The Devil's Banshee

by Donna Hosie

  The battle is taking place in the air as well. Searing balls of crimson fire shoot in arcs from the trebuchets as glimmering tornadoes, barely visible against the brilliant cornflower-blue sky twist along the ground. The targets become recognizable only when outlined by the smoke. They are human-like, with no discernible sex, flying through the atmosphere in vortexes of wind.

  The shadow in the east creeps ever closer.

  My mother said she left me for a higher purpose. Was Ragnarök that purpose? Is Valencia out there, waging war? Her ghost mocked me so cruelly before, but if this is where the missing piece of my dead heart resides, I still wish to know.

  My heart. It weighs so heavily. How can I feel it still when it does not beat?

  Then, in the distance, on a raised ledge of chalk-white rock, I see her. I would know that flaming red hair anywhere. It whips in the wind as she surveys the scene, and despite the horrors before her, she has never looked lovelier. Next to her is a man I normally see in pinstripes. The Roman general is dressed in body armor. Suddenly, the questions how and why are not important. All that matters is now.

  The sweet sensation of destiny is spreading through my entire body, but as I start to allow it to envelop me, I can hear her voice talking about fate. If this is a future not yet come to pass, that means we are—or might be—successful in our current mission. It means it is possible that Elinor endures.

  Elinor has always believed in fate.

  I allow myself a smile. There are no pieces of my heart missing. It is whole. Completely and utterly whole. I realize, suddenly, that I no longer feel ownership of it. It belongs absolutely and unequivocally to my sweet, wise and brave princess.

  This is the future—it must be. Which means this is not my time—our time—to join the battle. More must be done in order for this day to happen. I look down at the Viciseometer, pulsing with a new, excited intensity. I memorize the date.

  It is not long now. I will remember. I have to remember. For this is my higher purpose: Ragnarök. I was destined to end my days in this place.

  Medusa is still trembling beside me, unaware that the wheels in my head are spinning faster than the balls of fire being launched by the trebuchets. “I don’t like this, Alfarin,” she says. “We don’t belong here.”

  “It’s bad enough visiting the past, Alfarin,” adds Mitchell. “But this, if this is the future, then we definitely shouldn’t be here.”

  My friends are right, especially Mitchell. His death was caused by time travel. He saw his dead self from across the street and died because of the paradox created.

  I’ve waited my whole existence for Ragnarök—but I can wait a little longer.

  “Hold on to me,” I say. “I am taking us back to the Sixth Circle. Now, listen to me carefully, for our fate is truly in our hands now. The moment we return, we must run as if The Devil himself is chasing us. Do not look back. There is every chance you will see yourselves.”

  “I don’t understand,” says Medusa. “What about El and Jeanne?”

  “I am creating a paradox,” I reply. I smile at Mitchell. “I am learning.”

  “We trust you, Alfarin,” replies Mitchell, placing his arm around Medusa’s waist. “Just get us away from the Skin-Walkers and back to Elinor and Jeanne.”

  With one last, longing look toward the soul I know so well in the distance, I input the dates that will take us back to the domain of the Skin-Walkers.

  “Mitchell, what does your watch say is the current time?” I ask.

  He shows me the timepiece on his wrist. I make a strategic calculation and start changing the minute hand on the Viciseometer.

  “You’re taking us back in time,” says Medusa knowingly, watching my cumbersome movements as I manipulate the device with its fine needle.

  “Not by long,” I reply. “But enough to make a difference.”

  It is to their credit that neither Mitchell nor Medusa questions my motives or strategy. I am grateful. Both have been bearers of the Viciseometer, and their skill and dexterity with the timepiece was something I held in awe. My fingers are the size of sausages, and while they are perfect for grasping the handle of a weapon or sneaking the dregs of a tankard of ale, they are not suited to the delicacy required for inputting dates and times into an intricate time-traveling device.

  Why are my fingers sweating so much? It is as if I have glands of grease secreting under my skin.

