The Devil's Banshee

by Donna Hosie

  My axe. My beloved blade has been with me since my tenth winter. It lies here now, on the gritty rock floor. The blade glints red in the firelight, a reminder of the blood of foes—and friends—it has spilled.

  “Do you have a name for your axe?” asks Patricia, bending down to pick up the books I have already discarded. “I once dated a Saxon who worked in the furnaces. He was so hot. He had a javelin that he called Irwin. Something to do with a boar or whatever—I wasn’t that interested. I didn’t even like the way he talked, but man, he kissed like he was licking chocolate off my lips.”

  Why would Patricia have chocolate on her lips? Don’t girls like to eat chocolate? Do they now use it as lipstick, too? No wonder my friend Mitchell gets pains of the stomach when it comes to women. They are as complex as they are beautiful.

  “My axe has no name,” I reply. “Other than axe.”

  Blades are named for the great battles they have fought in. I did not live long enough to name mine. It was never a concern after that. Yet now it has a purpose, and when I have found The Devil’s Banshee and returned her to the embrace of the master of Hell, thus saving my Elinor for eternity, my axe will have a name.

  Bót.

  In the language of my kin, it means “atonement.”

  Only then will it—and I—be truly worthy.

  Patricia has left me; I did not notice when. I have set aside two books that may be useful on our quest, but otherwise, I have found no further information to help me snare or entice a Banshee. I stand up and stretch. It takes a while to work out the kinks, and I revel in each crackle of my spine. I am not built like Mitchell, with the girth of an eight-year-old, nor am I bendy like a drinking straw. There must be times when it is helpful not to possess bulging muscles and a powerful gait . . . and one day I may think of such an occasion, but not today.

  For today, Team DEVIL is gathering back in the office of the great Lord Septimus. He will see us to the entrance where the Nine Circles await us.

  Limbo.

  Lust.

  Gluttony.

  Greed.

  Anger.

  Heresy.

  Violence.

  Fraud.

  Treachery.

  One Skin-Walker is responsible for maintaining order within each circle, or so it is written. Maintaining order . . . that phrase is a bad joke. The Skin-Walkers thrive on disorder and hatred and pain.

  In one of these Circles of Hell, we will find Beatrice Morrigan, The Devil’s Banshee. If we are lucky, we will find her in the First Circle and quickly put this whole affair behind us.

  But judging from past adventures, Team DEVIL does not appear to have much luck on its side.

  As I leave the darkness of the inner corridors of the library, I hear shuffling behind me. A rotten smell, worse than one of Cousin Thomason’s bodily emissions, washes over me. I know that stench.

  “What do you want, Fabulara?” I call. My words echo with many voices, not one of them mine.

  “So you are determined to go through with this, Viking?” The voice is cold and harsh, like the scraping of a blade on ice.

  “If I must enter the Nine Circles of Hell to save my princess, then that is what I will do,” I reply. “And every second of every minute of every hour of every day in that putrid landscape, I will have a smile on my face. For I will find The Devil’s Banshee, and I will bring her back with me.”

  “Or die trying?” sneers Fabulara.

  “I am already dead.”

  “There are worse things than death, as you will discover if you and your friends enter the domain of the Skin-Walkers. They were the first evil, as you well know, and are therefore the purest form. You believe you are learned, that you know what to expect. But the horror that awaits you cannot be gleaned from books. You and your friends will not return.”

  “You created Hell, Fabulara, but I am not afraid of you or your words. Unlike you, I do not skulk about in the darkness. I must embrace my task. And if it leads to my doom, then so be it. I will face it head-on, like a Viking. A man. A devil.”

  I stand in the flickering light of a flaming torch, waiting for Fabulara’s response, but there is nothing. I want to believe that her desire to frighten me has been sated, but as I reach the express elevators, her words echo in my mind.

  You and your friends will not return.

  Tveir

  Alfarin and Elinor

  It was weeks before I saw Elinor Powell again. I did not seek her out. Vikings do not go looking for women—women flock to us.

