking! I wasn’t the one who went into the Circles of Hell at his bidding without any backup.”

  “I knew what I was doing. I have been listening to you, intern. You know nothing about this place.”

  “What makes you such an expert? I’ve been dead for four freaking years, you witch! Most devils who died in my year are still total wrecks. Do I know everything? No! Am I affected by all this? Yes! But I deal with this crap my own way, and at least my mental state never got so bad that I was carted off to Hell’s lunatic asylum!”

  Mitchell is starting to hit below the belt, and Medusa sends me an anguished look.

  “Alfarin!” she cries. “He’s starting to get hot. Hurry.”

  Medusa has both of her arms around Mitchell’s chest, but she cannot pull him away from the confrontation with Jeanne.

  “I am an expert in all matters because I listen and learn, fool!” screams Jeanne.

  “I will follow you, Viking,” says Phlegyas, thankfully realizing just how important it is that we now leave this circle. “If you give me your word, not as a devil, but as a Viking.”

  Virgil snorts. I know he is remembering my short-lived—albeit deliberate—lies and treachery in the Ninth Circle. I did what I had to do then, and I do it now.

  “You have my word, Phlegyas,” I say. “As a Viking prince. Now take Elinor, Jeanne and Medusa first. Mitchell, Virgil and I will cross second.”

  “Do not double-cross me, Viking,” says Phlegyas. “There is a reason I was placed in this Circle of Hell.”

  “There’s no way Up There is going to take you back, Jeanne!” cries Mitchell. “You know that, don’t you? The angels don’t want you anymore!”

  “And have you ever considered the possibility that the reason General Septimus keeps sending you out on dangerous missions is because he wants to be rid of you?” screams Jeanne. “Even your own mother replaced you!”

  “Alfarin!” screams Medusa.

  The explosion that follows Jeanne’s insult catapults me through the air. I land with a thick splash in the foulness of the River Styx, and I am immediately pulled under its surface by the Unspeakables whom I have joined in torment.

  Tuttugu ok Tveir

  Alfarin, Elinor and Mitchell

  The attention some women paid to their appearance—even in Hell—baffled me and Mitchell. I had a standard uniform and never deviated from it. I favored a loose tunic over my upper body and a loose pair of shorts over my lower body. My abhorrence of constricting garments ruled supreme. In life, I wore furs for warmth and leather armor for battle. In Hell, I had no need for either.

  Mitchell favored long pants and T-shirts with messages printed on them. He wore a red T-shirt with an image of Che Guevara on it a lot, but I don’t think that was a personal favorite; he wore it often because he could not be bothered to change. My friend did not mourn its loss when I accidentally used it to mop up spilled lemonade in his dormitory one day. Mitchell and I were of the same mind: clothes existed to stop ketchup from getting on our skin.

  Elinor’s clothes were simple but pretty. She favored loose-fitting white dresses. On her feet she wore cotton or satin slippers. She made no sound when she walked, which drew less attention to her. Mitchell favored sneakers, while I chose sturdy leather boots lined with fur. The smell emanating from my feet wasn’t pleasant, even I would admit that, but my footwear served a purpose, which was to effectively kick devils out of the way when I was trying to get somewhere.

  Everything should have a purpose, even the cloth we wore.

  When it came to garments, one thing that Elinor and Mitchell had in common was their love of pockets. This also baffled me. I did not like being constrained and weighted down. Heavy items kept in pockets also had an unfortunate habit of clacking against my manliest parts. And if you find that funny, see how well you can walk when your glorious man bits have been assaulted by a hard metal object.

  Or a hard rubber object.

  Or any kind of object.

  Mitchell liked many pockets in his long trousers because he said he needed his cell phone, wallet and comb on him at all times.

  “You never know where you’ll end up one day,” he said as I met him after work. He had emptied his pockets onto the ground in a search for gum.

  “Hell,” I replied, without irony.

  A deep laugh resonated from the accounting chamber that Mitchell had just exited. The great Lord Septimus appeared in the doorway. He threw a packet of gum at me, but I was not prepared and it flew over the edge of the level 1 balcony.