  I visualize the Sixth Circle, but not the area we departed from. I picture where I wanted to be just before we left the circle. Past the flaming tombs, there was a circular platform. It was a landmark not to forget because it was edged with a line of skulls. And beyond it was the exit that I had spotted through the haze.

  I see it appear in the face of the Viciseometer. I do not need to shout to the others to hold on because we are already clinging to one another. Even Virgil has accepted Medusa’s hand.

  Fighting the urge to take one last look at the battle outside, I press the large red button. We are swept up into a warm vortex of wind. My axe reminds me of who I am as it vibrates in my hand. A Viking. A man. A devil. Mitchell’s comforting arm is around my shoulders. It has been strange to use this device without Elinor beside me. In all our time travel, I had become used to the smell of her hair tickling my nose. Apple and mint.

  We land together on the skull platform. My friends and Virgil have not forgotten my words, and we run for the passageway that will lead us to the Fifth Circle. We pass two columns made of black stone and bloodstained skulls. Only when we are through do Mitchell and Medusa stop running and whip their heads around, searching.

  “Where are Elinor and Jeanne?” cries Mitchell. “They aren’t here.”

  “If my calculations are correct . . .” I start counting with my fingers in the air.

  I get to twelve before a streak of golden light rushes past us. Jeanne and Elinor appear.

  “Alfarin!” cries Elinor. She throws herself into my arms and buries her head in my chest, and I want to roar with happiness that my Elinor is safe and herself once more. “How are ye here? We only just left ye!”

  The Viciseometer is still in my hand. Elinor gazes at it reverently. I only have eyes for her.

  “Ye time-traveled?”

  “Four of the Skin-Walkers surrounded us the second Jeanne took you through the Sixth,” says Mitchell. “Which means they’re still back there. We should hurry.”

  “But we have Elinor with us now,” I say. “Which means they will not attempt to take us again—not while we stay together. They fear her.”

  “Can someone please explain what we just did?” cries Medusa. “Am I in another paradox?”

  “You are—but you will not disappear, Medusa,” I reply. “I created a loop in time. One that bypasses most of the Sixth Circle for me, you, Mitchell and Virgil. I took us to the other destination to give us time to come here, just a few moments ahead of our other selves.”

  “So we’re back at the beginning of the Sixth Circle just about to disappear in front of the Skin-Walkers right now, but the loop in time has brought us here, via Valhalla?” asks Medusa, her face screwed up in concentration.

  I nod.

  “That was genius quick thinking, Alfarin,” says Mitchell, slapping my back. “You have paradoxes owned. Now, are you going to tell us about that battle, or do we not want to know?”

  “What battle?” asks Jeanne immediately.

  “Ye time-traveled to Valhalla, Alfarin?” inquires Elinor. “The one back in Hell?”

  “These questions are to be answered another time,” I reply. I slip the Viciseometer into my pocket. “We must stay on mission. The Banshee is here somewhere, and we must find her. But Jeanne, I am glad to have you standing by my side. I have seen the future. We must put our trust in Lord Septimus.”

  Yes, I have seen the future, and I am thankful for it. For in that glimpse, I have seen Elinor, and if that future comes to pass, that means that she not only survives our search for the Banshee, but she becomes a warr
ior.

  A Valkyrie.

  Tuttugu

  Alfarin, Elinor and Mitchell

  “Go and speak to him, Alfarin,” urged Elinor.

  I folded my arms across my chest—a chest that was far more impressive than that of the puny-looking specimen across from us—and scowled.

  “I will not,” I replied.

  “Please, Alfarin.”

  “If I am not enough devil for you, Elinor, then I will accept the slight to my character, albeit with bad grace,” I said. “But I will not invite another man to take my place. I have my honor and my pride. And my plate of pie and gravy—which is getting cold while we have this nonsensical conversation.”

  “But he looks so alone,” said Elinor sadly. “I thought he came in here with someone . . . a girl . . . but I must have been wrong.”