  It was a mere coincidence that I stumbled across her in the library in the section reserved for hair care.

  My mane was like that of a lion steeped in honey. It needed attention.

  “Are ye following me, Alfarin?” she asked as I turned into the aisle.

  “I do not follow, woman,” I replied. “I am a Viking prince. I lead.”

  Elinor Powell shook her head and sighed. Since she did not have to breathe, I suspected this was for my benefit, not hers.

  “I have told ye my name, and it is not woman,” she said.

  “I have forgotten your name,” I lied. “I have many important things to remember. I do not retain inconsequential details that mean nothing to me.”

  “That’s a big word,” replied Elinor sarcastically, her eyes narrowing. “Almost as big as yer stomach.”

  I instinctively rested my beloved axe against my shoulder and jiggled my belly with my spare hand.

  “A real Viking should have meat on his bones,” I said.

  “Well, ye certainly have that,” replied Elinor. “Why, the kitchens could roast ye on a spit and ye could feed Hell for a month.”

  “When you have quite finished mocking my person, wench,” I said, slowly and quite deliberately, “kindly remove your worthless, interfering carcass from this aisle. I am busy, and time is of the essence.”

  “We have nothing but time, Alfarin, son of Hlif, son of Dobin,” replied Elinor Powell. “And I am not going anywhere until ye have remembered my name.”

  “Vikings do not play games.”

  “Ye have to remember my name. It is important.”

  Beautiful and troublesome. Those were the adjectives I associated with women, dead or alive. I had passed over into Valhalla in my sixteenth winter—too early to have taken on a mate to bear my sons. But after watching the Viking pairs square off in the halls of my fathers during my lifetime, I was grateful to have been spared a wife. I had witnessed womenfolk kicking, slapping and even head-butting their menfolk. The truly tormented males even had their dinner fed to the dogs.

  In death, womenfolk were just as bewildering, and Elinor Powell was turning out to be the most confounding of all. I had met her only the once before, and she was already getting under my skin.

  Which was difficult because, as she had pointed out, there was a lot of it.

  “I do not remember your name,” I lied again. “Now begone and let me have some infernal peace.”

  “As ye wish,” replied Elinor Powell, pulling a book from the shelf. A thin plume of dust cascaded to the ground as the sleeve of her white dress dragged back along the shelf. Her shoulders slumped slightly.

  She was displaying the same sense of disappointment she had when I first met her. I did not like this. I wanted devils to be overawed by my impressive stature.

  She slipped past me, leaving me and my unruly mane to the dust and the books on hair care in Hell. It was a popular section, as the heat of the Underworld was not a friend or ally to anyone’s follicles, but today the aisle was deserted.

  I was glad to be alone. For I knew what I wanted, but it would be difficult to find—and I needed peace and quiet.

  A librarian had written the words down, so I laboriously traced the outline of each letter on the paper against the letters on the spines of the books. It was dull and repetitive work, and it was not long before my arms were aching from being held in the same position.

  “Alfarin,” called a soft voice. I jumped back, sc
runching the paper into a tight ball.

  It was Elinor Powell again, already come to return her book. Curse this woman and her glorious red hair and silent feet.

  “What do you want?” I snapped.

  But her face softened. She looked at me like my father, King Hlif, looked at his hunting dogs.

  “Can ye not read?” she whispered.

  “I am a warrior,” I replied. “I fight and bathe in the cooked brains of my enemies. I do not need to read in order to send Vikings into battle.”

  Elinor held out her hand.

  “I couldn’t read, either, when I arrived in Hell, but I am slowly learning,” she said. “I know my letters and many words now. I can help ye find what it is ye are looking for. And then ye can be on yer way to fight some Saxons even quicker.”

  I scratched my beard. Elinor Powell’s proposition had merit. She was cunning and strategic. These were not the traits of most peasants. I handed her the piece of paper with the title of the book I was hoping to find.

  “Ye see this letter here,” she said, pointing to a symbol that had two upright lines and one across the middle. “This is the letter H. I imagine it to look like a house without a roof. That is how I remember it. And this is the letter S. It looks like a snake, don’t ye think?”

