by Donna Hosie
“That’s the spirit,” replies The Devil. As he reaches the interconnecting door, he turns and addresses the one devil he has not yet spoken to.
“Sleep tight, pretty Elinor.”
Mitchell and I react at the same time. Medusa is not far behind, but The Devil is gone before we reach the door. Our three hands grab the handle, and our flesh sizzles upon contact.
“Fall back, Team DEVIL,” booms Lord Septimus. “You are filled with anger, but you will face far worse than the master’s baiting once you have entered the Nine Circles. You must learn to control yourselves. This is not New York or New Zealand. This is far more dangerous, and you will fail in the very First Circle if you do not get a grip on your emotions, however hard that may be.”
“H-how can you . . . I don’t know . . . ,” stammers Mitchell, his face screwed up with rage. “How can you stand it, Septimus? The Devil doesn’t even have to speak and I want to rip him apart. He’s worse than the Skin-Walkers. How can you be so . . . so . . . civil toward him?”
“Mitchell, I will not warn you again,” says Lord Septimus. “For your own preservation, never, ever speak ill of The Devil, especially in this office.”
“But he’s a monster!” cries Medusa. “He deserves every word!”
“He is The Devil,” says a voice behind me. “And he enjoys the game. Mr. Septimus is right. Ye should not speak ill of him. I have seen The Devil’s dreams, and he’s just itching for an excuse to wreak havoc.”
“Listen to Miss Powell,” says Septimus, his gaze softening. “Your emotions are about to be pulled apart. Do not lose control before you have started.”
“Sorry, Septimus,” mumbles Medusa.
“Yeah, sorry, boss,” adds Mitchell. “Sorry, Elinor. And you, too, Alfarin. You two kept your heads—”
“Mitchell,” I growl.
“It’s just an expression, Alfarin!” says Mitchell, throwing his hands in the air. “I can’t keep checking myself every time I mention heads.”
“Try.”
“It is all right, Alfarin,” says my princess. She steps out from my shadow. “When I was in there, with The Devil, I never lost hope. I knew ye would all come for me, even if it took a thousand years. Ye are all the greatest friends a devil could have, and I love each and every one of ye, jokes and all. I do not need protecting, from words or deeds. Not anymore.”
“The Devil is not reclaiming you, Elinor,” I say, going down on one knee. “For you were never his to take in the first place. And I swear it now, in front of those who mean the most to me, that by my blood, I will not fail. I will lead us all into the Circles of Hell, and moreover, I will lead us all out again once we have found our quarry.”
The sound of my blade slicing across my forearm is glorious. A quick yet tuneful whistle. Steel on skin.
“Do it to me,” says Mitchell, striding forward, pulling up the long sleeve of his green shirt. “I want to do a blood oath, too, Alfarin. Quick, before I change my mind.”
I do not wait to be asked again. Mitchell’s blood mixes with mine on the blade of my axe as I score his forearm with a single cut.
“Argh! Oh, shit that hurts!” Mitchell pales at the sight of his arm.
“Perhaps you ought to lie down, my friend,” I say.
“What? No!” Mitchell glares at me and then closes his eyes. “Okay. Okay, here goes. I swear by this Viking blood oath that this quest—ow, holy shit—hang on, no, that’s a swear, but that’s not my real swear. I mean, my real oath. Okay. I swear that we’re going to get The Devil’s wife back and Elinor will be safe—ow, ow, ow. Septimus, I need a Band-Aid.”
While Lord Septimus pulls out a red first-aid kit and tends to a swooning Mitchell, Medusa steps forward and silently offers me her arm. Scars from our time in New Zealand, where The Devil’s awful virus was unleashed upon us, have pockmarked her body, but the one I am about to inflict is one she will not shudder from.
She flinches slightly, but I know brave Medusa has suffered worse, and she absorbs the pain like a true Viking goddess.
“I swear a blood oath that Team DEVIL will not fail. We will not leave the Circles of Hell without Beatrice Morrigan, and the Overlord of Hell will not take Elinor from her best friends again,” she says quietly.