  “Take it from one warrior to another, Prince Alfarin,” said Lord Septimus in his drawling accent. “Never underestimate the power that something small can wield. You would not be able to hide that magnificent axe of yours easily, but a pocket could conceal an equally powerful weapon.”

  “Pockets are for old ladies to keep their mint sweets and false teeth in,” I replied. “Not for fearsome Vikings. Vikings do not have anything to hide or contain. This is also why we do not like to wear underpants.”

  “Too much information, dude,” said Mitchell.

  But my response to Lord Septimus had been bravado. For when a general offers advice, warrior to warrior, you listen.

  So in that moment I swore a secret oath to myself, to ensure that all my shorts had at least one pocket concealed within—just in case I ever had the need to conceal a small, powerful weapon.

  22. Mitchell’s Woe

  The filth of the swamp quickly fills my mouth. I know I am yelling, but I cannot hear my own voice over the screams of those Unspeakables being tormented beside me in the depths of the River Styx. The cacophony of their high-pitched agony is not real, I know this. The Unspeakables here are like the others in the Circles of Hell, tongueless and unable to communicate by voice. Yet their agony and hopelessness have manifested themselves into something that can speak.

  And whatever it is, it’s coming for me.

  My skin is being flagellated. I cannot see by what—I will not see by what—for I must not open my eyes to the horror into which I have been thrown. Jeanne’s taunt about Mitchell’s mother set off an immolation. Devils are not supposed to be able to do that in Hell, but my friend and I have now both done it within the depths of the Nine Circles. I reached my own immolation by experiencing something so difficult to attain, and yet so pure, it took me beyond pain. Beyond hate and anger. It took me to the abode of the gods. My immolation took me to the true Valhalla. I can only hope that Mitchell is in the same kind of Paradise, for I cannot help him now.

  The writhing bodies around me are pulling me farther and farther down, and the weight of my backpack is not helping. My axe is lost. I must get to the surface or I will never break free.

  Panic is threatening to engulf me as fast as I was engulfed by this infernal river. I clench my teeth and try to refocus. I am blind and my hearing is compromised. I have nothing but rudimentary swimming skills. I manage to pull the dead weight off my back, and I feel the backpack slide down my legs. I had foreseen that both books I started this journey with would not finish the quest. I hope that is all that is lost. The Viciseometer is in the concealed pocket of my shorts. It is the first time I have ever placed an object in there, but after the need to use it in the previous circle, I must be able to get to it quickly.

  That unusual action gives me hope that hope is perhaps not willing to forsake us yet.

  I start to pull myself up through the swamp. Jagged teeth bite at my skin. The Unspeakables are already lost souls, I tell myself as I push and punch them away. I am not theirs to claim, and I will not share their torment.

  My arms and shoulders are screaming in pain as I fight against the depths of the River Styx. Now I have no sense of which way is up or down. The screaming and crying are relentless, but I find there is no empathy for these de
ad in my soul. They are here because they forfeited the right to decency in life.

  A hard object hits me in the face. Instinctively I cry out, and immediately swallow some of the swamp, which burns my throat and stomach. The hard object, thin and round, slams into my shoulder again. I push it away, but it falls on me a third time.

  I open my eyes for the first time, and amongst the bloodied, twisted limbs of the Unspeakables, I see a pole. I grab hold of it, pushing away the fingerless stumps of those around me who are also trying to find a way out.

  Phlegyas, Virgil and Mitchell are in the boat. Mitchell is bright red with weeping burned skin. The pain he is in must be immense, but he joins the others in heaving me into the boat. My ears are still ringing from the screams beneath the river, and Mitchell’s cries of agony join the chorus.

  “Where are the girls?” I splutter. I gag as the remnants of the River Styx are expelled from my stomach into the boat.

  “Your women are still on yonder shore,” replies Phlegyas.

  “Are they hurt?”

  “They are dead,” replies Virgil matter-of-factly. “But they endured the fire of your immolation,” he adds, turning to Mitchell. “And their chief concern was for you boys, Viking.”

