The Devil's Banshee

by Donna Hosie

  We all take several long gulps of the water that Elinor and Mitchell have in their backpacks, but not one of us eats. Mitchell is unable because of his burns, and the rest of us have no stomach for food.

  I take the Viciseometer out of my stained shorts. I know Phlegyas is eyeing it, but I position my axe between my knees and allow the blade to gently scrape along the burnished gold casing. It’s a tuneless warning. The Viciseometer is mine, and I don’t need to be in the Fifth Circle to rage against anyone who tries to take it from us. For the Viciseometer will be our ultimate salvation. It is the only way we are ever getting out of here. And I will protect it with everything I have.

  Tuttugu ok Prír

  Alfarin, Elinor and Mitchell

  “What do ye miss most about being alive?” asked Elinor one day, setting down her sewing needle. The three of us were sitting on Mitchell’s bed. Elinor was trying to teach Mitchell and me to repair our own clothes. We had pricked ourselves so many times that there was more dead blood on Mitchell’s mattress than remained in our bodies.

  “I miss feeling the sun on my face and the wind in my hair,” I replied.

  “Alfarin, that’s the kind of thing a girl would say,” teased Mitchell. His face was screwed up in concentration as he attempted to stitch a hole in one of his T-shirts.

  “And what do you miss most, O Epitome of Testosterone?” I asked testily. I had given up trying to darn my socks. Holes were healthy. It allowed skin to breathe . . . figuratively.

  “I miss my mom mending my clothes, is what I miss,” growled Mitchell. “This is hopeless, Elinor. How do girls do this without turning themselves into pincushions?”

  “We practice and do not give up as easily as silly boys,” replied Elinor. “And ye must know that plenty of the manliest men can wield a needle and thread, Mitchell.” She pats his arm to distract him from his frustration. “Now, be serious with my question. Ye must miss more than just yer mother mending yer clothes.”

  Mitchell put down his needlework. “Elinor, I’ve been dead for just over a year. I miss everything. My friends, my folks, my music, my books . . . I miss the weather. I miss breathing. I’d like to walk five yards without being crushed. I want to go online and plan a vacation. I want to be able get a passport so I can go on the freaking vacation. I’d like to prick my finger on a needle and bleed normal blood, not this gross lumpy stuff that’s in me now. I miss my bed. I miss kissing girls who have a pulse . . .”

  Mitchell trailed off. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “That was greedy, wasn’t it—and insensitive.”

  “A little,” I replied, wondering what it would be like to kiss a certain girl without a pulse who was sitting just inches from me at that moment.

  “Septimus is always telling me how stoic I am, but I’m not. I’m just better at keeping it bottled up,” said Mitchell. “I’m being an ass, Elinor. Ignore me. This is just . . . hard.”

  “Oh, Mitchell,” said Elinor. “Most of the dead take decades to come to terms with not living. Ye are doing brilliantly, and just think, ye already have an amazing job with Mr. Septimus. He would not have given ye that job if he didn’t think ye were special. And it’s okay to miss things about living. That is not being greedy. True greed is being selfish. Desiring things for wealth, or power or food.”

  “Food,” Mitchell and I groaned together. We banged fists: a custom that Mitchell brought with him from the year 2009, along with the words dude, WTF and awesomesauce.

  “Oh, for Up There’s sake,” snapped Elinor, quickly emerging from her sympathetic reverie. “I am going to make food a cussword for ye two.”

  The three of us left Mitchell’s dormitory and the sewing to find sustenance. I had pushed my holey socks into Mitchell’s pillowcase when he wasn’t looking. I was marking his territory, like a true friend.

  “Can you imagine if the Highers had taken food away from us?” asked Mitchell. “I know many devils want to be angels, but I’ve heard rumors that they don’t eat, or sleep.”

  “That is not a fate I wish to even contemplate,” I replied.

  “Fate. Another F-word,” Mitchell said to Elinor jokingly. “We’re amassing quite the fabulous collection. Would you like us to add more?”

  Elinor then let rip with several more F-words. None of which she knew before Mitchell joined us.

  He was becoming quite the bad influence on her.

  And I liked it.

