The Devil's Banshee

by Donna Hosie

  “So who is the spy?” asks Mitchell.

  “That is for General Septimus to reveal, not I.”

  “But you believe Lord Septimus will get you back Up There?” I ask.

  “No, Viking,” replies Jeanne. “This is the way back to Heaven for me.”

  “Maid of Orléans,” says Virgil with a sigh. “You should not have told them that.”

  “This is a way to Up There?” exclaims Mitchell. “Are you kidding me? So Up There is the same as Dante’s Paradise? I would have thought Paradise would at least have food.”

  “This is a route that few know of, and even fewer use,” replies Virgil. “Only the bravest—and most foolish—even attempt it.”

  “So, in return for helping us endure the Nine Circles,” I say to Jeanne, “Lord Septimus told you of another path to return to Up There. Why have you not just left us and gone on alone?”

  “I am no devil,” replies Jeanne. I know she speaks the truth, which is why I do not have the heart to inform her that her milky-white eyes have acquired the tiniest hint of pink. “I am not a monster to be locked up in Down There’s asylum, either,” she adds, glaring at me. “I did not leave you because I believed General Septimus would make good on his promise to help me. But I knew that if he heard that I failed you . . .”

  Jeanne trails off. Is that a brief flash of fear I see in her pale-blush eyes? She is not scared of The Devil or even the Skin-Walkers. She is fearful of Lord Septimus. What did he say to her?

  “But Up There banished you, Jeanne,” says Medusa. “How do you know they won’t just return you the second you go back? Assuming you even do make it back?”

  “I have to at least try,” replies the French warrior.

  “Then we will help ye,” says Elinor quietly. “We know ye do not like us—”

  “—and the feeling is mutual,” mutters Mitchell, and Medusa elbows him in the ribs.

  “—but we admire ye. And ye saved me back there,” continues Elinor. “We will help her, won’t we, Alfarin?”

  “We will,” I say distractedly. As the tunnel ahead ahead widens and opens into the Fifth Circle, I find it is not the flailing bodies thrashing about in the expansive swamp I focus on, but rather, a sight in my mind’s eye: a green field, teeming with warriors and blood.

  How does this scene from the future come to pass? Does it, in fact, come to pass? I want in my heart to believe it does, but I have to wonder, where are Mitchell, Medusa and I in that future? I look around and see that Mitchell and Medusa are now walking so close together they could be sewn into the same cloth. Suddenly, I wish more than anything that I could see how this ends for Team DEVIL. Not just our quest to find Beatrice Morrigan, but our existence. For there has to be an end—it was foretold in the tale of Ragnarök. The dead not worthy of existing simply cease to be.

  An analogy comes to mind. The Highers are the chess masters, and we are all pawns being positioned for their entertainment.

  A cold, harsh laugh, like a pickaxe scratching across ice, blows through the tunnel. No one cries out in alarm—we are all becoming desensitized to the sights and sounds of horror now—but the hairs on the back of my neck buzz with static and my beard tingles in a way that is unpleasant. Bile rises in my throat.

  Fabulara isn’t here—I can’t smell her, for one thing—but she can hear me, and she wants us—me—to know she is listening.

  The Fifth Circle spreads out before us. We stand in a line on the edge of the murky brown swamp. It appears to go on forever into the distance. Twisted hands and feet splash about in the depths as soundless bodies writhe to escape. I can see no beasts keeping them at bay, but when an Unspeakable appears to be on the verge of escaping the brown water and climbing out onto glistening black rock, something in the depths drags the tormented one back down. It is yet another realm filled with cyclical suffering.

  “How do we get across?” asks Elinor, slipping her hand into mine in an easy intimacy that I welcome after the trials our friendship has recently suffered.

  “On that,” I reply, pointing to a smoky dark-gray shadow that is inching its way toward us across the brown sludge.

  As it gets closer, the vessel and its pilot become clearer. The vessel itself is wooden, like a normal rowing boat, but without oars or embellishment, save for a single skull fixed to the front like a grotesque figurehead. The muscular man punting it through the swamp with a single pole is naked, save for a tattered and torn red cloak around his neck. His tanned skin glistens with sweat.

