The Devil's Banshee

by Donna Hosie

  We were in a new arena for entertainment in Hell called a nightclub. There was music, although the thumping beat was already making my head hurt. Devils were moving, although they were so packed together I could not tell if they were swaying to the music or trying to get out.

  “Hi, Mitchell,” said a female voice.

  Success already, I thought. Mitchell really was a magnet for pretty girls. Erin Fanshawe was a devil I had been introduced to only recently because of her fascination with my friend. Like Patricia Lloyd, she was buxom and had a habit of turning up wherever Mitchell went. Her long dark hair and dark-pink eyes were an attractive quality. As was the sweater she was wearing, with elaborate peacock feathers stitched to the front. An exhibition of the mating ritual in birds. This was what Mitchell must have meant when he mentioned the winged creatures. It was time to be the wingman.

  “Hi, Erin,” mumbled Mitchell. He appeared to be looking at her chest, and he was already clutching at his throat. These were good signs. He wished to ravish her, I thought.

  “Erin,” I said, slapping my chest with my fist. “My awesome friend wishes to copulate with you. I will stand guard with my axe while you ‘get busy,’ as they say in modern times.”

  “Oh, Mitchell,” gushed Erin.

  And she jumped him.

  Their exhibition was confusing but energetic. Mitchell turned red, then purple. Instead of murmuring sweet exclamations, he started gasping and yelling that he couldn’t breathe. You are dead, I thought. Of course you cannot breathe. Erin was smothering him in kisses, then screaming at him as he tried to fight her off, then punching his chest as he tried to crawl away.

  “She is such a moron!” exclaimed a female voice. “Mitchell is allergic to feathers. He’s having an anaphylactic reaction. Get her away from him, Alfarin. She’s trying to do CPR. If Erin had a brain cell, it would die of loneliness.”

  I looked around for the source of the situation, but while there were devils watching the increasingly desperate spectacle, no one was close enough to have spoken with such clarity. The hair on my neck stood on end as Elinor’s words about déjà vu inevitably flitted through my head. There was no time to ponder the origin and owner of the ghostly voice, however, for no matter what time or place it came from, her words were correct: Mitchell was in trouble.

  My friend was not a willing partner in the match. He was still trying to escape. This was what he really meant by wingman. Mitchell did not require someone to find him a woman. He needed a friend to help him run away if things went wrong.

  I picked Mitchell up, threw him over my shoulder, saved his reputation by announcing to the watching throng that he had swooned in the sight of such beauty and took him straight to Hell’s medical wing for a shot.

  Yes, I was the perfect wingman, and I would always be there for my friend.

  25. Leave No Man Behind

  Leave no man behind. That ethos has been around a lot longer than modern man realizes. It does not have its origins in the American military. It is a code that for many years went unwritten and unspoken and was passed through the ages among warriors of many tribes. That is because a group of soldiers becomes a family. They are brethren. No instinct in any human is as strong as the desire to live, yet death is the one state guaranteed in one’s existence. There is no stopping it, especially in battle. So you watch out for one another and protect one another, because one day your life might depend on it. And that breeds a trust among soldiers. A bond.

  I was never left behind. My death came about because I wandered off. Yet as I saw with my own dead eyes, my clan came back for me.

  Even in death I was not forsaken.

  As I power through the darkness—with Jeanne bouncing over one shoulder and the tiny flames from the Viciseometer illuminating the way—I continually repeat the words, “I had no choice, I had no choice.” It’s the only way I can try to reconcile my actions with the aching in my soul.

  But my soul is dead, and my heart feels useless once more. I had a choice. And any words I mutter now cannot change the decision I have just made.

  I left Mitchell behind.

  Phlegyas is carrying Medusa in his arms. Her eyes have not opened. Elinor is stumbling over rocks and the emerging heads and shoulders of the buried Unspeakables. Her grief is beyond words, and even her tears look like drops of blood in the feeble firelight.

  I have left a blind man to find my friend.