  23. The Fourth Circle

  “The Fourth Circle is the domain of the Skin-Walker named Cupidiar,” says Virgil. “It is the final place of those who murdered for greed.”

  “Cupidiar?” questions Medusa immediately. “But isn’t there another Skin-Walker called Cupidore?”

  Virgil rubs his colorless eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He massages so deeply into the sockets, I can see his eyeballs move behind his lids. It’s not a pleasant sight, as when he removes his thumb, blood leaks from the corner of his eyes.

  “Cupidiar is the twin of the Skin-Walker who resides in the Second Circle,” replies Virgil. He cannot see the shocked look on Medusa’s face, but her tone of voice was enough to betray her worry. In our recent quest to find the Devil’s Dreamcatcher, our encounters with the Skin-Walkers were never pleasant. But nobody suffered in their presence like Medusa—and especially around Cupidore, who took an extra-disgusting interest in our friend. Her connection to one of his victims, and her understandable fear, made her a feast of emotions for the Skin-Walkers to feed on, and there is no reason to believe they don’t still want her for their own. To be so close in this circle to the Skin-Walker she fears the most will be a terrible burden for our friend.

  Mitchell rubs Medusa’s back but flinches with pain as he moves. His skin is now peeling in thick flakes. It will take him longer to recover after the immolation without cold water to take the heat out of the burns.

  I wish I could absorb the mental and physical pain of Team DEVIL. If there were a way, I would in a dead heartbeat.

  I still remember that pulse in my chest. There have been times recently when I have imagined I actually have it. Perhaps that is because our adventures of late have made me feel more alive than any battle I faced before my passing.

  “Ye have even more devils here to protect ye now, M,” says Elinor, pressing a water bottle into Virgil’s hands.

  “Yeah,” mumbles Mitchell. “Jeanne is really—”

  I give Mitchell a swift nudge with my hand, but he is clearly still in so much pain that my touch barely registers. Jeanne is someone who has to be treated differently, and mocking and alienating her could be to the detriment of all. Of course I am angry with her for what she said to Mitchell, but we must stay united and strong. There will be plenty of time for Mitchell to exact verbal revenge on the Maid of Orléans when this is over, and we are getting nearer to that moment with every stride.

  “In Dante’s book,” says Elinor, changing the subject, “the dead in the Fourth are condemned to push boulders uphill for the rest of eternity. We will not find fire or filth in this next one, will we, Virgil?”

  “Well, that’ll be a nice change,” says Mitchell. “An easy circle for once. Go Team DEVIL.”

  “I would not say it is going to be easy,” replies Virgil, standing up. “Now, if the immolating fool among you can walk, we should be on our way.”

  Phlegyas’s eyes have stopped flickering to my pocket, where the Viciseometer is softly vibrating against my thigh. Instead, he is now watching Elinor. His expression is unreadable. Phlegyas does not seem to possess the reflex to breathe that most devils retain, and this makes his tanned face appear almost statue-like.

  “You have kindness in your soul,” says Phlegyas to Elinor, and my princess blushes. “It radiates out of you. I am surprised the other immortal domain did not try to claim you for its own.”

  “Mr. Phlegyas,” replies Elinor. “I have worked in administration in Hell for many, many years now. If there is one thing I have learned, it is that there is no reasoning behind who goes to Hell
and who goes Up There. It is down to the whim of the Grim Reaper at the HalfWay House on the day ye arrive. And their whims seem to gravitate downward.”

  “So you are happy with your fate?” asks Phlegyas. His tone is polite, but his line of questioning has brought forth an unhappy throb of anxiety in my chest. A slight one, but it is a warning nonetheless. I do not like where this conversation is heading.

  “I . . . am happy,” says Elinor, and at her response, Medusa and I immediately swap looks. The hesitation in Elinor’s voice belies the words from her mouth. The truth is, she was happy. But The Devil destroyed that happiness, simply because she was the best of us all.

  The hatred for him that I had barely managed to conceal back in Hell bubbles in my chest once more. From the day new devils arrive in Hell, we all hear rumors of The Devil’s twisted nature. But my kin and I had always dismissed them as propaganda. Instilling fear is an effective method of crowd control, and Hell was good at disseminating fear among the masses.