  “Oh my!” exclaims Elinor, blushing. “Can we not pass him some of yer spare pants, Alfarin?”

  “Virgil,” calls the man in a deep baritone voice. “It has been many years, old man. I was beginning to believe you had begged for your eyes back and gotten released from your fate.”

  “Phlegyas,” replies Virgil. “I am as likely to be released from my bonds as you are from yours.”

  “We aren’t all going to fit into that boat,” whispers Mitchell, jerking his head back the way we came. “And we have company in the shadows.”

  I turn around and can see the black, distorted haze of the Skin-Walkers moving back down the tunnel. Elinor the Dreamcatcher is our defense, but Mitchell is right, we will need to make the journey across the Styx in two groups. Elinor cannot be split in two, meaning one group is going to be left defenseless.

  As if she is reading my mind, Jeanne crosses her arms and scowls at me.

  “Do not even think to ask,” she says. “I cannot turn it on and off at will. Only if one or more of you is in grave peril am I able to immolate.”

  “Yet you took Elinor?” I say.

  Jeanne looks away. I see her mouth tremble.

  No. Jeanne’s mouth does not quiver; she is mouthing a single word.

  Fire.

  Jeanne immolated not because Elinor was in grave peril, but to help her avoid her worst nightmare. The French warrior has empathy in that hard soul of hers. Which means I do not believe her when she says she can only immolate if one or more of us is in grave peril.

  I want to call her out on it, but I hold back. Warriors are also strategists. I want Jeanne on our side. This is a risk with the Skin-Walkers stalking us through the Circles, but the Seventh Circle has taught me to control my anger.

  I will take some good out of this wretched place if I can.

  “You can try to hide it, Jeanne, but I know you care about us,” says Medusa quietly. She must have seen Jeanne mouth the word, too.

  “Do not flatter yourself,” replies Jeanne, but at this, Medusa gives herself a little private smile. I think she understands Jeanne’s troubles better than anyone, and the Maid of Orléans is less harsh with Medusa than with the rest of us.

  “There are six of you,” says the naked man called Phlegyas. “For payment, I will take three at a time to the other side.”

  “And how much gold do you require?” I ask, hoping that Mitchell and Medusa packed money as well as rope. From their confident demeanor, I am happy to assume they did.

  The naked man cocks his head to the side and sniffs at the air. I am reminded of Virgil, although I do not believe the ferryman is blind, for his eyes are the deepest of red.

  “I do not need gold,” replies Phlegyas. “For what would I spend it on?”

  “Then what is your price?” I say. “Quickly, man. We do not have time to tarry on the shore of such a forsaken place. We must cross to the other side.”

  “I sense you have something more precious than gold, Viking,” says Phlegyas, raising an eyebrow with knowing intent.

  My immediate thought goes to Elinor. She is not my possession, but I will not allow anyone to take her. My countenance must have reflected my thoughts, because Phlegyas smiles at me. He knows exactly what I was thinking.

  “No, Viking,” he says, shaking his head. “You have a greater jewel on your person than even that lovely creature holding fast to you. To ferry you across the Styx, I want that timepiece you carry. I want the Viciseometer.”

 
Tuttugu ok Ein

  Alfarin, Elinor and Mitchell

  A new friendship was born. While my adoration of Elinor continued to grow, I was the first to admit that having another male in our friendship group was healthy. It was good to talk blood, sport and women.

  And Mitchell did me a favor, possessing as he did the silhouette of a spoon. Next to him, my girth was even more impressive.

  Mitchell introduced me to a game called soccer. Eleven players would kick a ball up and down until a goal was scored by placing it in a net. We procured a full team from my brethren and the males in Mitchell’s dormitory who were not jabbering wrecks. I found it exhausting, even though there were few places to run around unhindered in Hell. I discovered I performed best in the position of goalie. Few could get a ball past me and my hands—and the fact that my axe often deflated the balls meant we were unbeaten for the season.