  Phlegyas reaches the connecting tunnel between the Fourth and Third Circles first. Elinor trips and skids her way through next. Jeanne is moving with more energy now, and the second I stop, she slips down my shoulder.

  “I can walk, Viking,” she says in a hushed voice. The French maiden catches me by surprise when she adds, “Thank you.”

  Leave no man behind. The phrase continues to echo in my head.

  “Viking, we must go on to the Third,” says Phlegyas urgently. He has taken a water bottle from the last backpack we have: Elinor’s. He is pouring some into Medusa’s mouth. Her lips are trembling, and her translucent eyelids have movement behind them at last. Jeanne surprises me once more and drops to her knees next to Medusa. She takes the water bottle from Phlegyas.

  “I will do that,” she says.

  Leave no man behind.

  What happened to Mitchell? One moment he was talking to me, and the next he was screaming in pain. High-pitched and primal. Did an Unspeakable hurt him, or a Skin-Walker? Was he crushed by a boulder?

  I hold the Viciseometer aloft. My shoulder aches in protest, but I merely raise the timepiece higher, daring the pain to consume me. I deserve it.

  You think this journey will bring out the best in you, Viking. But it could also bring out the worst. In all of you. Friend will betray friend.

  Love will be unfaithful to love. It is inevitable. All of your masks will slip and you each will be revealed for who you really are. . . .

  Virgil’s words. Prophetic to the last syllable.

  Leave no man behind.

  “Elinor.”

  My princess does not turn around. Her hands are splayed across the rock; her forehead is pushing into the stone.

  “Elinor.”

  I gently place my hand on her back; she does not move. I stroke her hair, as I have done on many occasions. Still she cannot face me. I can see the pink outline of the scar on the back of her neck. The very neatness of it makes my stomach shrink. My blade was her savior and foe that day in 1666. There are times when I am so connected to my axe, I barely notice that it is there. When I was carrying Jeanne, it became an extension of my arm, almost weightless. A part of me.

  I know what I must do. I will leave a piece of my wretched body with Elinor, and then perhaps she will find it in her loving soul to forgive me.

  My lips gently kiss her scar. It is so brief, I cannot tell if the fleeting touch even registers, but she must feel the weight of the Viciseometer slip into her back pocket, and the handle of my axe come to rest against her leg.

  “I am delegating leadership to you. You need to save yourself—and M.J.,” I whisper. “Do this for Mitchell. Carry on through the Third. I will see you on the other side, my princess.”

  I will see you on the other side, my princess. The last words the living Elinor ever heard. And they were uttered by me.

  Elinor turns around, and I absorb the look of love on her face as she cries out.

  “Alfarin, don’t ye leave me!”

  Leave no man behind.

  Mitchell Johnson is not just a man. He is my friend.

  And I will not leave him.

  I plunge back into the darkness of the Fourth Circle. I have no light. I have no weapon. I have no protection whatsoever, except the bond of friendship I have with Mitchell Johnson, The Devil’s intern and a brother to me in every way.

  My boots connect with objects hard and soft. Momentum is my friend, and I let it guide me through the darkness to the spot where I think the guide was left behind.

  “Virgil, Virgil!” I cry. “It is I,
Prince Alfarin, son of Hlif, son of Dobin! I have come to aid you!”

  “Viking, go back!” cries a voice, aged and decrepit.

  My head whips to my left. That is the direction of the old man’s voice. He said his other senses had become more attuned because of his blindness. I must not be afraid. I must forget that I cannot see and instead embrace what senses I have left.

  An Unspeakable grabs at my body. They are moving clear of their confinement. My fist responds. The connection is glorious. A release of pain and hurt and anger and regret.

  I push past rock and tortured skin. “Call to me again, Virgil!” I roar.

  “To your right!” cries Virgil.

  Virgil cannot see me, but I place my trust in him. I change direction in the darkness and run straight into a large rock that is already being moved. My hands sear with pain, but the sensation is brief. The rocks have yet to absorb the full toxicity of those who killed for personal gain. But I can tell, even in the darkness, that the circle has already started up again its relentless loop of suffering, and it won’t be long before all of the newly fallen rock is being pushed by the Unspeakables.