  But now I have seen his nefarious ways myself. The Devil’s despotic character cannot be allowed to endure. Mitchell is correct in his bluntness: The Devil is insane, and all of Hell is in danger. Lord Septimus sees this. I think he has seen this for many millennia. The Highers created two domains of Afterlife for those who died in our world, but, like any territory with a ruler, the realms of the Afterlife are only as stable as those who govern them. If Ragnarök really is coming, then I will do everything I can to ensure it is the end of days for the unhinged master of Hell as well.

  The fingers groping down from the ceiling are dwindling. We are closing in on the Fourth Circle. We can hear loud thudding noises and feel vibrations in the rock beneath our feet.

  “How are you to proceed through this circle?” calls Phlegyas. He looks so strange in Mitchell’s cargo pants, like a terra-cotta figurine in the wrong landscape.

  “The same way we have made passage through all the circles so far,” I reply. “We walk.”

  “Well, technically we’ve jumped, climbed, flown and time-traveled, and you’ve swum through one of the circles,” says Mitchell; his voice is already less cracked and gravelly than it was a few moments ago. “Walking through a circle will actually be a novelty.”

  “You need to form a tight line and follow me,” replies Virgil. “Do not allow yourself to be caught between boulders. At best you will be crushed. At worst, you will disintegrate into ash.”

  “So the Unspeakables aren’t pushing the rocks in pits?” asks Medusa.

  “They are not,” replies the guide.

  “Does that mean we have to walk amongst them?” cries Elinor. “But we’ve been separated from them so far!”

  “See for yourself,” replies Virgil.

  We have arrived at a wide expanse of space in the rock, easily the length and height of a longship. Before us is a circular landscape that confuses my senses. Men and women, as far as the eye can see, are pushing huge black boulders with their chests. Not one single rock is spherical, making their labor even harder. The ground appears flat, but the Unspeakables are moving their legs as if they are ascending, with thighs straining and knees bent. It is the closest we have come to so many of the Unspeakables so far, my unintended swim notwithstanding, and the sight is unnerving. For once they appear as people, albeit shaven and bloodied. Collars of inverted spikes pierce their skin at the neck, causing thick blood to slowly ooze down their purple-bruised bodies. All have their hands manacled behind their backs. Firelight is coming from holes in the ground and rock walls, but every few seconds it is extinguished as a black shadow moves across it.

  And standing on the largest boulder of all, which is being slowly pushed by two Unspeakables, is the Skin-Walker Cupidiar. The head on his wolf pelt has already caught sight of us, and it slides its long black tongue over its bared fangs. Slowly, the Skin-Walker turns his own head toward us and smiles. He is far enough away for Elinor to be of no consequence to him, but close enough to cause Medusa to tremble in fear.

  Elinor immediately goes to comfort Medusa. As long as she stays close to us, I do not believe we are in danger from the Skin-Walker in this circle, or any others who are tracking us in the darkness.

  But the knowledge that I am using my princess as a shield is the cause of much anguish to my dead heart. I should be protecting her, not the other way around.

  “Virgil,” I call. “You said you would lead us.”

  “Stay behind me and follow in this order,” commands Virgil. “Peasant girl first, then Phlegyas.” Both immediately step in behind our guide. “Then the one who smells of burning flesh.” Mitchell and Jeanne both move to stand in line and collide.

  “I think he means Jeanne,” says Medusa, taking Mitchell’s hands and pouring some water over his fingertips.

  “We shouldn’t waste it,” whispers Mitchell, resting his forehead on the top of Medusa’s snakelike hair.

  “I’m not,” she whispers back.

  Their intimacy is so natural, and I feel ashamed for watching. Mitchell brings out the best in our lady friends. He claims to be clueless around them, but he does not give himself enough credit. He has taught Elinor to be tougher, without losing her gentleness, and in the short time Medusa has been in our company, Mitchell has drawn out her fearlessness and pragmatism. I wonder what the two of them were like before the paradox Medusa joined us. I wish I could remember more. To know that some of my timeline has been wiped out and refreshed is unnerving. But I realize that since our last trip to the land of the living, the ghosts of previous memories have been bothering me less and less. Perhaps that is because it feels as if the new Medusa has always been in our midst.

