by Donna Hosie
“We are Vikings,” I replied. “And I want to drink a tankard or four of mead after a hard day’s work.”
“Alfarin, ye get drunk on the fumes from Thomason’s empty barrels,” snapped Elinor. “Four tankards and ye will be on the floor. And I am not dragging ye back to yer dormitory, or holding back yer hair when ye are emptying the contents of yer stomach into a bowl.”
“You are only making a fuss because beer makes you sleepy, Elinor.”
“At least I can hold my ale, which is more than ye can.”
Our passionate conversation continued all the while it took us to get to Valhalla, far away from the CBD. My ears were ringing, my stomach paining and my feet throbbing. Neither of us was going to be victorious, so Elinor tried a different tack. One she knew would win me over.
Oh, that peasant and her beautiful hair and her scrupulous morals.
“Alfarin, ye are the most honest Viking I know,” she said sweetly, looping her arm through mine. “Ye do not wish to ruin that impression, do ye? Ye are brave and true and decent. Ye do not have to drink beer to be a real man. Signing the oaths and marking them with the seal of the king, as if it were yer father’s will, is dishonest. Ye know he does not want the younger Vikings drinking for the same reason the HBI doesn’t want any young person drinking. They might have had some fun, but there were more fights, and more of that yucky dead blood everywhere. Ye are creating more work, and for what? Yer cousin Thomason’s beer tastes of dirty dishwater anyway.”
I sighed. The noise was strange, as there was no air in my lungs to expel. I sounded as if I had farted.
“You are always right, Elinor,” I replied. “Thomason’s beer does taste like dirty dishwater. Indeed, I am not certain that it isn’t. Your will is mine. I will not sign the oaths.”
She gave my arm a squeeze and smiled. It had become my favorite sight.
“We are in Hell, Alfarin,” said Elinor. “But that does not mean we have to be devious or corrupt. Once we lose our decency, we lose what made us human in the first place. Ye must always remember that.”
10. The Eighth Circle
The last time I saw Perfidious was in Washington, DC. I was invisible to his eyes, hidden with Teams DEVIL and ANGEL by the power of the two Viciseometers joining together. Perfidious was conversing with Lord Septimus, who wanted the Skin-Walkers to free Medusa and return to the Nine Circles.
The Skin-Walkers’ leader is taller than his brethren, and he once had an entire room of HBI agents quailing at his mere presence back in Hell. Now, here, in his own domain, Perfidious appears even larger than before, even though there is some distance between us. His body is covered in the pelt of a single wolf, but everything about him seems engorged, from his bloody, clawed fingers to his black, unblinking eyes.
And suddenly the winged monster behind us seems so very distant and small.
Team DEVIL is still bound together by our rope. Mitchell and I instinctively put ourselves in front of the girls, but they swipe us aside. Their fear is real, but their bravery is stronger. Elinor and Medusa will not cower in the face of evil. So the four of us form a horizontal line. I am nearest to the ledge and the sheer drop beyond it; Elinor is next to me, and she holds hands with Medusa on her right; and Mitchell takes the far end.
Virgil is much closer to Perfidious, and the Skin-Walker doesn’t seem to like that. His wolf pelt is bristling with visible tension. For the first time I wonder where Virgil lives. Does he dwell in the Circles of Hell, and if so, is it by choice? Does Virgil have daily dealings with the Skin-Walkers? What a pitiful existence that must be.
There is an aura around Perfidious, like a haze in the heat of summer. It is black, but with swirls of crimson swimming around the edges. He licks his lips with a long black tongue, all the while leering at Medusa, as if she is a piece of meat to be devoured.
“What are you doing here?” demands Perfidious, taking a step toward us. Shadowy hands claw out from the aura surrounding him. My stomach feels so tight and knotted it is causing stabbing pains to spasm into my chest.
“We are seeking The Devil’s Banshee,” I reply, taking several strides toward Perfidious, which inadvertently drags the others closer, too. “Beatrice Morrigan. We are here with the master of Hell’s knowledge and consent.”