  To reciprocate this manly bonding time that Mitchell offered me, I introduced him to a game called Hunt the Heathen Saxons and Watch Them Choke on Their Entrails. If I had not seen my new friend devour several hamburgers, his reaction to the game would have given me cause to believe he was vegetarian. Mitchell certainly had a bad case of swooning around thick dead blood.

  And Saxon blood was very thick—just like their skulls.

  Mitchell became like a brother to me, but it was clear he was lonely. He had died after being hit by a bus: a large metal beast that was used in the modern world for transporting people too lazy to march or row to their intended destination. Time and time again, Elinor and I tried to find him a woman, and there was no shortage of applicants. Mitchell was widely regarded by female devils as handsome, in an unconventional way that did not involve facial hair. The buxom wench Patricia Lloyd could barely keep her hands off Mitchell whenever the three of us ventured into the library. After a while, Mitchell stopped coming with us.

  Mitchell’s disconsolation in this regard came to the fore one night at the burger bar. He had procured a camera—an inanimate object that could capture a single moment in a frozen image—from Lord Septimus. Elinor was fascinated by it and was directing me and Mitchell to create scenes that made her laugh. We were only too happy to oblige, for Elinor’s laugh was like music: another area where the talented Mitchell excelled.

  “Place yer arms around each other,” called Elinor as a huge plate of fries was delivered to our table.

  “No wonder I can’t get a girlfriend,” muttered Mitchell. “I swear devils in here think the three of us are in some kind of ménage à trois.”

  “That sounds like a dessert,” I replied. “I would like to try it.”

  Mitchell started choking; I think he had a fry lodged in his throat. I slapped his back so hard that his face was propelled into the plate. When he pulled himself back up, a fry was stuck up each nostril. Then I laughed so hard, my control over my bladder almost forsook me. Mitchell retaliated by placing fries up my nose.

  Elinor passed the camera to another devil and joined us at the table.

  “I want to record this moment,” she announced, throwing her arms around me. “And Alfarin”—she glared at me—“it is customary to say ‘pardon me’ when ye expel gas.”

  “That was not me,” I replied indignantly. “It was Mitchell.”

  “It wasn’t me, either,” he said. “I thought it was Elinor.”

  We laughed for the camera, but I could not help noticing that Mitchell had raised his fingers to his shoulders in the same way I had in order to grasp Elinor’s hands.

  Mitchell’s long fingers found nothing but air.

  The flash fired and Mitchell took the camera from the other devil, nodding his thanks. He sat with it a moment and then stood. “I’ll get these printed for you guys,” he said sadly.

  Our friend trudged out of the burger bar, looking around for someone who wasn’t there.

  “We need to find him a girl, Alfarin,” said Elinor. “It is breaking my dead heart to see Mitchell so alone. And we should be a foursome. Three seems so . . .”

  “Uneven,” I replied.

  Elinor was right. More than ever, I was convinced that Mitchell needed a woman. One who was strong and opinionated. And one who could bring out the best in him. For I had learned firsthand that I was my worthiest self when I had a partner in crime who was better than I.

  21. Anger Unleashed

  Phlegyas’s eyes remind me of Lord Septimus’s. Whereas Virgil’s blind eyes are like creamy milk, and the bottomless black eyes of the Skin-Walkers reflect the darkness of their souls, Phlegyas’s shine with a red fire. It is not as hot in this circle as others we have passed through, but he has clearly been in the depths of this place for many thousands of years. His face is lined, but not wrinkled. If I had to estimate his age of passing into the Underworld, I would have said around forty years, but his toned, undamaged body hints at his good fortune in life.

  “You cannot have the Viciseometer,” I reply. I keep my voice as flat as possible, and I do not blink, as I do not wish to break eye contact with the ferryman of the River Styx. I do not believe he means us harm or is being deliberately obtuse. Phlegyas wants a chance to escape, as Mitchell once did, and I can empathize with that.

  I have to wonder how he knows I have a Viciseometer hidden on my person. He cannot have seen us use it, and the timepiece has no obvious way of showing itself.