  Virgil looks back at her. “The snake-haired girl should walk behind the girl who smells of burning flesh. Someone needs to keep those two separate.” He points, only a fraction askew because of his blindness, at Mitchell and Jeanne. Neither argues with him, and Medusa takes her place in line. “Viking, you and your weapon should follow last,” says Virgil.

  I do not like being separated from Elinor by everyone else. Neither do I like the fact that she is sandwiched between Virgil and Phlegyas. Yet I must place my trust in our guide, for that was Lord Septimus’s will.

  We begin wending our way through the toiling Unspeakables. The smell of their sweat and blood is rank in this circle, but the heat is bearable, perhaps only a slight increase over what we are accustomed to in Hell. The Unspeakables see us, and a few of the closer ones snap their jaws as they push the huge boulders with their chests. I can hear Mitchell muttering, “They are not like us . . . they are not like us . . . ,” and soon that chant becomes our anthem as we progress through the Fourth Circle, surrounded by evil. We cannot afford to feel compassion or empathy for these tortured souls. They are here because they murdered for greed.

  “Keep looking and calling for Beatrice Morrigan!” I command. “She is not an Unspeakable; she will not be pushing a rock if she is here.”

  Medusa is the first to make accidental contact with a boulder after trying to dodge another. She screams as the blackened rock scrapes along her arm. A large gash appears in her skin, which bubbles at the edges.

  “I warned you to be cautious!” Virgil chides from the front of the line. “The Unspeakables’ skin becomes hardened to the torment. Your delicate hide cannot take it.”

  “The boulders are sharp and toxic,” I call out.

  “Of course they are,” mutters Mitchell. “Sharp and toxic. My favorite combination.”

  With my axe at the ready, I keep one eye on Mitchell, who is in front of me, and another on Cupidiar the Skin-Walker. He has leapt off his boulder and is now slowly stalking through the circle, sniffing the air, with his gaze firmly fixed on Medusa.

  “Keep together and follow Virgil,” I call out, trying to motivate my friends, as a bowman would motivate the crew of a longship. “One foot in front of the other. Concentrate on the movement of the boulders and nothing else. We are closing in on our destination.” I call out for Beatrice Mor
rigan, but there is no reply, and every movement in my line of sight is from a tortured Unspeakable. Once again, I see no place for a Banshee—or anyone else—to conceal herself, and I am disappointed to conclude that our quarry does not lie in this circle.

  Suddenly, Cupidiar slashes at an Unspeakable in front of him. The cursed one falls to the ground, and his boulder immediately rolls over his prostrate body. The crunch of bones ignites my gag reflex.

  At the sound, Virgil freezes. “Take cover!” he cries.

  No, it was never going to be as easy as simply walking through.

  As I look around for something, anything, to shield my friends from whatever is coming, everything goes black, and the sound of howling wolves fills the air.

  Tuttugu ok Fjórir

  Alfarin, Elinor and Mitchell

  Elinor, Mitchell and I had become great friends. And while our threesome from different times was uneven in number and sex, there was a comfortable familiarity among us that was pleasurable in its ease. Mitchell was accepted quickly by my kin; they found him amusing. His closeness to Lord Septimus was also a matter of intrigue. A job as The Devil’s intern was a coveted position. Many in Hell could not understand how such a new devil could slip into such a role so quickly.

  “I think young Mitchell Johnson is being trained for a task,” said my father brother, Magnus. “There is no doubt he has taken to death like a warrior.”

  “He has not taken to death, Magnus,” replied Elinor. “Mitchell just keeps his feelings about it hidden better than most. Ouch, these damn things are hotter than Hell!”

  She was trying out a device called a straightening iron on my father brother’s hair. It was not going well. Magnus’s hair had not been washed in over one thousand years. Elinor had already soldered a fork and a set of false set of teeth into Magnus’s follicles, but it was an accident. She couldn’t have known they were in there—and how long they had been there was any Viking’s guess.