by Donna Hosie
I help Virgil to stand. A thin layer of white mucus clings to his red robes. The skullcap remains atop his thinning hair, but he flattens the cloth down to secure it. Mitchell is bent forward, holding his knees. He is gagging, but my friend has no food in his stomach to retch up. I tug a long string of eyeball membrane from Mitchell’s spiky blond hair.
I never believed I would see the day when our appetites were vanquished, but it has finally happened. My throat is parched, but I do not think I could stomach a drink or a meal right now without regurgitating them. There is no food left that would not remind me of the horrors I have seen in these circles.
“The Third Circle is the domain of the Skin-Walker named Gulapale,” says Virgil. “The Unspeakables here lie in the rain, continually beaten down by the ice and hail that fall from above. As in the Ninth, you will have to take care as to where you tread, but remember, the Unspeakables are not encased here. If a hand grabs your leg, they will take you down. And if you value your sight . . .”
The blind guide trails off. To lose one’s vision must be a dreadful torment. To never see beauty, even in Hell, is a fate I would not like to endure.
“Three more circles,” says Mitchell. “But we have to find Medusa before the Second Circle, Alfarin. We can’t let her face Cupidore and whatever is left of her stepfather alone.”
“We will find them, and Beatrice Morrigan,” I say confidently. “But we must hurry. How are your burns and lacerations, my friend? Even in this weak light, I can see the healing. You are strong.”
“I’ve felt worse,” replies Mitchell. “I can’t remember when, but it’ll come to me.”
The three of us walk toward a gauzy, shimmering curtain. A pale sheen, like moonlight, illuminates it. There are several animal noises echoing beyond. Distinct growls, different in pitch and length, get louder the closer we get to the curtain.
The smell is atrocious and relentless in its assault on my nostrils. A mixture of rotting fish and excrement. Even the outhouses in my Viking village did not have a stench like this.
“Will we have to pass Cerberus?” I ask Virgil.
“You will,” replies the old man. “Yet with luck, the others may have done most of the work in that regard.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, stopping. “The others will have done what work?”
I am learned—I know of Cerberus. A three-headed beast of a dog who was the offspring of the monsters Echidna and Typhon. His job is to prevent the dead from leaving the circle—
“Enough,” says Mitchell, interrupting my thoughts. “We don’t have time for a Q and A session, or for strategizing. We’ve gotten this far. Can we just go on instinct from now on? Our plans always go to shit anyway.”
We step through the shimmering apparition—it is ice-cold rain. My skin protests as the sensation of a thousand needles pricks my skin. But Mitchell, already battle-scarred and damaged, does not stop walking. His eyes are keen and alert.
“Lead us through, Mitchell,” I call. “Virgil, you tell Mitchell the way, and I will bring up the rear.”
Pathetic figures are curled up in balls on the ground. Brown slush from the falling hail laps at their flayed skin. They barely move as Mitchell traverses a path toward the sound of the growls, which are getting more ferocious with every step we take. The Unspeakables have dark, bloody pits where their eyes once were. Virgil said this was the circle for those who murdered for addiction and want. Their eyes are removed as punishment for coveting. This Circle of Hell has order amidst its chaos—a structured evil.
“Alfarin,” calls Mitchell. “I think I can hear shouting.”
“Do not wander away from me,” says Virgil. “Gulapale is the most animalistic of the Skin-Walkers. He will not toy with his prey like Cupidiar. You will be pinned to the ground and your eyes devoured before you have time to scream.”
I have yet to understand why Virgil is immune to the Skin-Walkers, but for the moment, I am content simply with using his power to our advantage. For with every step we take, we get closer to Beatrice Morrigan. And when we find her, I will not entertain a conversation with her. The circles have tested me to my limits, but I have seen us through and led Team DEVIL almost to the end. If the Banshee will not come back with us, I will just take her. Even if it’s by the hair, I will take her. That creature is returning to The Devil whether she wants to or not.
Virgil is making a strange noise, snuffling like a forest animal. I think it is muffled laughter. Our guide is insane, that much is clear. Yet he has been faithful to the cause, and I owe him a great debt for assisting in the rescue of Mitchell.