  “If you do not give me the Viciseometer, then I cannot take you across,” says the ferryman. There is pity in his countenance and weariness, too. Phlegyas pushes his pole into the brown water and starts to punt the boat away.

  “Wait,” calls Elinor. “Please don’t leave us. Is there something else we could give ye?”

  “It is the Viciseometer or nothing,” replies Phlegyas.

  “How does he even know about it?” mutters Mitchell, turning his back to the river.

  “When your senses have been assaulted with the very worst for as long as mine have,” replies Phlegyas, “they also become extra-attuned to that which can ease suffering. I have sensed the presence of the Viciseometer before in this circle.” He smiles. “I can also hear it whistling and see the sparks emanating from your pocket.”

  Mitchell leans in to me. “Alfarin, what are we going to do?”

  “The Geryon would be really handy right now,” says Medusa. “He could take us over, one by one.”

  With eyes narrowed like a haughty feline, Mitchell slowly and deliberately engages Jeanne. Her response is as expected.

  “I cannot fly you across,” she snaps. “So cease with your unsubtle requests. Do you think I am lying?”

  “You’ve been able to immolate at will to keep ahead of us to this point,” replies Mitchell angrily. “So yeah, I think you’re lying.”

  “I have been able to keep ahead of you because that was my command from General Septimus,” replies Jeanne. “I saved the peasant sibling to Johnny because that was also part of my task. I am more skilled in immolation than any of you because it is not just rage that ignites it. I am a soldier, and I can separate my emotions of anger and compliance.”

  “In other words, you’re a robot,” snaps Mitchell.

  I try to block out their bickering. Their fighting is pointless, and I cannot waste time observing it. We have to cross the River Styx to get to the Fourth Circle. We have come so far. I will not be beaten by the request of a naked man who rides in a boat all day.

  “Virgil, how do we cross?” I ask the old man. “I will not give away the Viciseometer. As soon as we have found The Devil’s Banshee we will need it to travel back to Lord Septimus and The Devil.”

  “Phlegyas wishes to leave,” replies Virgil. “So give him options.”

  Phlegyas is watching our conversation closely, although his flaming red eyes are being drawn to the increasingly hostile confrontation still taking place between Mitchell and Jeanne. We are in the Fifth Circle, the dwelling of those who killed in fury. Mitchell does not have the capability for murder in his soul, but he is a powder keg of anger. He showed t
hat when we traveled back to Washington to revisit his death, and he was the first of us to immolate back in the land of the living. This circle could be a danger to him. He has had only four years of death, and I do not begrudge him his anger at the unfairness of his passing. Seventeen years old for a modern devil is different than it is for those of us who had to become men when we were but children.

  I want to help Mitchell through the trauma of this circle, but I need to manage the passage of all of Team DEVIL. My father, King Hlif, has made leadership look easy, almost fun. For me, it is harder. What options can I give Phlegyas? I could strike him down and take the boat by force, but he is not our enemy. I want to continue to show my friends, and especially Elinor, that I am becoming more than just an axe-wielding man-mountain of strength.

  The answer is obvious once it comes to me.

  “Travel on with us,” I say. “Phlegyas, ferry Team DEVIL, Virgil and Jeanne across the river and continue through this hope-forsaken world with us. We have but a few circles to go before we reach Paradise. Somewhere here we believe we will find our quarry, the Banshee named Beatrice Morrigan. Then I will personally see you to the place of your choosing with the Viciseometer.”

  Phlegyas strokes his curly gray beard and juts his jaw slightly to the right.

  “I have been the ferryman here for many millennia,” he replies. “The few who have crossed this way have never invited me to join them. I was cursed to remain here. By inviting me, you are also offering protection from that which will come after me?”

  “You have my word,” I reply.

  Mitchell and Jeanne are now nose to nose, and I can see that Medusa and Elinor are trying to pull them apart. Their abuse of each other is causing sprinkles of rock to cascade down upon us as their shouting reverberates around the circle.

  “You have my word!” I repeat over the din. “I cannot give you the Viciseometer, but I will offer assistance if you help us—and as you can hear, that is now becoming more urgent.”