by Donna Hosie
“Are you hurt, my princess?” I cry desperately. Rope is still attached to her waist, but it is frayed at both ends, one of which is coated in thick blood that steams and crackles. I quickly untie it and throw it over the edge before it contaminates her.
“I am fine, Alfarin,” gasps Elinor, rubbing at her shoulders. “I thought I was done for. Yet that creature spoke to me. He told me not to be afraid. I think it is the Geryon. Do ye remember? We read about him when we were studying all those books about mythical creatures.”
Then Elinor’s head whips to the right and I see a blaze of light reflected back from her bloodred eyes.
“There is something over there, Alfarin,” she says, grabbing at me. “I fear we have been brought up here for something else in the darkness. What can we do? We are blind without Virgil to guide us.”
“I think it might be the Skin-Walker Frausneet,” I say. “For I saw it, too.”
Elinor is about to reply when another caustic wave of filth-ridden wind washes over us. Virgil is the next devil to be dropped. Elinor and I each take one of the old guide’s arms, but he shakes us off, Elinor more vehemently than me.
“I am blind, but I still know my way around these circles better than either of you,” he says. “Do not touch me.”
“That creature pulling us from the bridge,” says Elinor. “The chimera of man, lion and dragon. Is it the Geryon?”
“You are learned for your kind, girl,” replies Virgil. “Most peasants can barely remember their own name.”
“And men of the cloth are meant to be penitent and humble,” snaps Elinor. “And ye are clearly neither. Or is your cloth red because ye are not worthy to wear the color of virtue?”
The insult may sting Virgil, but it bites me even more. The viciousness and quickness of Elinor’s tongue are so unlike her.
Virgil does not respond. He seems to take pleasure in Elinor’s sharp words. He cocks his head toward me and a sly smile spreads over his thin, chapped lips.
“Are you shocked by her words, Viking?” he asks. “I did warn you, this place will change all of you.”
I still find it hard to believe the guide is blind. His white eyes are staring directly at me. Suddenly they shine, as if a light has been switched on behind them. It is the bright golden light I have seen several times now. It is reflecting back at me once more. Yet when I turn around, it extinguishes in the darkness beyond.
Mitchell and Medusa are deposited onto the ledge next. They are clinging to each other, so it is impossible to say who was picked up by the monster first. Mitchell’s dirty white sneakers are streaked with blood. Medusa’s backpack has been lost.
“The creatures, the Unspeakables in those pits, started to go nuts,” says Mitchell, gasping. “Even more than they already were. I think they realized we were being taken out of the circle. I couldn’t leave Medusa alone, so I grabbed her.”
“I tried to see if Beatrice Morrigan was in those pits,” gasps Medusa. “I screamed her name, but it just made the Unspeakables even crazier. They could see us getting a way out.”
Medusa falls to her stomach and wriggles to the edge. “Beatrice Morrigan!” she cries. “Are you in here?”
“Medusa, get back,” says Mitchell, dragging Medusa from the edge by her T-shirt. “What if you fall?” He turns to the man-headed creature—the Geryon.
“Thanks for saving us,” he says; his voice is so high he could shatter glass. “I thought we were about to be dragged in.”
“You are welcome,” answers a deep, wise voice. The creature stretches its unnaturally long neck and sways it from side to side. Is it friend or foe? We must be prepared for either.
“I’m having a conversation with a monster,” whispers Mitchell to himself, wiping his brow. “This can’t be real. I’m gonna wake up in a minute and realize that I’ve been The Devil’s Dreamcatcher all along.”
“It has been a long time, Virgil,” says the Geryon. “You’ve changed.”
“It’s not been long enough,” replies our guide.
“So, you’re a good guy?” asks Medusa.
“I am what I am,” replies the Geryon. “Your coming was foretold, girl. I intended to take you away somewhere else to question you further. You share a name with someone in my bloodline. I was intrigued.”
“Medusa, the monster?” asks Elinor. “Our M is no behemoth. M, ye stay connected to Mitchell. He will not forsake ye.”
The brief flash of red in Elinor’s eyes is like a brand on my soul. She stares at me with utter contempt. Never, in nearly three hundred years of friendship, has she looked at me in that way.