The Unspeakables continue to shudder on the ground. I am soaked through, and my limbs are becoming heavy and wooden with the cold. The icy rain is relentless and falls like hail on steel. Mitchell leads on with purpose; his pale body looks like white marble in the rain.
Then a large black creature comes into focus through the torrents. And at its feet—at first appearing like stick figures—are four souls I recognize. They are dodging and weaving with their arms flailing, and it seems almost as if they are throwing things at the beast.
“Do not leave my side!” shouts Virgil, preempting my desire to run to Elinor, Medusa, Jeanne and Phlegyas. It is just as well he cried the warning, for a split second later, a Skin-Walker lands in front of us on all fours like a stalking wolf.
Gulapale has darker, redder skin than the other Skin-Walkers. It also has a sickly green tinge to it. It is akin to the special shade of unstable rust that used to affect Viking iron if it was not cared for with respect. His limbs are longer than those of the other Skin-Walkers, but his body is squat. The growl that emanates from his chest is canyon-deep. As he crouches, his sharp blackened nails scrape against the ground, gouging lines that look like the scars slashed across Mitchell’s chest.
“Cross my path, Virgil,” he snarls, again with the same inhuman, animalistic voice as the other Skin-Walkers. “I dare you.”
Virgil does not reply, but he accepts the challenge with a step toward the monster. Gulapale immediately yelps and jumps backward, like an injured animal.
“Stay close to me and join your friends,” says Virgil, not taking his white eyes from Gulapale’s direction. “Phlegyas has told them how to get past the beast with three heads. We must blind it with mud.”
I look to Mitchell for one of his utterances of wit, but my friend has a steely countenance. I know it well. His hysteria has ebbed. And his humor will not return until he is reunited with Medusa.
“Three heads, seven of us,” I say. “I like those odds.”
Gulape is snarling and spitting, but he does not come near us. As we get closer to the three-headed dog, Cerberus, I can see the others clearly now. My soul soars. Elinor, her long red hair darkened by the vile rain, is issuing orders like a true leader. To my surprise, Jeanne is following. Phlegyas is throwing handful after handful of dark-green filth at the beast’s eyes. Medusa is the least active of the four, but it is good to see her on her feet.
Then she turns and sees Mitchell.
“No—Medusa, stay there!” cries my friend, throwing out his hand as a visual warning in case she cannot hear. “Don’t leave Elinor.”
The others stop throwing mud and turn, too. Huge smiles betray their relief. Even Phlegyas grins. Jeanne . . . well, Jeanne always looks as if she has gas trapped in her intestinal tract, but I am not offended by the lack of an outward display of pleasure at our return.
“Do not stop!” cries the Maid of Orléans. “The beast can devour three of us with one snap, and I do not intend for it to be my head it chews on.”
With thoughts like twin brothers, Mitchell and I flank Virgil, lift him clean off the floor and run. Ahead, I see my axe and the last backpack lying on the ground. Brown slush has covered the blade, and I can see an Unspeakable inching his fingers toward it. The evildoer is blind, but my weapon is like a magnet, drawing him closer.
I step on the Unspeakable’s fingers and tread them into the ground.
�
��My axe is not for the likes of you to covet!” I snarl. I pick it up and start swinging at the mud surrounding us, loosening huge chunks for the others to throw.
Cerberus is a beast the size of three men. Red eyes—watery and filled with pus—dart in all directions as we throw more mud to blind it.
“Mitchell and Medusa!” I cry. “Aim for the head on the right. Jeanne and Phlegyas, your quarry is the center. Elinor . . .”
“Yes?”
“You are with me?”
I did not mean for it to come out as a question, but my voice rose at the end nonetheless.
“Always,” replies my princess.
“Virgil, sniff out the exit!” I shout. “Now throw like our deaths depend on it!”
Cerberus twists and ducks, his sharp teeth snapping, but the beast is soon edging backward into the cavern. His four paws crush countless Unspeakables as layer upon layer of mud coats his eyeballs. From the corner of my eye I can see Virgil feeling a path across the rock wall.