“And now me, Alfarin,” says Elinor, stepping forward. Her pale arms are freckled like her face, but the remnants of the virus unleashed from the Devil’s Dreamcatcher are worse on her skin than on Medusa’s. Pink swellings, like small coins, have scarred her body.
But I will slight Elinor’s honor if the mark I make on her now is smaller than those I scored onto Mitchell and Medusa. So with a quick sleight of hand, I draw my blade across Elinor’s arm.
“And I swear, as an honorary Viking, that no harm will come to those I love,” says Elinor.
“Gather your belongings, Team DEVIL,” says Lord Septimus. “It is time to leave. Prince Alfarin, I take it you have formulated a plan?”
“I am a Viking warrior, Lord Septimus,” I reply. “I have been preparing for this moment my entire death, whether I knew it or not.”
“Excellent. We will discuss this further as we walk. But first, I have a gift for you.” From his inside pocket, Lord Septimus draws a small bundle wrapped in a purple silk handkerchief. He places it gently in my enormous palm. I do not need to open it to know what it is.
“For the journey home,” says Lord Septimus. “Make a note of the date and time right now. The quest you are about to embark on will be your most dangerous yet. I hope you have been listening to my advice over the years, Prince Alfarin, for my words are never in vain, and I do not waste them.” He looks at me steadily. “I will expect to find you back here waiting for me.”
He winks, and I bow. Elinor rubs her neck. Mitchell and Medusa look at each other with confused expressions, but now is not the time for explanations.
“Mr. Septimus, sir,” says Elinor as Medusa starts handing out the backpacks. “May I add one last statement to the oath I just swore?”
“It was your oath, Miss Powell,” replies Lord Septimus. “You may add and subtract as you see fit.”
“It’s just . . . it involves ye,” says Elinor. “I have seen his dreams, ye see, and I wish to swear, as an honorary Viking, that when this is over, I will help ye.”
“Help me with what, Miss Powell?”
“I wish to help ye unleash Hell.”
Fjórir
Alfarin and Elinor
War. For the Vikings, in our era, it was a glorious state. Yet as the centuries passed in the land of the living, conflicts between men became larger and bloodier and longer.
The Great War was to be the war that ended all wars, and for four brutal years, mankind fought for territory and rights. As a result, by 1916, the war’s midpoint, the Deceased Dominion—the landmass where the HalfWay House stood—was rumored to be on the verge of anarchy. Soldiers, obliterated by bullets and shrapnel, were arriving by the tens of thousands. They were healed before the Grim Reapers sorted them to Hell or Up There, but the stench of their blood made its way to the Underworld anyway. After a time, the overworked Grim Reapers could not cope with so many, so they started sending the dead to Hell without assessing them.
By this time, thanks to Elinor, I was the most learned amongst my kin, but I remained a warrior first and foremost. So Lord Septimus had taken to calling on me to assist with the processing of newcomers, and the quick disarming of anyone who caused trouble in the reception area.
It was there that I learned that Up There had reneged on its promise to take its share of the glorious dead from the war, and that broken vow became more apparent than ever on the first of July, when the Somme in France became a river of blood as sixty thousand British men fell.
The dead, with wounds still dripping, came in droves. The long, rocky tunnels from the HalfWay House to Hell’s reception room were filled to capacity. The reception room itself bulged with the sheer volume of new devils.
Elinor was enlisted to assist with the
processing, too. The two of us worked until we could not move for exhaustion. Her shining hair ran even redder with the blood of the new arrivals. Carnage was everywhere.
Even so, we were efficient. We became a team. Lord Septimus said I was the brawn, Elinor was the brains. As we worked in tandem—processing more of the dead than any other devils, Grim Reaper or otherwise—we were called into a side chamber to assist with “special cases”—those devils that were to be taken away for “projects.”
I knew from their paperwork that these devils were deserters: soldiers who had fled the field of battle in fear, or refused to advance when ordered.
I wanted to call them cowards. It was a man’s birthright and duty to protect his people. Yet these young men before me did not look like witless chickens. And I knew enough now from my own reading and experience that there was more to bravery than facing death with a roar.
