by Donna Hosie
Elinor. I have to be brave for Elinor.
“What choice?” I dare to ask.
“You can leave Elinor Powell to her fate. The Devil’s dreams will eventually overpower her, and she will become nothing but atoms in the air. He will resume his use of the Dreamcatchers.”
“Not an option,” I reply as confidently as I can. My stomach has tightened into such a painful ball that I want to double over.
“Then you must carry on and seek that which left The Devil. It will not be easy. The Viking is brave, yet even he will quail from the horrors you will face on the journey.”
“Nothing is worse than knowing that Elinor is suffering.”
The monster lurches forward with a speed that defies its size. Fabulara’s gaping mouth splits apart, and teeth the size of knitting needles snap inches from my face. I fall back into a bookcase and scream from the depths of my soul. I never knew I was capable of making such a primal noise. It’s beyond fear and pain and helplessness. My body is turning to fire and ice. I can see people drowning in filth; bodies being stripped of skin by wind; the condemned trapped in flaming tombs.
The monster’s head pulls back and I am left a shaking mess on the floor. My stomach heaves violently, and what comes out of my mouth is vile and green and tastes like bitter fruit.
“That is but a glimpse of what you will face if you choose not to leave Elinor Powell to her fate.”
“But we only want to find the Banshee,” I choke. “Then we can have Elinor back.”
“Three of the nine is all I have just shown you, but there are a further six.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will find the Banshee in the nine.”
The seven-headed monster is disappearing, melting backward into the shadows. I can’t walk, so I start to crawl toward it.
“In the nine of what?” I cry.
“Medusa . . . Medusa . . .”
It’s too much. I faint dead away.
When I wake up I find I’m back in the accounting chamber. Mitchell and Alfarin are there, staring at me with concerned faces. Mitchell is stroking my hair. I can feel his fingers bouncing around my forehead.
“Hey there,” he says softly. “You’ve been out for hours.”
“That monster . . .”
“Gone. We heard it, and that was how we found you. Scared Patty Lloyd shitless. She didn’t realize it was real. Apparently she takes dudes down there all the time. You should have seen her running, you would have laughed.”
Somehow I doubt it.
“Johnny says he is sorry, Medusa,” says Alfarin. He’s leaning forward, arms crossed, balancing precariously on his axe. “You should forgive him. What he said was done for the love of Elinor, not his anger at you.”
“Where are the angels?”
“With Jeanne, trying to calm her down. Septimus reckons she’s getting close to immolation. I think he’s quite impressed, actually. If she manages, she’ll be the only one in Hell who’s ever accomplished it.”
“The monster—Fabulara—she told me how to find the Banshee.”
“We heard that as well.”
“Do you know what she meant? ‘In the nine’?”
Mitchell swears. Not at me. Not at anything. He just swears, shakes his head and swears again.
“What did you see, Medusa?” asks Alfarin. “What did you see when the monster roared its bile at you?”
“Dead people. Their skin was being torn from their bodies by wind. And their faces, Alfarin. They were screaming, and they didn’t stop, but they had no tongues and so I couldn’t hear it, but I knew the noise was there, just waiting to get me. And even when the wind stopped, and their skin grew back . . . they knew it was coming again. The wind was like knives. It just kept tearing at their skin . . . again, and again. And the smell . . . there were others, and they were being submerged in this brown filth.”
“It is as I thought,” says Alfarin. “I will go alone, Mitchell. I cannot ask you to follow me.”
Follow Alfarin where? What am I missing? I prop myself up on my elbows. A stabbing pain shoots through my head, from left to right, and it’s quickly followed by a large black shadow that swims across my vision in the same direction.
Then I hear the howling of wolves.
Nine.
Nine wolves.
Nine Skin-Walkers.
Nine circles of Hell.
Nine.
You will find the Banshee in the nine.
Alfarin doesn’t look scared, or even confused. Determination just glows from his huge body.
“Oh, no!” I cry. “This isn’t happening.”