“Virgil,” I call. “When you have the way out, shout for us. We will all come running at once.”
Seconds later the old man cries out and we all splash through the slush toward him. At the last moment, Mitchell ducks back, grabs the last remaining backpack and only just makes it into the corridor with his head intact as Cerberus’s central mouth snaps a yard above him.
Medusa punches Mitchell on the arm; then she throws her arms around him and buries her face in his neck. For once he is not smothered in hair. The icy rain has flattened Medusa’s wild curls.
“Ye saved him,” says Elinor, collapsing against me. “Ye saved Mitchell.”
“I could not have done so without Virgil,” I reply. “But never doubt me, Elinor. I told you once that I would never let you down, and whilst I cannot die trying, I have an eternity to show you.”
Team DEVIL is through the Third Circle. Just two remain, but for Medusa, the terror to come could prove the hardest of all.
Tuttugu ok Nĭu
Alfarin
Death was not peaceful. Death was not natural. And the taste of fear that coated the tongues of those who had a drawn-out death lingered for centuries in the Afterlife. Broken bodies were mended by Grim Reapers at the HalfWay House, but death memories could not be erased—unless there was a paradox, and few got to experience that.
Elinor’s death could have been worse. It was a statement I made to myself over and over again after witnessing the event—and participating in it.
Elinor had always said she died in the Great Fire of London, and so that is where we time-traveled next. I felt prepared. But to actually witness her demise was horrifying. Imagine burning with no escape. Smelling your own flesh roasting. Feeling your pulverized internal organs failing. When Mitchell and I found her, she was experiencing all that and more. Who in Hell would own such a death? And how could I refuse my princess when she begged me to end her agony?
I know I did the right thing. But I found the day of her passing very hard to exist with. It was not the flash of my blade or the blood that followed that haunted me, though those images would be seared in my memory forever. Rather, it was the screams that plagued me. Hell was full of shrieking devils, yet the screams of the living that I heard all around me on Elinor’s deathday were far worse. Perhaps they stayed with me because they howled with more than just pain. There was also the noise of the knowledge of impending death—and the fear that what was to come was far worse than their current suffering.
I never told Elinor or Mitchell of the nightmares that haunted me after that day in 1666. And they were always the same.
Darkness and screams.
Lord Septimus found me one evening walking the corridors of Hell. As much as I loved my friends, occasionally I needed my own company. Of course, one was never truly alone in Hell. There were always devils around, and even the solitude of the library was inhabited by shadows. But strangers and shadows would not wonder at what was going on in my head.
“Out walking again, Prince Alfarin?” Lord Septimus’s question startled me. I had been deep in thought and looked up to find I’d unwittingly made my way into the central business district. I could not explain why, and I hoped I was not in trouble.
“I could not sleep, Lord Septimus,” I replied. “I apologize if I disturbed you.”
“There are nights when I do not even attempt to sleep,” said Lord Septimus. “May I accompany you for a stretch, Prince Alfarin?”
I nodded, and he smiled. “Truth be told, I find I can hear myself think much better when I’m out in the open.” He led me onto an express elevator, and after a brief, hurtling journey, the doors opened to reveal the level 1 corridor.
“This way,” said Lord Septimus, stepping off and striding down the hall. I followed, and when he disappeared around a corner, I discovered he’d stepped onto the balcony that looked down on the six hundred and sixty-six floors below us. He beckoned for me to join him at the cast-iron railing.
The sight was magnificent. And of course, I thought of Elinor, and wished she could see the constellations of torches with me, from this high up.
Lord Septimus was quiet for several moments. Then he turned to me. “I cannot differentiate between the screams of the living and the screams of the dead when I sleep,” he said softly. “Perhaps I should have been an angel and had that ability taken away from me for eternity.” He laughed, but his mirth was heavy with sarcasm.
“You hear screaming, too, when you have a nightmare?” I asked.
“Always.”
“Who?”