These devils had answered a call to serve while living. They had left family and hearth and faced the most horrendous terror like men. My heart may not have been beating, but it was still touched by these boys wilting with fear before us.
“You two get to assign this sorry lot for the special jobs,” said the Grim Reaper on duty. “Feel free to make it as gruesome as you can for them.”
The Grim Reaper left Elinor and me in the anteroom with fifteen of the young men. All but one were still shaking. Their eyes had already started to change to the color of foamy milk, but several pairs were so white, they were clearly still rolling in their sockets.
“They are all younger than me, Alfarin,” whispered Elinor as she flicked through the processing forms. “I will not do this. I will not make death harder for them.”
“We have our orders, Elinor,” I said.
“Alfarin,” said Elinor, and she touched my hand. I could not remember her doing so before. “Can ye honestly tell me ye have no compassion in yer heart for these boys? Not all orders are the right ones. Sometimes ye need to do what is right, not that which was told to ye.”
I was truly conflicted. I had been brought up to listen to authority. My death came about because I did not. I had gone on alone into the village, believing I was invincible.
I took a step toward the soldiers, and all but one brave soul took a step back. I remember he wore a brown uniform, though his face was quickly lost to me.
“We will find you safe jobs and warm beds. You will never escape death, but you can make a safe existence for yourselves here,” I said to the new devils.
Elinor was still touching my hand, and she gave it a quick squeeze before she started to give them their assignments.
I had made her proud. It was a good feeling to earn respect instead of demanding it.
But defying orders did not come easily, and I did not sleep well for many nights.
By the end, Elinor and I had seen so many of the glorious dead that they all became one in our minds. There were too many names to remember. Too many bloodied faces to recall. We found jobs for everyone who came our way to be processed. Jobs of importance. Even the great Lord Septimus took one of the soldiers, the one in the brown uniform who had not quailed at the sight of my axe.
But the living did not learn. The Great War became just another war. And twenty years later, it happened again.
And again . . . and again . . . and again . . .
4. Swagger and Secrets
Lord Septimus allows me to lead Team DEVIL away from the accounting chamber. The burden of expectation—and potential failure—rests heavily on my shoulders. It is a weight I bear willingly. I have my axe. I have my friends. I have the written word of knowledge in my backpack.
Mitchell and I are sharing the last pizza, but my friend is not happy.
“Urgh, gross!” he exclaims as we reach the express elevators. “There are anchovies on this slice. Who in their right mind puts stinky little fishies on a pizza?”
“Stinky little fishies!” exclaims Medusa. “Stinky little fishies? Are you three years old, Mitchell?”
Elinor is smiling. It gladdens my heart to see it. Mitchell and Medusa are very amusing, especially when they are arguing. Me, I do not like to fight with words. I find my fist does a quicker job. It means I can multitask by fighting and eating at the same time.
These are important traits in a warrior. My father, King Hlif, once went into battle swinging an axe in one hand and a whole roasted hog in the other. As the hog had been cooked—or I should say overcooked—by the bowman of my father’s longship, who was not known for his culinary skills, I’m not sure which caused more damage as they were swung into the noses of our enemies.
“How far will you be able to accompany us, Lord Septimus?” I ask as we all crowd into the elevator.
“I will take you out of the reception area and into the tunnels,” he replies. “The entrance to the dwelling of the Skin-Walkers is in there. You will have to find the guide yourselves, I’m afraid. For you must abandon that which we all cling to before you can enter, and that is something I cannot reveal, not now.”
“Uh, boss,” says Mitchell, still picking flakes of stinky little fishies from his pizza slice. “You know I think you’re awesome and all that, but just for once, could you not be cryptic and instead tell us exactly what it is we’re supposed to do? Just once. Consider it an early deathday present to us all.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Mitchell,” snaps Medusa. “You’re flicking bits of anchovy into my hair.” She grabs the pizza slice from him and stuffs the whole thing into her mouth. “Ver. No vor anhovyz vor roo,” she says thickly, grease dribbling down her chin.
“You are gross, Medusa,” says Mitchell. “What do you have to say to that?”