“The Devil has no authority here,” growls Perfidious. His voice is deep and unnatural. Every word is forced, as if it is being uttered by something that does not find speech easy.
“And we are also here with Fabulara’s knowledge,” I add, holding my ground. Perfidious’s black eyes bore into me; they are dark and unyielding, reflecting none of the glittering, pale-blue color of the Ninth Circle. There is no soul behind those eyes, but it does not make me afraid. I feel pity. In spite of all the horrors we have just witnessed, and all that are surely yet to come, I suddenly wonder if existence as a Skin-Walker, who has nothing but treachery and hate in its heart, might be the worst of fates.
“You are Septimus’s pawn once more, Virgil,” says Perfidious, turning his attention to the old man, although Perfidious makes no attempt to intimidate our guide by getting closer to him. “You always were a sheep, blindly doing the bidding of others.”
“We seek passage to the next circle,” I say. “We will not trouble you with anything else.”
“Trouble me?” sneers Perfidious. “You forget who you are speaking to, Viking. But I will let you all pass, if only to enjoy the sport of watching what is to come.”
Perfidious does not stand aside, and we must inch around him, one by one. He seems to ignore us as we begin to pass him, but then his wolf head suddenly jerks toward us, snapping at Medusa with razor-sharp teeth. She is so brave, she does not even cry out—although she does lurch back into Mitchell. Mitchell immediately puts himself between her and Perfidious. All the while, he keeps his terrified face fixed on the black eyes of the wolf, who pays him no heed. Instead, he is leering at Elinor and Virgil as they approach. But when my princess and our guide reach Perfidious, he yelps as if he has been kicked. The sound is so painful to my ears, I sense something pop inside my head. But Team DEVIL does not stop, and the others keep their eyes straight and true on the path ahead once they are past him. I am the only one who sees the look of puzzlement on Perfidious’s face as he slinks back against the rock.
I do not stop to wonder or ask about his reaction. Right now, we must place one foot in front of the other. For a few moments, our only companion is the echo of our feet on thin ice and rock.
“We did it, guys,” says Mitchell in a shaking voice. “We passed through one of the Circles.”
“Hopefully we’ll find Beatrice Morrigan in this next one and we can leave,” adds Medusa as we pass through the doorway into a blast of heat. As we leave the Ninth Circle, the howl of a lone wolf causes my hair to stand on end. Then I see a movement in the corner of my eye that appears out of place in this monstrous setting.
We are being watched—by more than just shadows and wolves.
We are in a narrow tunnel, much like the underground passage that leads from Hell to the HalfWay House. I have a feeling that each circle is connected by some kind of passageway. After the icy torment of the Ninth, the heat of the approaching Eighth Circle quickly prompts Team DEVIL to strip off our extra layers of clothes. We do not touch the rope that binds us to one another. That stays. Elinor and Medusa are wearing short-sleeved green shirts over loose black pants; Mitchell is wearing a T-shirt that bears the image of a crown and the words DON’T PANIC, JUST EAT PIZZA. It is advice that would have been helpful earlier. My own tunic is pale blue and has the remnants of pizza all over it, because I did panic. I feared Medusa would eat it all, so I ate my manly fill as quickly as possible. My friend with the snaky hair has an appetite that could frighten a Viking cook.
“A quick rundown on what we can expect in here would be helpful,” says Mitchell, stowing his sweater in his backpack. “This circle is fraud, right? Seems a little excessive to put someone in eternal torment for counterfeitin
g money or whatever, don’t you think?”
“That is not why someone would be dragged to this level, Mitchell,” replies Medusa. Both she and Elinor have wrinkled their noses up in disgust at the smell. “Here, fraud doesn’t mean a fake ID.”
“Thank Hell for that,” replies Mitchell. “Otherwise they might not let me out the other side.”
“Still joking, you four,” mutters Virgil. “At least Dante was contrite during his passage.”
“It will be a sad day indeed the day Mitchell loses his humor,” replies Elinor.
“His jokes are so bad, how would we know?” retorts Medusa, playfully punching Mitchell in the ribs.