  “To your right again,” calls Virgil, even closer now. “Hold out your hands, Viking. I will do the same. I can feel your . . . your . . .”

  “Feel my what?”

  The old man and I collide and crash to the ground. A rumbling and groaning to my left kicks my instincts into high gear, and I roll over as fast as lightning. A rock and the shuffling feet of an Unspeakable breeze past my head where I am lying on the ground.

  “And they dared call me insane,” says Virgil. “You’ve come back for him, haven’t you.”

  “I have. Now, where is Mitchell?”

  “Cupidiar took him. I thought I was close enough to protect the boy . . .”

  “You are brave, Virgil, but no match for a Skin-Walker.”

  A dim light is inching through the cavern, pale orange, like the early-morning sun. I can see that more Unspeakables are now out of the ground.

  “Where would Cupidiar have taken Mitchell?” I ask.

  “Into the ground,” replies Virgil. “We will have to follow.”

  “How?”

  “Trust me,” says Virgil again, but in the dim light, I suddenly sense that this is not the same unpleasant old man who was so easy to fool as we entered the Ninth Circle. Virgil is softer in face and warmer in countenance. His hands remain at his side as he weaves a path through the fallen boulders, sniffing the air and leaning to his right with his head bent as he listens to the shadows.

  “A leap of faith,” says Virgil suddenly, coming to an expanse of dark sand that is moving, as if an Unspeakable is about to break through.

  “Why are you helping me?” I ask warily. “You don’t even like Mitchell.”

  Virgil ponders the question, but his opaque eyes stare directly into mine as he does. Is that a flash of another color I see behind the foamy white? The shadows are starting to play tricks on me.

  “I have felt nothing but pain and anger and hatred for so long,” he replies quietly. “But your company has started to awaken in me another emotion that has no place in the Nine Circles of Hell. This feeling is most disconcerting . . .” He trails off.

  “What feeling is that?”

  “Love,” says Virgil simply. “Now jump.”

  Tuttugu ok Sex

  Alfarin, Elinor and Mitchell

  Mitchell had procured cell phones for Elinor and me from Lord Septimus. She loved hers, while I found them a pain in the posterior. Why were the buttons so small? Were they designed for ants? I would wager their inventor was the same fool who created the computer mouse. I made a mental note to find out his or her name, for when he or she arrived in Hell, I would give him or her a piece of my mind and a close-up of my axe. Then that person would know the meaning of pain in the posterior, for I would shove my cell phone where the sun no longer shined.

  Although I despised cell phones and made my feelings widely known, Mitchell was forever sending me texts:

  starbanners @ 8. new girl serving behind counter. hot!

  library NOW. patty has me cornered—help!

  thomasons @ 7. something 2 ask u.

  Elinor and I arrived at Thomason’s to meet with Mitchell, but the all-too-familiar and unpleasant sensation of being in a strange moment in time, like déjà vu, that we all felt had meant that Mitchell and Elinor had an argument and she left us. I led Mitchell down a dark corridor. I wanted to afford him the chance to explain before he apologized. Yet Mitchell was vexed. He was biting his nails, and he had lost one of those feminine bracelets he always wore: an olive bead one that Elinor liked . . . I think.

  “This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen,” muttered Mitchell.

  “How what was supposed to happen?”

  The smell of piss was everywhere; Cousin Odd had been marking his territory again.

  “I’m leaving, Alfarin,” said Mitchell. “I’m leaving now.”

  “Leaving what?”

  “I’m leaving Hell. I can’t explain everything here, but I’m going to ask you to trust me, Alfarin. I’m asking you to come with me.”

  “No one can leave Hell, my friend.”

  “I’ve found a way.”

  I crossed my arms and leaned back against the damp stone. Big mistake. My tunic was going to require bleaching. Cousin Odd could spray like a water cannon if he had had enough mead.