“You understand already?” asks Alfarin. “Medusa, you are truly the wisest of us all. Mitchell and I have gone through the papers we collected in the library. We brought them back here with us. The written word, and those spoken by Fabulara, all match up.”
Finally we’re all on the same page. We know what we have to do and where we have to go.
The Devil’s Banshee, the original Dreamcatcher, is with the Skin-Walkers. If we want to save Elinor, that’s where we’ll find her.
“We’re going into the worst part of Hell,” says Mitchell.
“I will do this alone, my friend,” repeats Alfarin.
“There’s no way you’re doing this alone,” I say. “We’re a team.”
The three of us look around the small, cluttered office. We’re a team that is one woman down, but we have a plan.
We’re heading into Dante’s circles of Hell. Together.
30. A Proposition
Septimus has his fingers locked in a cradle beneath his chin. His face doesn’t betray a flicker of emotion. He did hear me, right?
A single bead of sweat travels down the side of my face. I no longer feel shock over what we have to do. My spectrum of emotions has been stretched like a rubber band, nearly to its breaking point in recent days, and what I feel now is exhilaration. It’s almost perverse, but I want to hold on to this gloriously terrifying feeling.
Somehow it’s empowering, knowing how we can get Elinor back.
This accounting chamber really isn’t big enough for Septimus, Mitchell and me, but now there’s an amped Viking prince in the office, too, and Alfarin has enough nervous energy to fire up Hell’s furnaces. He’s like a pinball waiting to be unleashed. In a moment he’ll start bouncing off more than the balls of his enormous feet.
I kept calm when I told Septimus our plan. That we knew where the original Dreamcatcher was, and we were going to get her back for The Devil. Now we just need Septimus to get us—me—into that Oval Office to explain it to the master of Hell.
Septimus is staring at something, but I’m not sure what. His red eyes are flickering with the reflection of the candle wick burning in front of him.
“Septimus, please,” I say, breaking the sweaty silence. “Just get me in to see The Devil. I’m not scared. I know I can do this.”
Septimus leans back in his chair. He drums his chin with his fingertips.
“Medusa,” he says in his long, deep, drawling voice. “I am astounded at your bravery and loyalty. It is an ingenious plan, but one that is fraught with more danger than I could possibly explain. I will give you one chance to walk out now, and no one will think any less of you for it. Least of all me.”
“No,” I reply defiantly. “Elinor is the best girlfriend I’ve ever had. I’m getting her back, and I will do anything—anything—to make that happen.”
“I cannot allow all of you into the Oval Office,” says Septimus, taking in the remainder of Team DEVIL one at a time. “This must be Medusa’s proposition. Her task will have come full circle, and she will have to go in to see the master alone. You will have but one chance, Medusa. Decide now how you wish to play this.”
Play? Septimus’s word flares up in my chest like a lit fuse, burning me with righteous indignation. This isn’t a game. This is real and horrifying.
But then he rises from his chair and nods to me, and suddenly
play seems like exactly the right word. I have to play to my strengths and The Devil’s weaknesses. Like anyone in a position of power, he will want to be seen to be holding on to that. A puppet master holding the strings.
I need to make him think that this is all his idea. That he’s still in charge.
“You need to beg The Devil to let Elinor free,” suggests Mitchell. “Cry if you have to.”
“Demand that he set our princess free,” counters Alfarin. “Threaten him if you have to. You may have my axe.”
I bite my tongue to help center my thoughts. The guys are wrong. I can’t play to fear, or to anger. I need to confuse The Devil. But how? What emotion will cause the most bewilderment to a madman?
The one emotion that makes wrecks of us all, I think, suddenly recalling Septimus’s words to me by the stone wall when Mitchell first immolated. Do not underestimate the power of love, Miss Pallister. It can blind us all, for better and worse.
“Did he love her?” I ask Septimus. “The Devil, I mean. Did he love the Banshee?”
