by Donna Hosie
“I do not need to,” replies the guide. “Continue walking through this tunnel, and it will bring us into the First Circle. The stone arch is where you must go.”
He hands me the Viciseometer. I wait for the others to start the last procession, and I change the time on the milky-white face of the timepiece. Lord Septimus will expect us to be waiting back in the accounting office when he arrives.
I will not let him down. But I am not going back without The Devil’s Banshee.
“How long was the peasant girl a vessel for The Devil’s dreams?” asks Virgil.
“Too long for her, not long enough for him,” I reply.
“She will never be the same. You know that.”
“Yes.”
“You know who I am, don’t you, Viking?”
“Yes.”
“Will you take me back by force?”
“I will not need to,” I reply. “It was told that you left to find yourself in the Circles of Hell—the one place where The Devil could not, or would not, find you, and yet the one place where you were safe because of what you are. But you have hidden in plain sight, taking on the guise of Virgil, and tempting men like Dante with visions of a Paradise that does not exist.”
“What is your point, Viking?”
“My friends and I have remained true to ourselves in this Hell. For better and worse. We have seen the worst in each other, and the very best. We did not need to find ourselves, and I believe you now see that, too. Innocent children are being taken because you left, Beatrice Morrigan. And in all this time, did you find yourself? No, you did not. You have taken on a false identity. This shell you wear is not yours; it is a mask. Peace may never be yours in the way I own the word, but you could do the right thing still. Come back with us. Phlegyas is right: we all have a fate in death. Mine is still to come, for I have seen it in a vision. Your fate is to be The Devil’s true Dreamcatcher—the one being who can wield any control over the master of Hell.”
We have been led into a green field. Not a bright, lush meadow with light and life, but a dark, shadowy field that is the color of dusty wine bottles. To our left is a black stone castle, just visible under a false starless sky that has been created for this circle. Shadows swirl around it like a heat haze. To our right is a black stone arch. The words lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate read backward, hollowed out of the rock from the entrance on the other side.
And Elinor, Mitchell, Medusa, Phlegyas and a bloodied Jeanne are standing in a semicircle, facing Virgil and me with open mouths. They all heard our conversation, and now they know we have had the Banshee with us all this time.
“Which is to be your path, Beatrice?” I ask gently, easing out her identity like a splinter embedded in skin. “Will you go left, to the castle of Unspeakables waiting in Limbo, or turn right, and come with us in the direction of hope?”
“You think hope is as easy as walking that path over there, Viking?” asks Virgil bitterly. “You think love is easy? You know nothing of the pain of either. I love The Devil, but to exist with him is to love his hate. And there was no end to it. I lost hope because I could see the end of both of us. But there wasn’t a moment when I didn’t ache for him. Hope and love are ruled by pain, and I was hurting so much, I lost who I was.”
“Don’t speak to me as if I know nothing of love,” I reply. “My body is that of a man who saw no more than sixteen winters, but my soul is a thousand summers strong. Love is the reason I am here. The reason any of us are here.”
“Come back to me.”
Mitchell, Medusa, Phlegyas and even Jeanne all fall back in horror. Sickening cold sweeps through my body like a wave as Elinor speaks with The Devil’s voice once more. Virgil shudders next to me, stretching out an arm toward my princess.
Elinor disappears as The Devil takes over her entire body. Her ragged clothes, torn and bloodied by what she has suffered in the Circles of Hell, morph into a black three-piece suit. With his black hair slicked back and the perfectly groomed goatee curled into a neat C, The Devil looks as if he’s out for a walk in the park.
I try to stay calm. My fingers dig into the handle of my axe. To see Elinor completely possessed in body and soul is almost too much to bear, but this is my final test. It is obvious to me now. The Devil is the only one who can persuade Beatrice Morrigan to return to him.
And if he fails, we are all doomed.
Prír Tigir Prír
Alfarin
Anyone who knows me, Prince Alfarin, son of Hlif, son of Dobin, understands that like any Viking, I glory in the promise of Ragnarök, and all the sweat, tears and bloodshed it foreshadows.