“I was not forsaking you, Elinor,” I say. “I wanted to protect you. I was going to give the three of you the Viciseometer so you could go anywhere in time to be safe.”
“And ye were just going to let me go?” cries Elinor. “Away from ye?”
“Yes—no . . . I only wanted—”
“It’s all about ye, isn’t it!” she yells. “Yer pride and yer honor. Even now, it is about what ye wanted, not me. Not M or Mitchell.”
“El, you need to calm d—” starts Medusa, but she is interrupted by Elinor, who has completely lost her head.
No. Why am I thinking of that phrase? Those are Mitchell’s words when he is not thinking clearly. Not mine. Never mine. Never around Elinor.
“I have seen inside The Devil’s thoughts!” she cries. “I know his pleasures and his temptations. Ye all think what is in these Nine Circles is worse, and that I cannot cope, but I have existed in his mind, and that is worse. I am not scared of what we’ll find in the Skin-Walkers’ domain. I am scared that when we find her, Beatrice Morrigan will prefer this Hell to the one she left!”
“Rather more vocal than Dante, are they not, Virgil?” says the Geryon. “Although this circle appears to be affecting the redhead more than the others.”
“Do you know where Beatrice Morrigan is?” asks Medusa. “She’s The Devil’s wife, and his original Dreamcatcher. We’re trying to find her.”
“She was here,” replies the Geryon.
Virgil is cackling again. Then he sniffs the air and I hear a deep, resigned sigh escape the Geryon’s lungs.
“Look down below, devils,” says Virgil. “You should see what is about to happen.”
Medusa slips her hand into Elinor’s. My princess has moved away from me; she is so angry her spare hand is clenched in a tight fist. Medusa and Mitchell glance at me with pity before we peer over the edge. I do not understand why Elinor is behaving in this manner toward me and only me. This circle is for the fraudulent. Those who kill for personal gain. I have never done that. I would never do that. Vikings marauded for food and weapons, but I never intentionally killed . . .
Then realization hits me and it sears my dead heart. I know why Elinor is behaving more harshly toward me the longer we spend in here. It is because she is reliving her death. Yet the toxicity of this place is making her remember things differently. I did not kill her for personal gain. I wanted to end her suffering.
“What are we supposed to be looking at?” asks Medusa. “This circle doesn’t look any better from up here than down there, and we need to move to the Seventh.”
“Patience,” replies the Geryon. “You are safe up here, but you need to see how the Skin-Walkers control each domain. Virgil is your guide, and what he wants you to see now might help you on your journey.”
“Is a Skin-Walker coming?” asks Mitchell.
“Yes!” cries Elinor. “Look, down there. And he has someone with him!”
Way down below, crossing the stone bridge at the far end of the cavern, is Frausneet. The dense black haze around him is like a moving cloak. He is dragging a bloodied figure, but I cannot tell if it is a man or woman. Frausneet howls and the figures in the pits cower with their hands over their ears. It has an unnerving resonance, because, while Team DEVIL watches in silent horror, there is no sound apart from the crackle of fire and the snapping of whips within this circle.
�
��What is that?” whispers Medusa. She points to a river of brown sludge that is oozing toward the pits. Everyone, including Virgil and the Geryon, gags as the stench rises. Medusa is the first to vomit; I am not the last. We do not see the latest Unspeakable thrown into a pit because the river of excrement covers all, including the stone bridges we were crossing just moments before. With pain stabbing at every muscle and tendon, I retch until there is nothing left in my stomach but bile.
“We have seen enough,” I choke. “We must leave this circle now.”
“Thank you again for saving us down there,” says Mitchell to the Geryon. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could help us through the other circles?”
The old face laughs. The reptilian wings are already starting to flap.
“Alas, this is my existence,” it replies. “I do not participate in the torment of the Unspeakables, but I serve as a guardian to stop any who are foolish enough to get past the demons and the Skin-Walker. And then, occasionally, I am lucky enough to come across a traveler or two—or four. So if you are ever traveling this way again, be sure to call for me. Especially you, Medusa. There is something different that marks you, young devil. Until next time . . . Virgil.”