  “Then when do we leave?” I replied. Mitchell looked as if he was going to kiss me with relief. As first kisses go, it would be memorable, for all the wrong reasons, including the smell.

  “You’ll really come with me?”

  “The gods would curse me if I allowed you to undertake this on your own, my friend. How much time do I have?”

  We continued to converse. Mitchell did not divulge his plan, but he did not need to. I told him I would follow him into any battle.

  Mitchell was my friend, my brother. I would never allow him to go somewhere dangerous by himself. He needed me.

  As I needed him.

  26. A Leap of Faith

  A leap of faith. A jump into the unknown for my friends. That is an act I would perform without question. The old man takes my hand, and for a beat in time his fingers are not gnarled and rough, but slim and soft.

  “Jump!” cries Virgil.

  I do not have to be told thrice. With a roar I leap into the moving sand.

  Immediately, burning particles cover my body. I have kept my eyes closed, not in fear, but for preservation. Any body part I leave exposed is an open invitation to the unknown evil in this place to attack. While Virgil’s blindness makes the rest of his senses far more acute than mine, I want to preserve the one ability I have, if it means saving Mitchell.

  We land quickly and with a soft, squelching sound. Sticky liquid rises around my feet. The rock-hewn chamber we have arrived in is well lit with blazing torches that look like human heads.

  Virgil sniffs the air, which is ripe with the metallic stench of meat and blood.

  “Your friend is this way,” he says, pointing. “Listen—he is not far. And he is still capable of making noise. That is a good sign. It means the Skin-Walker has not yet removed it to join the others.”

  “Removed what?” I ask.

  “Look at what we are treading upon,” replies Virgil.

  Long slabs of meat. Some thicker than others. They look like grotesque purple slugs, engorged with blood.

  Tongues.

  And they are still moving.

  “What is this devilry?” I exclaim as a rush of sickness and bile combines in a bitter flow through my gullet.

  “The fate of your friend if we do not reach him.”

  I have left my weapon with Elinor—I do not need it. It is not anger that spurs me to run through the shallow sea of flesh; it is love. Mitchell is not Cupidiar’s to defile and torture.

  And I will tear the Skin-Walker limb from limb if he even tries.

  I find Mitchell in t
he next cavern, upside down and spread-eagled across a stone wheel that has five spindles carved into it. His body is tied with ropes and his mouth gagged. He is desperately trying to break free of his bonds. I can see blood smeared across his bare chest. Judging from the deep lacerations, the blood is clearly his. My friend has not fully recovered from the burns of his immolation, and his skin is still a sunburned pink.

  His pain becomes my next motivator. No one with such love in his heart—for his brother, his family, his friends—should suffer such torment.

  The Skin-Walker has heard my arrival, I am sure of it, but Cupidiar is either too stupid or too vain to acknowledge my presence in his torture chamber. The beast is standing by a large flaming urn. In his hands are two long implements; he is heating them in the fire.

  Then Virgil steps into the cave.

  “Free your friend,” he whispers. “I will deal with the Skin-Walker.”

  Cupidiar swirls around. The wolf pelt on his back arches its back and the snarling mouth on top of the Skin-Walker’s head growls and bares bloody teeth. A chewed piece of tongue falls from its mouth. It thumps onto the ground with a crackling sizzle and disintegrates into blackened ash.

  “The boy is mine,” snarls Cupidiar. “He was a trespasser.”

  The implements in his hand are a pair of tongs and a long knife. Both are blazing white with the heat.

  “The boy is not yours!” I cry. “He is ours. And I am claiming him back.”

  “Touch him and it will be your tongue I feed to my wolf next,” snarls Cupidiar. “I am not an enemy to make, Viking.”

  “Neither am I,” I reply, flexing my fingers. “I am Alfarin, son of Hlif, son of Dobin. I am one quarter of Team DEVIL, a confidant of Lord Septimus, the bane of The Devil, and Mitchell Johnson’s wingman. And you are about to understand the meaning of Hell.”