by Donna Hosie
But my mother’s blood ran through me, and now, even though I was dead, that connection would always remain. Did this mean my blood was bad, too? Even in death? My thirst for knowledge about my mother’s demise was increasing, and the irony that I could not ask my kin for information was not lost on me. I needed to know more—but the information had to come from elsewhere.
When Elinor started her employ in devil resources, I saw an opportunity. When she wasn’t on the clock, Elinor would often busy herself with side projects, first researching her family, and then, she told me, researching someone else. She said she was looking for a friend whom she had met late in her life. I did not question her further, thinking only that if Elinor could comb millions and millions of devil resources files for answers, then perhaps I could, too. This could be my chance to discover more information about my mother, and perhaps learn why she wasn’t strong enough to stay with me. And of course, it would give me a chance to spend even more time with Elinor, if she would allow my company.
Elinor was one of six children. She had two brothers in Hell: Michael and Phillip. Neither paid her any attention. Perhaps that was why Elinor was so at home in the company of Vikings. We fought hard, with words and the occasional swinging of goats, but our family stuck together, and outside the halls of Valhalla, we were feared and admired in equal measure. Queen Tabitha adored Elinor, and my friend appreciated the attention.
Still, I knew Elinor craved the connection to blood family.
Elinor was happy to smuggle me into devil resources so I could look through the files. Her mother had abandoned her during the Great Fire of London, so she understood what it was like to have no knowledge or memory of a maternal bond. Alas, I quickly discovered that there were many thousands of Valencias in Hell, and with no family name to distinguish the bloodline, I realized it would be an almost impossible task to find her—if she had even come to Hell.
It was different for Elinor. She discovered—through a process of elimination with the family name Powell—that the three kin she was searching for had gone Up There: John, William and Alice. She became emotional when talking of John and William especially. They were her younger brothers.
“They were there, in the fire with me,” she whispered. “They were saved.”
“If I had been there, I would have saved you,” I replied.
It was the right thing to say, because Elinor wrapped her arms around me and placed her head on my shoulder.
“We were fated to meet, ye know that, don’t ye?” she said. “But I wish I could see our John and William one more time. We were very close. I loved them very much.”
Love. Such a cruel four-letter word. Did Valencia not love me enough to hold on? Or did she die because of it?
I would never know, because I never did find my mother amongst the billions of names in Hell.
7. Love and Treachery
No one moves. Five sets of eyes, ranging from foamy white to pale pink to the deepest red, are fixed on the spot where just moments ago, Lord Septimus was standing.
“How did he do that?” asks Medusa. “He didn’t have a Viciseometer. He just . . . he just disappeared.”
“Just because you are close to the man, do not fool yourself into believing you know everything about him, girl,” says Virgil. He straightens himself up and tilts his head arrogantly.
But his shaking hands betray his fearfulness.
“Her name is Medusa,” says Mitchell. His back straightens, too, and I am pleased to see it has a more impressive effect than Virgil’s stance—and not only because his length nearly matches that of a longship. My friend in death has a proud streak when it comes to defending his woman.
“As in the woman of many snakes,” sneers Virgil.
“We have no time for idle talk, Virgil,” I say, stepping in front of Mitchell, who has a face like thunder. “Lead on.”
“You mean to go through with this folly?” asks Virgil. His question is sincere, as is my reply.
“Yes.”
We walk on in silence. It is not a comfortable quietude. Elinor is deep in thought; one hand is massaging her neck, the other is in her mouth as she chews on her fingernails. Mitchell is now bringing up the rear of Team DEVIL with the torch. Every time I turn to check on everyone, his pink eyes meet mine. Mitchell is biting down on the inside of his cheek, which distorts his jaw. It reminds me of when Elinor punched him the first time we left Hell.
What journeys we have been on since then. When I first arrived at the HalfWay House in 970 AD, death seemed simple. It has proven to be anything but.
“Alfarin, do you still have the book by Dante in your backpack?” whispers Medusa.
“I do.”
“Can I have it?”
“Of course.”
Medusa would make a good thief. Her sleight of hand is subtle as she unzips my backpack and pulls out the tome. Then she sidles up to Virgil, who is leading the procession with another torch procured from the tunnel wall. His long fingers glide along the rough stone, presumably to balance his frail frame.
“Virgil, you said he—Dante—was a poet and a dreamer,” says Medusa. “So how much of this book is actually true?”
“What does it matter?” replies Virgil. “You will find out soon enough.”
“It matters because we need to be prepared,” I reply. “To start, I want to know the location of each Skin-Walker.”
“The Skin-Walkers are not contained creatures,” replies Virgil, with another hacking laugh. “Do you not move around your own dwelling, even in a place as crowded and confined as Hell? To them, their own circle is . . . is a banquet hall. They feed off the wretched souls’ terror, but the same meal day in and day out would bore anyone. The Skin-Walkers often leave for fresh meat, and as we all know, there is never a shortage of evil souls out there.”