The Geryon bows its head and takes off. Elinor does not wait and walks in the direction of the blinding flash we saw earlier.
“You aren’t coming back here ever again,” Mitchell says to Medusa.
“We all know I’m different,” she replies. “And he seemed pretty nice, for a monster.”
“Well, in that case, come back for a cup of tea and cake,” says Mitchell sarcastically. “Medusa is just a nickname. That beast is not your long-lost uncle ten times removed, and the only reason you’re different is because you’re an amazing person. Not because of some stupid paradox.”
Mitchell’s loving words make me want to call after Elinor, to make her stop and face me. Her death was not for my gain. She must understand that. We were fated to meet.
“Mitchell doesn’t need that book on girls as much as he thinks,” whispers Medusa, patting my back. “And Elinor doesn’t mean to be nasty, Alfarin. I don’t know why this circle affected her worse than the rest of us, but she’ll be okay once we’re out of it.”
I nod and try to smile. I fail. Regardless of the reasons why, I know that my actions that day on September 4, 1666, are now twisting into something more nefarious because of Elinor’s ordeal at the hands of The Devil.
The fear I have now is that Elinor can see darkness in me beyond death, and I am no longer certain I can pull her back to the light of her former self.
Prettán
Alfarin and Elinor
The HBI was a source of great amusement to Vikings in the Underworld, and I was no exception. Apart from baiting Saxons, fighting the law enforcers of Hell was my favorite way to pass the time. My body was dead, not inactive. My bulging biceps required regular workout maintenance. I had heard of a place called a gymnasium, which was a new concept for giving love to one’s muscles in Hell, but my kin and I avoided these cesspits of exercise like the plague. First, the ripe stench of dead sweat could strip skin right off your face, just like the real plague. Second, why would someone want to lift a weighted bar up and down one hundred times in front of a mirror, when a good manly wrestle, ending in a body being thrown through a window, was far more fun and just as effective?
Modern-day devils had missed out on so much by not being born before the invention of a rowing machine. Also, toilet paper.
Yet even I would admit that there had been times during our glorious lives when the fun wasn’t . . . funny. Vikings were a feisty, special race. We fought, we ate, we drank and we made merry with women. This continued for those of us in Valhalla. A successful day did not necessarily mean a visit to Hell’s casualty unit, although more often than not, that was where many of us ended up. So much so, that when the healers opened a new recovery wing, it was dedicated to Thomason—a source of great pride to him.
Elinor was fascinated by my stories of Viking lore and legend from the land of the living, but even I would wince at some of the tales. Recounting them aloud made them more real. Some of my brethren were extreme in their practices. It took Elinor’s horrified countenance as I shared the stories to make me realize this. So I decided to stick to the tamer tales when I regaled my princess with accounts of our conquests.
I sometimes wondered what kind of Viking, man, devil I would have stayed if I had not met Elinor that day when I was fighting Saxons. It sometimes felt as if knowing her had made me more . . . human. A state that required me to be dead in order to embrace it.
“Are ye sure these other Vikings went Up There when they died?” asked Elinor. “I know ye and yer kin are very nice, but some of the others were so violent, Alfarin. They went looking for trouble like it was sport.”
“A punch to the gut or chin is sport, Elinor. I believe it is now called boxing in the land of the living.”
“I didn’t mean that,” she replied, fishing something that looked like an eyeball out of her potato soup. “I’m talking about the ones who didn’t go marauding for food. I’m talking about the Vikings who . . . well, the Vikings who liked to kill.”
Elinor shuddered. It was an eyeball in her soup.
I understood what she meant. My father, King Hlif, son of Dobin, said those Vikings not in Hell had brought dishonor on the brethren. The only place we were aware of for them was Up There. I always assumed not joining the rest of us in Valhalla was their punishment.
It had never occurred to me that there was somewhere else for the truly insidious to exist in the Afterlife.
13. Monster of the Labyrinth
“We have had a long day,” I say as we leave the noxious fumes of the Eighth Circle behind. “Is anyone in need of rest?”