  “That girl . . . ,” groans Mitchell. “I swear, Alfarin . . . I’m gonna take your axe to her. . . .”

  He trails off and slams his flat palm onto the bottom of the boat three times. I think he is trying to release his pain.

  “We must remove your friend from this circle with haste,” says Phlegyas. “This was his bane.”

  “Where’s my axe?” I ask. “Does anyone have it?”

  “The girl with flowing red hair found it,” says Phlegyas. “You still have the Viciseometer?”

  I feel my pocket and nod. My clothes are filthy and torn. I smell like a roasting hog that’s been basted in shit. Phlegyas continues to punt across the river, but our passage is smooth, as if an invisible tide is keeping the Unspeakables in the Styx away from us. Mitchell raises his left hand and forms a blistered fist. I bump it gently with mine.

  “I’m sorry,” he moans. “I’ll be all right in a minute . . . or ten.”

  “You continue to surprise me, my friend,” I say. “We have both now beaten one of the conventions of Hell in that immolation should not be possible. Lord Septimus’s faith in us was correct. We are exceptional.”

  “It wasn’t the taunt about my mother . . . replacing me . . . that made me explode,” groans Mitchell. “I saw my brother behind Jeanne. The vision was so clear . . . I could have sworn . . . it was . . . it was as if he was already in Hell.”

  Mitchell’s pink eyes are bloodshot and bruises are forming below. I know what he is thinking, and I know he dares not say it aloud for fear of it coming to pass.

  Has The Devil already chosen a new Dreamcatcher in the few days that have passed since we commenced this quest? The master of Hell is evil, but he is also strategic. He will have a Plan B, too, just in case we do not return with Elinor. Mitchell’s brother, M.J., will become the next Dreamcatcher if we fail. We have not discussed this since we spoke of our own Plan B before we had even entered the domain of the Skin-Walkers. Yet I admit that I have barely given the fate of that little boy a second thought since.

  Now I will find the thought hard to remove.

  “We still have time, my friend,” I say, mustering up as much encouragement in my voice as I can. I am more than a leader, I am a friend. Mitchell needs me as the latter right now more than anything.

  “But we’re no closer to finding Beatrice—”

  “Mitchell,” I interrupt, gripping his hand in mine. “We will not fail. We are almost through the Fifth. She was not on the shore we departed, and we will search the approaching shore before we leave this circle. If we do not locate her there, there are only four more circles remaining. We will find her.”

  “He will need to rest,” says Phlegyas, maneuvering the boat to the platform. “I can find us somewhere to do so.”

  “Is it safe?” I ask.

  “We’re in the Nine Circles of Hell, man,” says Mitchell, gritting his teeth. “Nowhere is safe.”

  Mitchell and I wait and watch as Phlegyas maneuvers the boat back across the River Styx to ferry across Elinor, Medusa and Jeanne. It is the longest wait of my existence. When they arrive safely, Elinor gravitates immediately to me and Medusa falls into Mitchell.

  “Are you hurt, my princess?” I ask. There is a whiff of burned hair around her, but other than that and extra-red cheeks, Elinor appears unharmed. My axe is blackened, but it’s nothing a good cleaning cannot fix.

  “I am fine, Alfarin.” Elinor hands me my axe. “But look at poor Mitchell. And we have little water left to lessen the pain of the burns.”

  “This is your fault,” snaps Medusa, turning on Jeanne. “What the Hell is wrong with y—”

  But Medusa stops speaking, for Jeanne is crying.

  “Your friend, the damaged one,” urges Phlegyas. “Take him. We cannot rest here. We must leave. Once the Skin-Walker Iratol notices my disappearance, it will be to the detriment of us all.”

  “Iratol will join with the others in tracking us,” I say. “But if we stay together, we have the means to stop them from attacking us. Trust me. I gave you my word as a Viking prince.”

  Medusa and Phlegyas take hold of Mitchell. He towers over both of them, even with his head bent forward in pain.

  “Is he still coming with us?” whispers Elinor, jerking her head toward Phlegyas.