Lord Septimus’s flaming red eyes flickered back to the corridor. Across the hall from the balcony was the massive door that led to the accounting chamber—and within that, The Devil’s Oval Office.
“Helping those we care about escape torment is honorable, Prince Alfarin,” said Lord Septimus. “Yet sometimes our best intentions have unforeseen consequences.”
“I killed Elinor Powell,” I said quietly.
“I know.”
“Who did you kill?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“I was a Roman general in life, and am The Devil’s number one servant in Hell,” replied Lord Septimus. “I have so much blood on my hands I could fill a river.”
My midnight stroll was not having the calming effect I desired. I had an iron-clad stomach, but Lord Septimus was making me irritable, and suddenly the great height was making me nauseous.
“I should head back to my dormitory,” I said, eager to get away. “It was . . . interesting talking to you, as always, Lord Septimus.”
“Never run from the screams of your nightmares, Prince Alfarin,” called Lord Septimus as I reached the elevator. “They are there to remind us we were once human, for good and bad. Screams are the sound of our conscience. They are the voice of pain, but also love.”
29. The Second Circle
“We should take more rest, water and food,” I say. “At least for those who can stomach it.”
Mitchell collapses to the ground of the connecting tunnel between the Third and Second Circles and doesn’t move. Terrified exhaustion claims Elinor and Medusa, too. Jeanne offers to take first watch, and Phlegyas offers to keep her company. Virgil’s blind eyes are open, but he appears to have gone into a trance.
I sleep and have a nightmare of blood and screams.
When I awaken, Medusa and Elinor are keeping watch. My princess has found a flintlike rock and is sharpening my blade. I watch the graceful, hypnotic sweep of her arm as it moves down and away, igniting the silver edge with sparks of white fire. One by one, the others start to stir. Our journey through the Nine Circles has taken us at least three days and nights by my calculation. We cannot afford to lose more time.
“We have but one true circle of torment to travel through, and then we reach Limbo,” I say as Jeanne stretches. “One more circle, and then this horror will be over.”
“Except we haven’t found any trace of Beatrice Morrigan yet,” whispers Medusa. Mitchell pass
es her a half-empty bottle of water.
No. A half-full bottle of water. A glass must always be half full.
“But we’re getting closer, M,” says Elinor. “And that’s what matters.”
“What do you think The Devil is doing right now?” asks Mitchell, turning to me and keeping his voice low. “How long have we been in here, Alfarin? I’m so tired, I can’t think straight. What if he’s taken my brother already? When that Skin-Walker had me, that’s what he kept saying.”
“He was feasting on your fear, my friend,” I reply. “The Skin-Walkers can take us individually. If they had held me captive, they would have attempted to scare me as well. But do not forget just how deceitful they are. Lying is second nature to them. For now, I do not believe The Devil has taken M.J.”
I thump Mitchell on the back for encouragement. But privately, I must admit that the more evil I witness in this vile place, the more I start to believe that we may be too late. The Skin-Walkers are not creatures of their word. Why should the master of Hell be? The Devil could have sent Grim Reapers out to find a new child to be his Dreamcatcher the second we left through the reception area’s doors. The majority of devils in Hell are true of soul, and only ended up there because of a random, bureaucratic choice, nothing more. But the realm’s despotic ruler is a different matter altogether. Very little about him seems random anymore.
“Are ye ready, M?” asks Elinor, placing her arm around Medusa’s shoulders. The newest member of Team DEVIL is wilting before my eyes. She is slight of build anyway, but her entire frame appears to be shrinking into itself.
“The Second Circle is for those who murdered for lust,” says Medusa. Her tone is monotonous, as if she is reading from a textbook. “They are blown back and forth by a violent storm.”
“Cupidore is the Skin-Walker with governance over this next place,” adds Virgil. “And it is the largest and most heinous of all. For unlike the other Circles of Hell, it is not just the final dwelling of those who murdered. Those who robbed the innocence and virtue of man, woman and child also end up here, even if those victims continued to live after their torment. There are more victims, and therefore more perpetrators to bring here.”