Mitchell and Medusa immediately cry out in the affirmative. Or, as Mitchell puts it, “Hell yes,” before he flops to the stone path beneath our feet. Elinor remains quiet, but she does nod. Virgil says nothing, but he leans against a stone wall and closes his eyes. He is muttering, but I cannot hear his words.
“Will we be safe in a space between two circles?” asks Medusa. “I don’t want any Skin-Walkers creeping up on us.”
“I will take the first watch,” I reply, clenching my axe in my hands. “We are not safe anywhere in this insidious place, but we have no choice. The Highers decreed that devils keep the traits of sleep and eating. We are slaves to the rules of our never-ending existence.”
“Uh, thanks, Alfarin,” says Mitchell. He turns to Medusa and whispers loudly, “I think that’s Viking-speak for have some food and get some shut-eye.” He calls to me from the floor. “Alfarin, wake me and Medusa up in a few hours and we’ll take the second watch so you can rest.”
Elinor and Virgil do not eat. Mitchell and Medusa snack on some wafers. Mitchell offers me a chocolate bar, but it has melted and the brown sticky mess oozing out of it reminds me of the circle we just left.
No one eats it.
I do not wake Mitchell for the second watch. I have gone days without sleep before, in life and in death, and there is too much spinning in my head for me to embrace slumber in the Circles of Hell.
Elinor is not snoring. Nor is she talking in her sleep. I do not approach her. I do not know how to anymore.
“What wonders await us in the Seventh Circle?” asks Mitchell. The five of us are leaving the stench of filth and blood after a restless few hours of sleep for some, and more uncertainty for the others. We slowly make our way down a narrow stone tunnel.
“I think—” starts Medusa.
“No, don’t tell me,” interrupts Mitchell. “I’m going to guess. This is Marshmallowland. We’ll be buried up to our necks in candy before an angry swarm of three-breasted harpies swoops down to lick it all off.”
“Not sure harpies would be licking, Mitchell,” says Medusa tersely. “They’d be more likely to gnaw your face off, but enjoy their three breasts while you can.”
�
�The Seventh Circle has a Minotaur in it, if I remember correctly,” says Elinor quietly. She is tearing at the skin around her nails instead of pulling on the back of her neck. I do not know if that is a good thing or bad thing. It isn’t an Elinor thing, I know that.
“How is it that the uneducated peasant girl is more literate than the modern-day son?” says Virgil. “Or did The Devil teach you these things?”
“Mitchell is not illiterate,” snaps Medusa. “He was joking—even I knew that. And he’s only been dead for four years. How is he supposed to know about the inner workings of Hell? Especially this part of Hell. Hardly anyone knows about it. We didn’t even know about our Hell until we died.”
“I know about the Nine Circles because I have had time in death to learn to read, Virgil,” adds Elinor. “As has Alfarin.”
Elinor says my name with no anger in her voice, no condemnation. Yet I am confused. Is she requesting conversation by including me, or is this another slight to my character? The change in her has caused a change in me. My confidence has given way to wariness—wariness of Elinor’s feelings and wariness of my own mind. I have been dead for over one thousand years. I should know more about Hell than the rest of my friends put together. But in my heart, I fear it is clear that I do not. And we are about to enter the circle that I am certain will terrify me the most.
For the Seventh Circle is the place that contains those who killed with nothing but savagery and violence in their souls. They are here for no other reason than that they enjoyed the kill.
In here I may meet my kin. In here I may meet my true doom.
You’re going to have lots of fun, especially if you make it to the Seventh Circle. I would imagine a Viking will have lots to think about in there.
The Devil’s prophetic words before we left the accounting office ring in my ears. The two circles thus far have drained my soul in every way. Mental strength is a power I have learned to display since Elinor unlocked the door to my heart, but physical strength is something I was born to wield. And yet here, even my beloved axe feels heavier in my hands. I would rather take on a line of hulking Saxons single-handed than revisit the Ninth and Eighth Circles again. My energy and emotional strength are being sapped. If this continues, there will be nothing left of me by the time we reach the end of our journey in the First Circle. So much hate and death. This place may claim the souls of us all before the end.