  I knew all about snakes. They were wriggling around in my stomach again.

  I was a quick learner, which was no surprise, for I was born into greatness and died that way, too. Everything came naturally to those gifted by the Allfather Odin. Satisfied that I had learned enough of the alphabet for one day, Elinor guided me back to the shelves, and together we found the book I required.

  It was a picture book with no words. I felt ashamed that my options were so limited because I could not yet read.

  “If ye want to take it with ye, don’t forget to check it out at the front counter,” said Elinor. “It is the year 1771 and we must act civilized and proper and follow the rules.”

  Elinor and I walked through the library. I had my axe in one hand and the book in the other. I checked the book out and passed a librarian whipping someone who had been late returning a tome.

  “Well, it was nice seeing ye again, Alfarin, son of Hlif, son of Dobin,” said Elinor Powell sweetly. “Good-bye.”

  She did not wait for me to return the gesture. She just turned and left. Perhaps she did not want to hear me call her wench or woman again.

  “Perhaps we could meet here again?” I called.

  “Perhaps,” she replied without looking back.

  “Thank you!” I shouted as devils started to swarm into the space between us. “Thank you . . . Elinor Powell.”

  She did not turn around or reply. Elinor Powell had been swallowed by the dead.

  2. Into Battle

  Lord Septimus is a great man. Few in Hell are as revered and respected as he. A Roman general in life, Lord Septimus is now in charge of the finances of Hell, an undertaking that is fraught with more danger than leading any Roman legion. He is a man of many titles: his Roman acquaintances call him General; the Vikings call him Lord; my sweet Elinor uses the title Mr. Septimus when speaking to him; while the woman who serves up fries in the burger bar calls him Sex-on-Legs.

  He used to smile at this last description.

  Used to.

  I am not the only devil who sees a change in The Devil’s accountant, but I am one of the very few who know the reason for it. Recently, Lord Septimus was betrayed, right along with Team DEVIL, by the master of Hell. An Unspeakable was let loose from the bowels of the Underworld with The Devil’s stolen Dreamcatcher in tow. In the wrong hands, the Dreamcatcher could unleash unspeakable horrors.

  At first it seemed as if the Unspeakable had pulled off an impossible theft and escape. But in fact, his heist and liberation were instigated by The Devil himself, in complete secret. He never even consulted his number one ally about the wisdom of his hotheaded plan.

  So Lord Septimus was as stunned as the rest of us when The Devil’s grand scheme was painfully revealed: he had freed the Unspeakable, and through him, had used the Dreamcatcher to test the effects of a Hell-made virus on a small group of angels.

  The virus worked, and not just on the heavenly ones. I still have the scars to prove it. So do my friends on Team DEVIL. We were caught in the crossfire when it happened. We will not soon forget it.

  Since then, I have been thinking that the Devil’s betrayal could prove to be the greatest mistake of his existence, for I sense a storm brewing in Lord Septimus’s heart. His waking hours are now filled with secret messages and flimsy lies to explain sudden absences. Sealed memos and communiqués are delivered at all hours. My good friend Mitchell has witnessed all this as he works alongside Septimus in the accounting chamber, and he has told me everything.

  I pass one of Lord Septimus’s former servants on my way to level 1. Aegidius is a strange fellow. He wears a toga and walks everywhere barefoot. His feet are hairier than my father mother’s back, and she has been mistaken for an escaped gorilla. Aegidius’s toga is smoking. To anyone not in the know, this would not be suspicious—many a devil has tried to set himself on fire in Hell before—but I know better. Aegidius is carrying another mysterious smoking message for Lord Septimus; these messages burst into flame the moment they’re read. Lord Septimus and Aegidius are working together, and according to Mitchell, there are many others, too, who are in near-constant consultation with the former Roman general.

  I am a warrior. A fighter. I was readying for battle from the age of seven, so I know the signs.

  Lord Septimus is preparing for war.