Virgil’s words are not entirely surprising. Team DEVIL has seen the Skin-Walkers outside the Circles of Hell before. We passed eight of them on our first journey from Hell. We have met Perfidious, their leader, in the secret level of the CBD, and all nine accosted us in the land of the living after we joined with Team ANGEL. But never in all my reading did I come across any information about the frequency of the Skin-Walkers’ departures from the Circles.
“Alfarin,” says Medusa. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Almost certainly, wise Medusa.”
“Any chance of letting those of us almost certainly not thinking what you’re thinking know what the Hell you’re thinking?” calls Mitchell from the back.
Elinor giggles. It is my favorite sound in the world, other than the frying of bacon.
“Ye make me laugh, Mitchell,” she says. “If Mr. Septimus heard ye saying the word thinking three times in a single sentence, he would make ye do lines a thousand times over before making ye read a thesaurus to improve yer vocabulary.”
“Don’t mock me, Elinor,” replies Mitchell. “I’m thinking about thinking here.”
Now it’s Medusa’s turn to laugh. Virgil snorts with derision, clearly indisposed to the easy way we on Team DEVIL interact with one another. He will learn that our camaraderie is not to our detriment, but rather, what brings us closer. We have been through things in life and death that many others have never had to endure. Humor is food for our souls.
Not that I will ever give up the true joy of food, of course. It was a metaphor. I take a furtive look around, and hope the shadows that are tracking us cannot read minds. I do not wish to replace cheeseburgers and fries with one of Mitchell’s jokes.
“Alfarin,” says Medusa. “Do you want to explain our train of thought to Mitchell, or shall I?”
I smile. “My friend. We already know the Skin-Walkers do not watch their circles continuously,” I say. “We have seen them ourselves on multiple occasions. But Virgil has now confirmed that these vile creatures abandon their posts on a regular basis. We can use this information to ease our passage through the Circles. We will simply wait for each Skin-Walker to depar
t, and then we will enter.”
“But what about time, Alfarin?” asks Mitchell. “You heard that psychopath earlier—”
“Shhhhh, Mitchell,” chides Elinor. “Not even here, away from the confines of our Underworld, should such words be spoken about the master.”
“Fine, the definitely-not-psychopathic nutbag called The Devil, then,” says Mitchell, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You heard him. He’s going without sleep while we do this. We can’t wait around forever, believing the Skin-Walkers will leave.”
Virgil has slowed down; he is listening.
“Then we will just have to hope that enough evil is busy in the land of the living to warrant their attention,” I reply.
But my nonchalance is noted, especially by Medusa, who stops walking suddenly and turns to me with her hands on her hips.
“Alfarin!” she exclaims. “How can you say something like that?”
Another laugh escapes Virgil’s lips. “An early death was a fortunate escape for you, Viking,” he sneers. “Your eagerness to wish ill on others would have seen you end up with some of your more vicious kin in the Circles.”
“I—I did not mean I wished . . . that was not what I meant,” I stammer.
Medusa’s face has fallen with disappointment. I am embarrassed, not just by my words, but by the ease with which they came.
I am not evil. I am not.
But I am in Hell, and I am angry, and one thousand years of death can corrupt the purest of souls.
I wish to ask Virgil more questions, and I want to confer with my friends, but I am too ashamed to open my mouth. I do not wish for the kind of evil that befell Medusa to happen to anyone. She endured much suffering at the hands of her stepfather, Rory Hunter, when she was alive. And in death, too, as Rory was the very Unspeakable who stole The Devil’s Dreamcatcher not long ago. But now, as we embark on a new quest, I am facing up to the inevitable fact that the Skin-Walkers will need the distraction of those like Rory Hunter to remove them from the Circles.
“It is not as easy as you thought, is it, Viking?” Virgil whispers. “Good and evil are not always separable like black and white.”
Our guide is now walking by my side. We are the two least able on this part of the journey. The tunnels are narrowing as we walk, and I am burdened by my impressive size; he is hampered by feebleness because he died in old age.
“I never thought it would be easy,” I reply. “But I take comfort in knowing that while my heart may be dead, it is true.”
“And does she still think that?” Virgil sniffs and nods toward Elinor, who is walking arm in arm with Medusa. “I hear the wretched affection you have for her in every word you utter. Dante spoke of his woman with the same doleful voice.”
“I am doing this for her,” I reply.
“You think this journey will bring out the best in you, Viking,” says Virgil. “But it could also bring out the worst. In all of you. Friend will betray friend. Love will be unfaithful to love. It is inevitable. All of your masks will slip and you each will be revealed for who you really are.”
“We just want Beatrice Morrigan.”
Virgil laughs. “Yes, as did Dante.”
“They are the same woman?” I exclaim.
“Does that mean you know her?” cries Medusa. “You know what she looks like?”
“I know . . . of her,” says Virgil.
“This is excellent! You can lead us straight to her!” cries Mitchell. “Virgil, I gotta know. With all these crazy dead dudes after her . . . is she hot?”
Medusa aims her elbow at Mitchell’s ribs. Because the tunnel is so narrow, she doesn’t miss.
“Beatrice is an extraordinary woman. Did you think The Devil was the only one ever to fall in love with her, even if he did let her go?”