But what I have never admitted to anyone is that I have a nagging question about the battle, and it terrifies me.
When the war is over and the victors proclaimed, what happens to the souls after the end of all days? I have grown very fond of this existence in the Afterlife.
And I do not want it to end.
Yet as in all great tomes throughout history, The End is approaching.
For all of us.
33. Ragnarök
“Walk away,” says Phlegyas, taking my arm.
“No.”
“We have to make it through the arch,” he replies, pulling a little harder.
“I’m not leaving Elinor.”
Virgil is starting to disappear. At first into shadow. Then slowly his red robes become torn black silk. The red skullcap is replaced by long black hair, flailing in a wind that doesn’t exist.
But most striking is the way his haggard, lined face has morphed into the visage of a woman. It is pale and angular, with black oval eyes and high cheekbones.
“Come back to me, my Beatrice,” implores The Devil.
“Where is El?” whispers Medusa frantically. “Where did she go? He’s just projecting himself through her . . . isn’t he?”
“We must leave,” says Jeanne, backing away. “I cannot go back. I will not go back Down There.”
She stumbles. The grass of the meadow crackles as she falls. Phlegyas pulls her up. Jeanne’s hands are cut with delicate slashes.
“The grass,” she says. “It is sharp.”
“Alfarin,” calls Mitchell urgently. “What do we do?”
“I’m not leaving Elinor.”
This doesn’t feel right. I’m supposed to do something else, but I don’t know what. We have been guided all this time by the very object we were searching for, but Virgil is gone. I can no longer turn to him for counsel or enlightenment.
The Devil and the Banshee are just staring at each other; their hands are outstretched, but neither is moving. They are both in limbo. Too afraid to get closer for fear of pushing the other away.
Limbo is a period of waiting. But for how long? Elinor cannot be the physical vessel for The Devil for any extended time, I am sure of it. To draw out his toxic dreams as his Dreamcatcher is a state no normal devil could endure for long, but to have this psychotic manifestation possess a body without resolution will almost certainly be intolerable—and impossible.
“It hurts to love you,” says Beatrice softly.
“It hurts to be apart from you,” replies The Devil. “We are so much stronger together. I see that now. Please don’t leave me again.”
I want The Devil and Beatrice Morrigan to forgive each other, even if they cannot forget, but both are proud. I know they will stay in this prison-like state for all eternity to avoid humiliation and further pain.
Lord Septimus told me I must see this through to the end. The very end.
My death occurred because I did not listen to orders.
I will not allow the destruction of Elinor because I failed to listen for a second time. This is my quest, my journey, and maybe the end of my days.
My personal Ragnarök.
“Mitchell,” I call. “I am to stay here. I will not leave Elinor, but you will soon be unprotected without the power of a Dreamcatcher. Run to the other side of the arch and regain all of the hope that was once abando
ned. Take everyone back to the time I have already placed in this.” I throw Mitchell the Viciseometer. “Tell Lord Septimus I am seeing this quest through to the very end. However long it takes. He will understand.”
Mitchell catches the Viciseometer with one hand; he doesn’t even look at it. His pale-pink eyes do not leave mine. His face is stricken with grief.
“Don’t ask me to leave you, Alfarin!” he cries. “You didn’t leave me.”
“We are in Limbo, and the longer we stay here, the harder it will be for all of us to pull away!” I cry. “Now go.”
“I am not . . . going back . . . into the darkness!” cries Jeanne.
“Can you get over yourself for more than five seconds?” yells Mitchell. “There are worse things happening here!”
“I will not—”
“You selfish, self-absorbed—”
The Maid of Orléans immolates into brilliant white light that illuminates the entire circle. But it isn’t the flashing streak we have become used to. It is a slow burn, and as Jeanne flies away like a projectile that has lost momentum, her dead blood falls from her wounds like red rain.
“Delphi, Viking,” says Phlegyas. “You gave me your word.”