  I take the elevator to level 1. There are several devils rocketing along in the metal compartment with me, including Aegidius. I also recognize Sir Richard Baumwither, former head of the HBI. He is a bulbous fellow with red cheeks and a white beard. His head wobbles, like the small toy that my friend Mitchell has on his desk. The movement is hypnotic. I long to tap him on the cheek to make him wobble more, but instead I stay as far away from him as possible, because Sir Richard does not like devil-to-devil contact anymore. He has avoided it ever since he was ripped apart by the Skin-Walkers and scattered amongst the levels of the central business district of Hell. He has healed well, for someone whose head was found floating in a toilet.

  Only Aegidius and I are left in the elevator by the time we reach level 1. The doors open and Aegidius departs first. His hairy feet squelch along the rock floor. The sound reminds me of my cousin Thomason eating soup. A strange sickness invades my stomach. I did not say good-bye to my kin, but I will think of them on this journey into the unknown.

  Except for Second Cousin Odd. He should not be thought of by anyone who does not wish to regurgitate his last meal.

  Mitchell and Medusa were charged with making all of the supply preparations, so I have only brought with me my faithful axe and two tomes: The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri and The Origins of Hell by an unknown author, which I checked out of the library. Both books are first editions and falling to pieces. I do not expect them to survive the entire journey through the Nine Circles of Hell, but they may be useful as long as they last.

  Ahead of me, I see Aegidius disappear into the accounting chamber, but my eyes are drawn to the door next to it: the main entrance to The Devil’s Oval Office. I can sense the fire and anger building up inside me. I will not be able to immolate in Hell—no devil can—but if I could . . . Oh, for just one, glorious instant I wish I could. I know exactly where I would erupt with the force of Mount Vesuvius, and I know who would be cindered to a crisp with my hatred.

  If Lord Septimus is starting a war, I hope it is a mutiny. When our quest in the Nine Circles is over, I will gladly stand shoulder to shoulder with one of the greatest generals I have ever known to—as Mitchell would say—slam-dunk The Devil’s sorry ass. I wonder what The Devil’s head would look like floating in a toilet. . . .

  I never had these kinds of thoughts before Elinor was taken. Love is a terrifying emotion. That is why Vikin
gs do not display it. We fight, we make merry, and we fight some more. My father says love makes men weak.

  Team DEVIL is about to prove him very wrong.

  “May I enter?” I ask, peering around the entrance to the accounting chamber. Mitchell and Medusa are in there, speaking to Aegidius. Lord Septimus is not, and neither is Elinor.

  “Hey, Alfarin,” calls Mitchell. “Look, four backpacks. And there’s actually useful stuff in them. For once, we’re gonna be prepared. Go Team DEVIL.” He pumps his fist.

  “As long as we don’t leave any of the bags behind,” says Medusa. “And as long as we don’t erase ourselves in a paradox. Or fall into one of the Circles of Hell. Or—”

  “Yeah, yeah, we get the point,” says Mitchell. “Vortex of doom and all that. I was trying to cheer Alfarin up. Make it look like this adventure won’t actually go wrong.”

  “Where is Elinor?” I ask.

  “She went to see Johnny,” replies Medusa.

  “Has she told him what we plan to do?” I ask.

  “No—she’s going to tell him that devil resources needs her for a special project,” says Mitchell. “But she wanted to say good-bye, without actually saying it.”

  Elinor’s brother Johnny is not a devil. He is one of four angels who have been exiled from Up There. The other three are Private Owen Jones, who was killed on the first day of the Battle of the Somme; Miss Angela Jackson, a pretty female from the beautiful land of Aotearoa; and an angel who is more fearsome than any devil I have ever met: Jeanne d’Arc—better known to English speakers as Joan of Arc. I have known the French maiden for just a short while, and already she stands behind only Elinor and Medusa in my estimation of greatness. I do not tell her this, of course. She would almost certainly want to cause me pain for placing her third and not first. Yet a more capable female warrior I have never known. The great goddess Freya would find her match in Jeanne.