“I would have thought the fact that she was The Devil’s wife would be enough reason to stop anyone else from falling in love with her,” I reply.
“Love is the most corrupt and terrifying force of nature there is, Viking,” says Virgil. “Man cannot control it.”
“Or woman,” says Elinor, turning around to smile at me. “Yet love is also the most beautiful force there is. It makes people selfless. We cannot control it, but we can choose how to let it into our lives, and deaths.”
“Alfarin, what’s the Viking word for love?” asks Medusa.
“In old Norse, it is elska,” I reply.
“I would elska a pizza right now,” says Mitchell, grinning at me. I cannot help laughing.
“Ye had a pizza earlier, Mitchell,” scolds Elinor. “Ye boys are always thinking with yer stomachs.”
“And Alfarin elskas his axe, and Mitchell elskas his girly pink eyes,” quips Medusa.
“You are very strange,” says Virgil. “All of you. I should not be your guide on this journey.”
“Why?” asks Mitchell. “I elska this group. We’re awesome.”
Suddenly a scream pierces the air in the narrow corridor. We all cry out in surprise. The pitch is so high the blade of my axe vibrates.
The scream is quickly followed by a blast of hot wind that smells of burning flesh.
I should not know that smell, but I do.
“Skin-Walkers,” groans Virgil. “They will be coming this way with an Unspeakable. We would be wise to circumvent them. Quickly, we must enter from the other end!”
“The other end of what?” cries Medusa.
I understand immediately. “The other end of the Skin-Walkers’ domain,” I explain calmly. The mind of a warrior has no time for panic. Self-preservation is only accomplished by thinking ahead, and the old man seems to comprehend this. “Virgil, what do I need to do?”
The old man is tracing circles on the rock with outstretched hands, one clockwise, one counterclockwise. “Do you trust me?” he asks.
“Yes,” I lie.
“Then give the blade to me,” replies Virgil. His body twists as he reaches back with his right arm. His fingers grope at the air.
“Get us in first,” I say. “And then I’ll give you my blade.”
“Alfarin!” exclaims Elinor. “What are ye doing?”
“Trust me, I know what I am doing,” I reply. And I do. I am a learned Viking. I have read The Divine Comedy. I know what we’re about to face.
Virgil places both hands back on the rock wall. He starts to mutter in a language that I think is a rudimentary form of Latin. The screaming is getting louder, and Medusa’s face has been completely engulfed by her snakelike hair as the scorching wind gathers momentum.
“Hurry up, Virgil!” cries Mitchell as his torch extinguishes.
Then the rock wall is suddenly illuminated with the outline of an arch. It is a doorway, covered in gargoyle-like etchings.
This is it. We are going through. I turn to my friends, who, I can see in the dim light, are gripping one another tightly.
“Stay close to me, and do not look at its three faces,” I say.
“Oh, Hell!” cries Medusa. “You’ve got to be kidding me! We’re starting off in the Ninth?”
“You have a choice, girl,” snaps Virgil. “Stay and be consumed by the approaching Skin-Walkers, or enter with me now.”
“Wait,” I say. “Before we go any farther, we must be clear on our task. We must be thorough in each circle, leaving no stone unturned, in our hunt for the Banshee. Only when we are certain we have looked everywhere can we move to the next circle.”
“Alfarin!” shouts Mitchell. “The Circles of Hell won’t matter if we don’t get out of the way of the Skin-Walkers. Get us out of here.”
Virgil and I join forces to push the rock door open. Immediately, the scorching stench of evil is replaced by a blast of freezing cold wind.
“In—now!” cries Virgil. The four of us acquiesce, but before the door closes behind us, a streak of golden light flies past us, almost knocking Elinor off balance. My princess places a hand on Virgil’s arm to steady herself, and the old man jumps as if he has been given an electric shock.
<
br /> “That cannot be,” he whispers, staring at his arm and then at Elinor, but he quickly recovers his composure and holds out his gnarled fingers.
“You promised me the axe, Viking,” says Virgil. “Give it to me.”
“No,” I reply, tightening my grasp.
“I will need the blade to make a passage through. You gave me your word.”
“I will not part with it.”
Virgil snorts. “You really are going to fit in here, Viking. Be careful. With your scheming ways, I expect now that more than one circle will attempt to claim you.”
“Alfarin,” calls Elinor. “What is going on? Ye must tell us.”
“I am matching Virgil at his own game, Elinor,” I reply. “Now prepare yourselves, Team DEVIL. Our journey through the Circles has started in the Ninth, the final resting place of the truly treacherous.”
Átta
Alfarin and Elinor
I was sixteen when I died. In the modern world, a male of that age is barely considered to have reached adulthood. To a Viking, the man had already arrived.
Yet while my father and kin considered us to be Viking first and men second, there were traits that all of us shared, sometimes to the detriment of others.
It was called being human.
I was not a duplicitous person by nature. Lying did not come easily to me, and that was just as well, for I generally did not require a silver tongue to get my way, or to convince someone I was right. A well-aimed fist to the stomach worked far quicker.
But sometimes words that go unspoken achieve the same effect as lies. That is what happened on the night I betrayed Elinor.