“We’ll take you there,” says Medusa. “Mitchell, El can’t hold out for long. There’ll be nothing left of her if The Devil stays in her. We need to get back to Septimus. He’ll know what to do.”
But Mitchell and I exchange a look, unseen by Medusa, that speaks of understanding the mind of The Devil’s accountant. Medusa wants to believe that Lord Septimus will never abandon us, but we know different. It would not be abandonment through indifference or even a lack of love, but through his duties as a leader. As with any great commander, the bigger picture is what is important to Lord Septimus. He will not come for me or Elinor. We are on our own.
A strange noise is expelling from Beatrice Morrigan. A continuous low-pitched hum. The Devil smiles, and for just a second, I see Elinor’s sweet mouth. She is still in there—holding on.
“Go!” I shout to Mitchell, Medusa and Phlegyas. “The Skin-Walkers will be able to attack the second you are out of the range of protection from Elinor and Beatrice.”
“You’re my brother, Alfarin!” cries Mitchell, and he slaps his bare chest with his fist: a Viking gesture of comradeship. “Never, ever forget that!”
Mitchell grabs Medusa’s hand, and together with Phlegyas, they sprint toward the arch. Seconds later, a pack of wolves descends the steps of the castle and runs across the dark-green grass of the meadow. Flecks of blood spurt into the air as they try to catch my friends. The Skin-Walkers do not notice their skin being flagellated by the shards of sharp grass. Indeed, they seem to revel in the pain. Their mouths are open; black tongues loll at the sides of their bloodstained teeth.
Mitchell, Medusa and Phlegyas pass through the arch and disappear into a flash of flame.
They are safe.
The exhilaration of seeing my friends to freedom from danger quickly fades. A weariness is starting to overcome me. I step toward The Devil and Beatrice Morrigan. My axe feels heavy and unnatural in my hands. I need to end this stalemate quickly, but my mind feels sluggish.
“Here is where you’ll find yourself, Beatrice. At your husband’s side. You can . . . move forward . . . together . . . ,” I say, but my voice—a deep booming timbre that has been my constant companion in life and death—has been replaced by a wooden slur that makes me sound drunk and foolish. Time is slowing down and dragging out my very soul.
And the low-pitched hum is getting louder. The noise is still continuous, but it is becoming more of a pained cry.
“I have missed your song, my love,” says The Devil. “I have heard only crying for so long. Sing it to me now.”
“Hold on, Elinor,” I call in the same elongated drawl. “I will not forsake you! We are so close to the end. You have endured so much. And Mitchell and Medusa are safe.”
Beatrice Morrigan throws back her head and starts to scream. It is a relentless, terrible cry of pain and suffering. The dark grass beneath her bare feet blackens and shrinks down into the earth. The ground is vibrating and cracking. A circle of death starts spreading out, with the restored Banshee at the epicenter. As it reaches my feet, the toes of my boots blacken and crumble. I only just jump back in time before the rot sets in to my corporeal dead soul.
She is destroying the landscape around her, and by default, because they are in it, The Devil and Elinor are next in her path.
I have one choice left, because running away is not an option.
Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate. These are words that will haunt you all for the rest of your existence. Limbo, lust, gluttony, greed, anger, heresy, violence, fraud and treachery. You will see, taste, smell, hear and feel the evil of man, and you will find yourself wanting, Viking.
Virgil’s words, but he was wrong, for I am not haunted. I go to my eternal doom knowing that I have witnessed the very worst in death, and far from my being found wanting, the final choice was mine and mine alone. My existence will end in satisfaction.
I get to The Devil just as the toxic scream of the Banshee reaches him. I wrap my arms around his waist and close my eyes. He starts to struggle against me. I am ending The Devil’s state of limbo, and he is scared. His strength is unworldly. Someone so thin should not have his hardiness. But I hold on, fighting against the intensity of his fervor for violence. And then, at last, with an almighty bellow from the depths of my soul, I push The Devil into the open arms of his wife.
“Go to her and give me back my princess. For I have not forsaken hope.”