“Yes, very much,” replies Septimus. “They were married, you know, and they were actually rather well suited. He took her leaving very badly.”
“You don’t say,” mutters Mitchell. “The sick bastard.”
“What was her name?” I ask.
“Medusa, what does it matter?” asks Mitchell. “Her name is irrelevant.”
“Names are important, Mitchell,” I reply. “Think about it. When my name changed to Medusa, I was able to start gaining a new sense of self. You share your name with your little brother, and I know you wouldn’t change that for the world. Alfarin, son of Hlif, son of Dobin, is so proud of his name it takes a week to say it, and Septimus’s name strikes fear and admiration into every dead soul, whether it’s Up There or here in Hell. Names aren’t irrelevant. They’re personal. They can mean everything.”
“Beatrice Morrigan,” says Septimus quietly. “Her name is Beatrice Morrigan.”
Beatrice Morrigan. That’s a pretty name. Its normality makes me smile. In my head I see a slender woman with long blond hair. She’s floating with her arms outstretched. Her eyes are black, like The Devil’s and the Skin-Walkers. It’s not a vision like the one I shared with the Dreamcatcher; what I’m seeing is just my imagination. It’s nice to use it and not to be scared for once.
I think back to what Patty said, deep in the labyrinthine library. That the Banshee left to “find herself.” Well, I hope she’s about done, because now I’m coming to find her.
“I’m ready,” I say. “I want to see The Devil.”
Suddenly I’m crushed between two chests. I don’t think Mitchell and Alfarin coordinated their hugs, but I’ve become the filling in a devil sandwich.
“You are the most amazing . . . brilliant . . . brave—” stammers Mitchell.
“May the goddess Hlin walk with you, Medusa,” interrupts Alfarin. “She will protect you.”
“Septimus,” I squeak. My voice box is being crushed along with everything else, but once Mitchell and Alfarin step back, I kiss both of them on the cheek.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For believing in me.”
“Always,” replies Mitchell, tucking my hair behind my ears. I brush my thumb across his bottom lip.
“Crumbs,” I lie.
My thumb continues to tingle as I step away and face the connecting door between the accounting chamber and the Oval Office. It’s sparking with blue electric light. I remember worrying about that when I first came up here for my interview. That suddenly seems like a lifetime ago.
The door opens without Septimus’s even touching the door handle. The same one that has seared me and Mitchell countless times in recent days with imprints of The Devil.
Don’t let me go.
For some reason I can hear myself saying those words, but my mouth has frozen in terror.
The door closes behind us. Septimus and I are alone in the Oval Office.
“What happens now, Septimus?” My voice is a whisper, but it still echoes in the cavernous space. “Do we press a buzzer? Do we call him? Where’s that little old lady who was here earlier?”
“We do nothing, Medusa,” replies Septimus. “From here, you go on alone.”
“What?” I cry.
“You asked me to get you in here, and I have done what you requested. I have more trust and belief in you, Medusa, than you could possibly know. Keep calm and as emotionless as you possibly can. There is a door behind the red drapes opposite. You will have to reach that in order to find the master.”
“Septimus . . . will this work?”
“Death is full of compromises, Medusa. Sacrifice and betrayal. Yet in Team DEVIL I have seen more heart and soul than in one thousand living beings.”
I take a step forward, my eyes drawn like magnets to the red drapes. “Was that a yes?” I wonder aloud.
The door to the accounting chamber slams shut. Septimus is gone.
I’m alone, and the room knows it.
The Oval Office is starting to stretch and distort. The curved walls, covered in the gaudiest of the room’s drapery, are trying to confuse me. For every step I take toward the red curtains that Septimus pointed to, they seem to get two further steps away from me.
I suddenly feel as if I’m walking uphill, only the incline is getting steeper and steeper and I’m slipping as the room stretches and contorts itself. I focus on the huge mahogany desk in the center. There is a large gilded throne behind it. It’s ostentatious and ridiculous, but it isn’t moving. The walls, the ceiling and even the floor are rising and falling in rippling waves, but if the motion were real, the desk and throne would be sliding around, too. This is all fake. It’s a security device to disorient intruders. The movement of the room isn’t real.