“Shut up, short-ass,” says Mitchell, ruffling Medusa’s hair. “I’m not the one who’s been going by a different name since day one in Hell. If that’s not fraud, I don’t know what is. They might not let you out of this circle, either!”
The relief of having passed through the Ninth unscathed has raised our spirits. I do not wish to be the harbinger of doom, but to keep us on course, I see I must be a leader first, a friend second for now. Preparation and strategy must always be foremost in my mind.
“Medusa, may I have the Divine Comedy back?” I ask. “I made notes in the margins when I was in the library.”
“You wrote in the book?” exclaims Mitchell as Medusa hands me the tome from her backpack. “Dude, Patty Lloyd is gonna kick your ass! Then she’s gonna whip your ass. In fact, you will be in so much ass pain that—”
“I think we get the idea, Mitchell,” interrupts Medusa. “But a potential ass-kicking is worth it if it means Alfarin can lead us through this . . . right, Alfarin?”
“What notes did ye make, Alfarin?” asks Elinor, getting us back on track.
“The tormented souls in this circle are those who benefited personally by murdering others,” I say, thumbing through the well-worn pages, “whether it was done for riches or title. It is written that the Eighth Circle is divided into ten ditches of stone. My friends, we will have to cross the ditches via bridges.” I hard the tome back to Medusa.
“Which Skin-Walker resides here?” asks Elinor. She’s looking at Virgil, but it’s Medusa who answers.
“Frausneet,” she says in a distant voice. “I remember him.”
Medusa was taken by the Skin-Walkers, albeit for a short while, when we were tasked with finding The Devil’s Dreamcatcher. She has never really spoken about what she endured in their grasp. We know they encircled her in a dome that lifted her clean off the ground. It was a circle of hate that clawed at her soul. I was just thankful that Mitchell had the presence of mind to call Lord Septimus for help. Private Owen knew what to do as well. If it had not been for their quick thinking and the two Viciseometers, I cannot bear to think of what would have happened to Medusa that day.
Remembering the potential of the Viciseometer, I find myself regretting the technical complications of our current plight. If only I had been able to envision these Circles of Hell before this moment, I could have used the Viciseometer to move within them. I have the Viciseometer in my bag, but it is useless if the bearer cannot visualize his or her destination. I could employ its powers to travel out of Hell, to anywhere my mind can picture—back to Septimus’s office, to the place where wenches sell fried chicken from a bucket in the magnificent city of New York, to an island surrounded by crystal-blue waters that I once saw in a book of photographs . . . but I cannot travel through the Circles of Hell with it. So we must walk through this unknown territory unaided. We don’t even have a second Viciseometer to help us become invisible.
“What are ye thinking about, Alfarin?” asks Elinor.
“Lord Septimus gave us Hell’s Viciseometer,” I reply. “But our journey through this cesspit would have been easier if he had also given us the other. We could have moved in secret. Invisible to all. When the Skin-Walkers took Medusa, even they did not see us when we were joined with Team ANGEL.”
“The boss had to give it back to Up There,” says Mitchell. “He didn’t have a choice.”
“Up There was happy to take back the Viciseometer, but not to take back the angels,” says Medusa unhappily. “It’s so unfair.”
“We’re lucky we have someone like Septimus looking out for us,” says Mitchell. “But sometimes I do wonder how much easier my Afterlife would have been if I had applied for a job cleaning toilets.”
“Are you going to continue this journey, or am I to stay here listening to your ceaseless blather for all eternity?” asks Virgil suddenly.
“Virgil is correct,” I say, and his wrinkled jaw drops in surprise at my accordance. “We must move on through the Eighth Circle with no more delays. There will truly be Hell to pay if we do not find Beatrice Morrigan soon.”
I did not mean to extinguish Mitchell’s good mood, but we must all keep in mind what is at stake if we do not make hasty passage. That includes his brother’s life.
I start the procession with Virgil alongside me. The intense heat is quickly joined by other sensations that assault my senses. First, the stench. It is excrement, but mixed with something else. A vile, oppressive sweetness that finds its way into my nostrils, even though I am not breathing.