  “Yes,” I reply. “It was the only way safe passage could be guaranteed. I would have been left to thrash about in the river for the rest of eternity if he had not come for me.”

  “I know,” says Elinor. “And I am very glad, very glad indeed, but . . . but Alfarin, do ye think ye could get him to wear some clothes?”

  “I will wrap my cloak around my waist if it makes you feel more comfortable, child,” says Phlegyas. “I have had no need for clothes for many millennia.”

  “We can see that,” mutters Medusa, turning her face away.

  “Can’t ye give him your spare set of clothes?” asks Elinor.

  “I could,” I reply, sniffing my armpit. “But I will have to change myself. I cannot go on smelling like something has died in my pants.”

  “Something is dead in your pants,” calls Mitchell in a high voice. “You!”

  The laughter that escapes his lips is a cross between a cat being castrated and a wolf’s howl.

  “Pain is making that one hysterical,” says Virgil. “If we cannot let him rest in this place, then let us move on. We must not tarry.”

  Team DEVIL has two bags of supplies left. Medusa’s was lost to the Unspeakables in the Eighth Circle; mine has just now been lost to the depths of the River Styx. Elinor has food and water in her bag; Mitchell has a change of clothes that might be a fit for him, but with my girth, definitely not for me.

  “The smell might get better as ye dry out, Alfarin,” suggests Elinor. She throws Phlegyas a T-shirt and a pair of Mitchell’s pants with more pockets than any devil could possibly need. “I am begging ye, Mr. Phlegyas sir, please cover yerself up.”

  “Don’t think I’m going to forgive you for what you did to him,” says Medusa through her teeth as Jeanne stands up and starts to follow Virgil.

  “You have no idea what I have suffered,” replies Jeanne. The tears are gone, replaced by a haughtiness that stretches her skin across her cheekbones and makes her appear even gaunter than before. “You have not seen war or conflict, or the anger and violence of man.”

  “I’ve seen more of it than I will ever share with you,” says Medusa. “But if you stopped the self-pity for a few minutes, you’d see the good in people, too. What you did to Mitchell, what you drove him to, was unforgivable.”

  “I do not seek his forgiveness—”

  “We need to get out of this circle before anger consumes all of you,” says Virgil. “Death in the young always brings out the worst, for you a
re all still, at heart, emotional adolescents. . . .”

  This man knows nothing of our collective suffering, yet for once, each member of Team DEVIL remains silent. We are all facing our darkest fears in this vile place. The Seventh Circle was nearly my undoing, and Elinor would have met her doom in the Sixth, had Jeanne not spirited her away. Mitchell will make it out of the Fifth, but only just, which leaves only Medusa to face her fate. I believe The Devil was right when he said it was the Second Circle. The place where her stepfather exists in perpetual torment.

  But that is still two circles away. I turn my attention to the here and now. We must search this shore for the Banshee. And if we do not find her, we enter the Fourth. The circle of greed.

  Team DEVIL remains as tight a foursome as ever, but our procession through the Nine Circles is ever-expanding. Virgil, Jeanne and now the clothed Phlegyas accompany us. In fact, the ferryman is leading us, with Virgil at his heels, through another rock tunnel, but this one has a slightly higher roof, at least three feet beyond the head of Mitchell, who is the tallest in the group. We saw no sign of Beatrice Morrigan on the opposite shore of the River Styx, and we have been hurrying through this tunnel ever since we gave up the search.

  In the torchlight, I can see small, stubby stalactites reaching down. Unlike usual rock formations, they are moving.

  “Oh, my mother in Hell!” exclaims Medusa, looking up. “Are they what I think they are?”

  Elinor cries out and ducks. Mitchell groans and then gags. There is no food in his stomach to regurgitate.

  The objects moving from the roof are the amputated fingers of the Unspeakables in the Fifth Circle. I saw the stumps on the hands that groped me and tried to grab a way out of the River Styx, but what had happened to their digits did not register.

  We come to a small circular area. It even has stone seats. A perverse civility in the midst of grotesque horror.

  “Here. Here is the place where you can eat, drink and rest,” says Phlegyas, running his fingers through his long, straggly hair.