My existence goes black. I am falling. My soul is dissolving. The Banshee screams in the darkness. No light. No . . . nothing. Then I see the ghosts of my past one more time. Their powder-white spirits are coiling in the darkness like smoke. Valencia moves through the black expanse of death like a mermaid through water. Her long hair floats around her face, caressing the darkness. She stretches out a slender hand, but as much as I feel an ache for the mother I have never known, the love I have for Elinor pulls me back.
Pain.
Then comes the pain of a soul splintering as the ghosts dissolve into wisps of nothing. Of course there would be pain at the end of days. Only a fool would have hoped otherwise.
I am rising. My soul is no longer dissolving. The Banshee continues to scream in the darkness. But a pale light, reddish in color, filters through my eyelids. There is wind on my face.
And still, pain.
Sharps claws are digging into my shoulders. I open my eyes and a familiar face bends down to smile at me.
“You have friends in high places, Viking,” says the Geryon, the bestial part-human, part-reptile from the Eighth Circle.
“Elinor,” I gasp.
“I am here, Alfarin,” calls my princess. She is holding on to the Geryon’s other front claw, restored to her full, perfect beauty once more. We are high above the First Circle of Hell, but the entire landscape is imploding into a bubbling mass that looks like a gigantic mud pool. Fumaroles of black mist begin to emerge from it.
I cannot see either The Devil or the Banshee, but I can still hear her terrible scream. It vibrates into my very bones.
Elinor reaches for my hand, and we cling to each other as the First Circle of Hell starts to disappear below us. The Geryon flies us over the arch where I saw Mitchell, Medusa and Phlegyas use the Viciseometer. And there, standing on a patch of dwindling ground, is someone I recognize.
“General Septimus,” says the beast, touching down. “You have but seconds.”
“I have time in my hands,” says the most important servant in Hell. His red eyes blaze with more than just fire. “Prince Alfarin, Miss Powell—if you would take my arm.”
“Come with us, Geryon!” I say. “You cannot stay here.”
“I will see you both again,” says the Geryon. “For the end of days is coming, and with it, the shadow.” His long neck bows to us all, and then, as the grou
nd starts to crack and move, he takes flight.
I swear to the Norse god Forseti that the Geryon calls out “Ragnarök” as he flies into the black dust of the imploding First Circle.
Lord Septimus presses down on the large red button at the top of the Viciseometer. My body is still not mine to command. The heaviness of time is beached within my very essence. I can smell blood and sweat. The taste of smoke and fear coats my tongue.
We land in the accounting chamber. My manly legs cannot support my body and I drop to the ground, smashing my knees into the hard stone floor.
Two other bodies collide with mine and Elinor’s, knocking us completely over, but exhaustion claims every inch of me before I can identify them. I sink into the ground as if I am made of soft butter.
I am not the same devil that left this place, but I did what I should have done in life.
I stayed.
When I awaken, I am in a room that I have visited once before during my one thousand years of death. Bright white light hurts my eyes, and it takes an age to focus on the sights and sounds now assaulting my senses.
It is the same room, lined with screens and telephones, where we were taken for interrogation after Rory Hunter escaped Hell with The Devil’s Dreamcatcher. I have been placed in a corner, atop a thin mattress. I am wearing a clean black tunic that drops to my knees. My legs and feet are bare. The golden hair that keeps my legs warm at night has been shaved away, and several bandages are wrapped around wounds that throb with pain. The veins that still hold my dead blood within are engorged like dark-purple worms.
None of this concerns me. What worries me is that I cannot find Bót.
There are many devils in this room. Some are sitting down, leafing through papers. Others are talking into phones. Several are crowded around the largest screen of all. Lord Septimus is among them.
Only, at first I do not recognize him, for he is not dressed in the sharp tailored suits for which he is known so well.
Instead, he is outfitted in full battle armor: a dark-brown leather cuirass with thick, studded strips falling in a fringe at the front. Beneath that, Lord Septimus is wearing a simple white tunic edged in gold thread. In a scabbard attached to his belt is a sword. It does not fit fully into the scabbard. The sword is bent.