“Whatever is in those ditches, do not look upon them,” I say to the others as the tunnel widens. We are entering the Eighth Circle. “Close your eyes and I will lead the way. We are still held together by the rope.”
“You okay, El?” calls Medusa.
But my princess does not answer, because we have stepped into the burning light of the Eighth Circle of Hell, and the sight is something so horrific, I am also rendered speechless.
Ten deep ditches, stretching as far as the eye can see. Whereas those taken by the Skin-Walkers for the Ninth Circle were encased in ice, these cursed devils are tortured in the open. Some are being devoured by flames, others are being whipped. One ditch is filled with men and women clearly in the grip of madness, and another is filled with biting snakes and lizards that are wrapped around the bodies of writhing individuals.
All of the ditches contain devils that are clawing at the sides, climbing on top of one another in a frenzy to escape, only to be beaten back again and again by supervising entities that control each ditch with whips. The demons look like the twisted gargoyles I briefly saw Virgil morph into when we first met him. They do not heed our presence. Their sole focus is to keep the Unspeakables contained.
“Was this in Dante’s poem?” gasps Mitchell, gazing around. “How did you guys get through this, Virgil?”
“We walked,” replies Virgil. “And then we flew.”
“On what?” asks Medusa.
“You will see,” says Virgil. “Now I suggest you do as the Viking tells you. Do not look. Keep your eyes fixed on your feet. If you fall from the bridges, the bodies contained therein will claim you.”
The bridges have no handrails. They are narrow and made of crudely stacked stone. Their stability is tenuous, and as I follow Virgil across the first one, it shakes beneath my feet.
“How often have you crossed these bridges, Virgil?” I ask. Bloodied fingers grope blindly through gaps in the stone. Elinor holds fast to my waist, and I squeeze her fingers for reassurance.
“There have not been many who have trodden these forsaken paths, and fewer who have made it all the way through,” replies Virgil cryptically.
An idea suddenly occurs to me. Brilliant in its simplicity. Why did I not think of it sooner?
“You have seen all nine circles.” It is a statement, not a question. “Virgil, you could guide us through with the Viciseometer!” Behind me, I can hear Elinor whispering excitedly to Medusa.
“I am surprised it has taken you this long to ask, Viking,” replies Virgil, “but—”
“Let us go back,” I interrupt, filled with euphoria at my most excellent plan. “We do not need to cross the other bridges. You can see into the Viciseometer for us. We can search for the Banshee at a distance!”
“I cannot use the Viciseometer,”
says Virgil. He stops walking. We are three-quarters across the first bridge. More fingers inch up from beneath us to grip our feet, desperate for a pathetic salvation from torment.
“You cannot, or you will not use the Viciseometer?” I growl.
“I cannot, Viking,” replies Virgil. He turns to stare at me with his opaque eyes. “These old eyes are blind. They have never seen the Circles of Hell.”
Ellifu
Alfarin and Elinor
“It’ll be fun, Alfarin,” said Elinor, gazing at me through her long, fluttering eyelashes. “I thought ye Vikings were the party animals of Hell.”
“I am very happy with the thought of a party to celebrate my glorious deathday,” I replied. “But I am not at ease with the idea of Cousin Odd assisting with the organization of such an event. I do not wish to wake up tomorrow and find I have been entered into a binding agreement with a root vegetable.”
I could not precisely recall my birthday. It happened sometime in the year 954 AD. But my deathday was imprinted on my soul: the ninth day of Harpa, 970 AD. Harpa was now known as the month of April. I still called it Harpa, though. The noun had more musicality.
The year in the land of the living was 1970, and to celebrate one thousand glorious years of death, my kin were throwing me a party. Every Viking in Hell was invited. All had accepted. Summonses had also gone out to the Saxon contingent. We knew they would not reply, but it would have been rude not to extend the offer. We did not wish to engage in revelry with them. Oh, no. It was customary to invite the Saxons as entertainment. My Viking kin would make merry with food and wine, and then spend the night playing Lodge the Axe—a Saxon skull being the preferred location.