  Elinor looked confused. She did that a lot, but then, so did I. Ever since the new millennium, our memories had become slightly foggy around the edges. It was as if we were seeing things through a veil. We discussed our symptoms at length, and I even went so far as to ask my father, King Hlif, about it.

  My father said Thomason’s beer did that to everyone, but since Elinor and I rarely drank, my father’s words did little to ease my discomfiture that somehow, something in my immortal existence had changed. And I did not know what it was.

  The male we were following around to and fro was Mitchell Johnson. He had recently been hired as The Devil’s intern, and he worked on the very first level of the central business district in Hell.

  Level 1 or level 666—I did not care for these details. With his short blond hair, he looked like an elongated nail brush. His body seemed so feeble that I was sure I would meet more resistance running my axe through a toothpick.

  Jealousy was not an impressive emotion. I did know this. And I did not like it in myself. Jealousy made Vikings weak—and I was becoming insanely jealous of the attention Elinor Powell was showing Mitchell Johnson. Her obsession was from a distance, but what would happen once they started to speak? Mitchell Johnson would surely fall under her Valkyrie-like spell, too.

  So I kept the blade of my axe better sharpened than usual.

  All that changed one evening as I was walking Elinor home from the housing administration office. The crush in the corridors of Hell was unbearable. Something had happened to cause panic, and devils were getting trampled and crushed. It was occurring more and more as rumors of a passage out of the Underworld spread faster than the sickness we came down with after Cousin Odd licked all the glasses at Thomason’s.

  Elinor tried to keep hold of my arm in the melee, but we were torn asunder by the sheer number of devils. I saw her being pushed closer and closer to the balcony of level 180, where the kitchens were. Fate was already working against us. We could not remember why we had gravitated toward that level, and it was here that the stampede had started.

  My axe was already pressed against my chest; I could not move anything except my head and my mouth. The latter was yelling for someone to help Elinor as she started to rise above the crowd. So many were being trampled that those closest to the edge were being pushed upward by the pressure.

  Then a hand appeared from nowhere and grabbed Elinor’s wrist from the back of her neck. She was too scared to cry out. I saw her red eyes widen, and then she disappeared from view and my frantic voice became lost on the wave of thousands more.

  It was many hours before I found her. She was with Mitchell Johnson, and he was trying to get her to eat strawberry cheesecake. He looked up as I approached. Fear flashed across his face at the sight of my axe, but I was so relieved at seeing Elinor safe and well that I no longer wanted to crush his nose with my fist. In fact, I wanted to crush him in a bear hug of gratitude.

  “She’s all right,” said Mitchell Johnson in a voice that had an American accent. “Which is more than can be said for some of the others. I didn’t know dead bodies could be that flexible. But Elinor’s been checked over by the healers and given a clean bill of health—uh, it is Elinor, isn’t it?”

  “Mitchell saved me, Alfarin,” said Elinor. “I thought I was going over the edge, but he was there. It was fate.”

  I wasn’t entirely pleased about it, but I knew my duty as a Viking. “I am forever in your debt, Master Johnson,” I replied, going down on one knee. “From this day forth, my axe will be your willing accomplice, ever ready to hack the fingers from the unworthy hand of those who mistake you for a washing-up utensil.”

  “What the—”

  “It is okay, Mitchell,” said Elinor. “Alfarin is the best friend a devil could have. And thank ye for the cheesecake.”

  “Don’t mention it,” replied Mitchell, continuing to look at my axe nervously. “I don’t know who makes the cheesecakes in the kitchens, but they’re the best. Septimus swears by them. He’s always getting me to come down here and get one for him. It’s just lucky I was here when you were. Or unlucky, if you count the poor bastards who went over the edge.”

  “Would you like to join us for dinner, Master Johnson?” I asked. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for saving my princess from plummeting into the abyss.”

  Mitchell smiled. I was pleased that he was not fawning over Elinor like some lovestruck fool, but was instead caring for her in a way that a brother might.