“Han’t talk. Eatin’ pissa.”
Elinor is laughing so hard she gets hiccups. Dead hiccups are very painful because the diaphragm goes into spasms, but a devil cannot hold his or her breath to stop them.
Despite Elinor’s affliction, the atmosphere is so jovial that I do not press Septimus for a better explanation of his enigmatic words, even though they weigh heavily upon me.
The doors of the elevator part and we push our way out. Many more devils are trying to push their way in. A flash of familiar red catches my eye before it is swallowed in the crowd. I look behind me, and Elinor is right there, holding on to my tunic as I plow a way through the corridor.
I say nothing, but I could have sworn to the Norse god of truth, Forseti, that I just saw young Johnny, Elinor’s brother, in the throng.
“Where is Team ANGEL, Lord Septimus?” I ask.
“Private Owen, Miss Jackson and Mr. Powell are still getting settled into their new quarters,” he replies.
“What about crazy Jeanne?” asks Mitchell.
“Mitchell, don’t be mean,” says Elinor. “She was very brave, and saved all of ye from a horrible fate in Aotearoa.”
“That choice of word is ill-advised, Mitchell,” adds Lord Septimus. “Mademoiselle d’Arc is to be transported to Hell’s asylum later on today.”
“What?” cry Elinor and Medusa together.
“Keep walking, all of you,” instructs Lord Septimus. “If you lose momentum now you’ll become gridlocked. The asylum is the safest place for Mademoiselle d’Arc at this time.”
“But the French maiden is a warrior, Lord Septimus,” I say. “She does not deserve such a fate.”
But Lord Septimus does not reply. He has taken over the lead and is carving a way through the crowd with his mere presence.
It has always been this way. Everyone stops in their tracks when The Devil’s accountant is around. Men quail and women swoon. Lord Septimus is the monster under the bed that modern-day children fear, and he is the one devil everyone in Hell wishes to get close to. He has power, influence and an astonishing number of pinstripe suits.
Elinor, Mitchell and Medusa sink into the shadows in his wake, not wishing to draw attention to themselves. But I puff out my chest, clasp my blade and attempt a swagger, drinking in the gaze of the throng that comes to
me simply because of my association with The Devil’s right-hand man.
Mitchell once showed me how to swagger. It is all about attitude. My friend is better at it than me, though. Elinor thought I had been afflicted by gout as I strutted around my cousin Thomason’s bar, trying to follow Mitchell’s instructions. I also managed to upend my great-aunt Dagmar’s tankard of ale in the process, which is a dangerous mistake on any day, but especially when Great-Aunt Dagmar happens to be holding a carving knife. My own hide almost ended up in the house stew that night.
Today, my swagger has not improved. It is hard to move with attitude when your thighs meet at the knees.
We reach the reception area of Hell. This is as sorry a place now as it was when I worked here during the Great War, and many years later, when I passed through with Team DEVIL on our way to the land of the living. Sobbing and wails have always drowned out the music. It is like that now, although we cannot see who is making the noise because there are fluorescent green drapes pulled across the processing booths.
“Mitchell, is that another recording of ye over the speakers?” asks Elinor.
“Yeah,” replies Mitchell, looking embarrassed. “It’s the piano version of ‘Relight My Fire.’ The Devil thought—well, you can guess what he thought.”
“Septimus,” calls a woman from behind a glass screen. She has a flabby neck that reminds me of a turkey. “I’m not falling for this again. Do you know how much trouble I got into last time these . . . these kids . . .”
But she trails off with a confused look on her face. The receptionist is staring at Medusa.
“But as I am here this time, Josephine, there shouldn’t be a problem, should there?” replies Lord Septimus, leaning against the counter. “Is that a new blouse? It brings out the color of your eyes.”
The receptionist giggles and touches her earlobe. I find these interactions interesting. Vikings are not known for their subtle ways with women. We grab them, carry them over our shoulder and bury our faces in their ample bosoms. But I do not know why this is so, especially nowadays. To me, it is not worth the risk. Women have knees, and from my observations, they are pretty lethal shots, especially when it comes to aiming between the legs of a Viking.