“This isn’t real!” I cry.
As if in response, the Oval Office pulls apart like a Slinky being stretched and then pings back to the way it was when Septimus and I entered.
Feeling nauseous, I run across the floor toward the red drapes and pull them back. There’s a single door behind them. It’s made of gold and has four clouded glass panels set into it, with golden stencils showing The Devil’s face.
In the center is a large gilded knocker. It’s in the shape of a woman. Her golden hair is floating around her body, and her hands are joined together. Her arms form a looped piece of metal.
I clasp her hands and bring down her arms. A deep ring echoes through the Oval Office.
Through the glass panels I see a figure approaching. I want to swear, but I can’t form the word. My throat feels as if invisible hands are throttling it. There’s a pain in the pit of my stomach, and acidic bile is lapping at my tongue.
The door opens. It’s The Devil.
He’s wearing black pants and a purple quilted jacket. His black goatee is curled into a perfect C. Bottomless black eyes appraise me.
“Medusa Pallister, what a delight,” he says in a high-pitched voice. “Please, come in.”
“I’d . . . I’d rather not,” I reply, peeking over The Devil’s shoulder. The room behind him is as black and impenetrable as his eyes. “Could we . . . could we speak out here, Sir? I have a proposition for you.”
“A proposition, what fun,” says The Devil, but his voice is cold. My skin erupts into goose bumps. “You’re clearly a favorite of Septimus’s, you know. I can’t remember the last time he brought devils in to see me. . . .”
He trails off, as if thinking. His long index finger curls around his goatee as he looks upward with a pout.
As he does, another figure, dressed all in white, appears behind him. My knees give way when I see her.
The Devil abandons his feigned confusion and claps his hands together with theatrical glee.
“Of course, I remember now!” he exclaims. “The last time Septimus allowed devils into the Oval Office, I came away with quite the prize. Did I not, Elinor?”
“Elinor!”
I scream her name and try to run forward, bu
t an invisible force field pushes me back.
“I invited you in and you declined,” says The Devil, and he makes another theatrical face. This time disapproving. His forehead is creased, his black eyes narrowed. The index finger on his other hand ticks left to right to left like an inverted pendulum. “Tsk, tsk, Medusa. You didn’t think it was going to be that easy, did you?”
I’m sprawled on my ass, my hair is everywhere, and my hands are stinging from the blow. Every single ounce of anger I have in my dead body right now is making me want to grab and pull on that ridiculous goatee until tears of blood fill The Devil’s eyes. But I remember what Septimus said about trying to remain emotionless.
“I know where Beatrice Morrigan is,” I say in a rush.
It’s amazing how those six words have a far greater effect than any physical assault I could wage on The Devil’s grotesque face.
“What did you say?” The Devil’s face looms up in front of me as he speaks. It’s getting bigger and bigger, as if the room is distorting again. Only, the only thing distorting this time is The Devil himself. His thin face, with skin so pale and translucent it reminds me of the ancient parchment in the library, is now so large it’s taking over the entire Oval Office. I scream and scramble backward. I fling an arm up to shield my eyes as a blast of intense heat is thrown at my face. I can feel his breath, and it burns.
“What are you?” I scream at the monster. “Stay away from me!”
“I am your worst nightmare,” growls The Devil, and even with my eyes shut I can see his horrible leering face burning through my eyelids. “You believed that you, a minion among millions of pathetic minions, could enter here and play me for a fool? I indulge Septimus’s whims, but you are not worthy to say her name, Medusa Pallister.”
“I know where she is,” I sob. “I can find her. I’ll bring . . . I’ll bring Beatrice Morrigan back to you.”
“Stop saying her name!” screams The Devil. “Stop it, stop it, stop it.”