  “That’d be cool,” replied Mitchell. “If you don’t mind, Elinor?”

  “Ye absolutely must,” said Elinor. “I insist.”

  “Pizza or Chinese?” asked Mitchell. “Or what about Indian?”

  “My ironclad constitution could take a hot curry right now,” I replied. “Or what about meat pie . . . or noodles . . . or a good hog roast?”

  “Pancakes and eggs . . . or triple cheeseburger and fries . . . ,” said Mitchell.

  “Not another boy obsessed with his stomach!” cried Elinor as Mitchell and I started to walk away.

  As we stepped over the clothes and other belongings that had been abandoned in the stampede, I asked, “Do you have a lady friend, Master Johnson? We could happily accommodate her in our plans tonight, too.”

  “Nah,” replied Mitchell. “No one . . . no one special.” But his face was screwed up with the same quizzical look that Elinor and I saw on each other’s faces more and more often. Then Mitchell smiled. “And forget this Master Johnson stuff. It’s Mitchell Johnson, four syllables and nothing more.”

  A fellowship had been born in death.

  20. The Way Out

  “Alfarin, what will we find in the Fifth Circle?” asks Mitchell as we continue our journey to find The Devil’s Banshee.

  “The Fifth is for those who committed heinous acts in anger,” I reply.

  “Heinous acts in anger . . . ,” Mitchell repeats from the rear of our group. “And how, exactly, is that different from the circle for the violent?”

  “Those with a predisposition to violence enjoy it,” replies Virgil. “The Unspeakables in the Seventh Circle still have that propensity in their black hearts. The Unspeakables in the Fifth are different. For them, anger or wrathfulness is an emotion that wanes after the moment has passed. They may even feel remorse for the actions that come as a result of their anger. But no matter what, if their rage leads to the death of another, then the Fifth Circle is where they will forever dwell. For instance, many of your so-called keepers of the peace reside here in eternal suffering.”

  “So-called keepers of the peace?” asks Elinor.

  “You mean like the people who carry out the death penalty?” says Mitchell. “They’re angry because a life has been taken, and so they do the exact same thing, but they can hide behind the law?”

  “Indeed,” replies Virgil.

  “Does that mean Jeanne will find her tormentors here?” asks Medusa.

  “No, my murderers were in the last circle,” replies Jeanne. “I was burned foremost for my beliefs, and in anger second.”

  “Jeez, even in this place there’s administration and hierarchy,” says Mitchell. “So how are t
he Unspeakables who killed in anger punished, Virgil?”

  “Here you will find the never-ending swamp of the River Styx,” replies our guide. “The Unspeakables are contained within its murky, poisonous depths. We will have to cross the swamp by boat.”

  “Like in the movies?” asks Mitchell, and he stops walking the second he voices his question. “Oh, sorry, I forget sometimes that you guys didn’t die at the same time as me. You wouldn’t have seen it represented in the movies. But there are a lot of them.”

  “Were you ever going to reveal yourself to us?” I ask Jeanne as we continue to walk along a narrow tunnel lined with flaming torches ensconced in openmouthed skulls.

  “General Septimus instructed me to assist only if it appeared your team was in peril,” she replies in her thick French accent. “I am, after all, supposed to be locked up, and revealing myself, even in the Nine Circles, puts me at risk of The Devil’s further wrath.”

  “But how did you know where we were?” asks Medusa. “We didn’t exactly enter the Circles in a traditional way.”

  “Indeed. I was not expecting your guide to conjure up another entrance in order to escape the Skin-Walkers. I was not aware he could do that. It was fortuitous that I had not gone on to the true entrance, but was listening in as General Septimus led you to Virgil. I watched you enter through the stone. And I followed.”

  “Are you Lord Septimus’s spy?” I ask. “Mitchell has long believed that he has an angel working for him.”

  “I am no spy,” snaps Jeanne. “Although I now know who General Septimus’s eyes in Heaven belonged to. I am here for self-preservation and the return of my rightful place only.”