by Donna Hosie
I pull Mitchell to his feet; he leans forward and puts his hands on his knees.
“I heard her,” he gasps, fighting for the breath he no longer needs. “I could hear Medusa . . . I mean the living Melissa.”
“So did we,” I reply, pulling off my tunic. Elinor and I work together to manipulate Mitchell’s arms and head through the sleeves and neckline. I have little to offer him, but the cloth from my back may ease the suffering of his skin, just a little.
Mitchell stands up, and my tunic slips right down over his skinny shoulders and lands in a puddle of mud at his feet.
“We need to find Jeanne,” says Elinor, gently patting Mitchell on the back before picking up my tunic and passing it back to me. “We need to get to her before any of us immolate again. I could not bear to hear . . .”
She trails off and wipes her bloodied face. It is Virgil who comforts her, and I am glad. I need to lead my friends and companions out of this holding place of evil. The time for embraces will be when this is over.
“Jeanne is unprotected in this circle because she is not with a Dreamcatcher like Elinor,” I say. “It sickens me to say it, but I fear our best hope of finding her is to listen for the howling of the wolves. Cupidore is already here, and the other seven were following us. If they can attack her in formation, they will.”
“Ignore the Unspeakables, they cannot harm us,” says Phlegyas, joining Mitchell to pull Medusa to her feet. “Not even the one you fear the most.”
“I don’t fear him,” mutters Medusa. “I hate him.”
“Medusa, do you wish for Virgil to take you to the exit?” I ask. “The Skin-Walkers do not seem able to touch him. We will stay with Elinor for protection, will search for Beatrice Morrigan and will find Jeanne and meet with you.”
“We stay together, Alfarin,” she snaps, wincing with pain. “I am not afraid of Rory Hunter, not anymore.”
Mitchell shakes his head at me; his wretched, bruised-looking eyes are narrowed in warning. Do not push it is the silent command.
“He will not come for you in this vile place, Medusa,” I say quietly. “For I have seen him, and his punishment is fitting.”
“We stay together,” repeats Medusa. I nod my acquiescence.
“Virgil, you have the keenest hearing of us all,” I say. “Lead us toward the Skin-Walkers.”
“They will outnumber us, Viking,” says Virgil. “If this group is torn asunder by another funnel of wind—”
“Do it!” I roar. “We are not leaving this circle until we have Jeanne d’Arc amongst us!”
I do not order the formation, but Virgil leads and the rest of us walk behind him, holding on to the person in front and the one behind. We stay close, calling for Jeanne and Beatrice Morrigan. Our heads whip back and forth in the rain as funnels of wind bear down on us.
The snarling of wolves is being carried on the wind.
“What if Jeanne’s immolated out of here?” calls Mitchell. “We could be going down a dead end.”
“She wouldn’t have left us,” shouts Medusa. “Jeanne’s a warrior who follows orders. Septimus told her to protect—”
Medusa suddenly stops. At first I fear another tornado is crossing our path, but then I see our quarry. Jeanne is running. A faint golden nimbus surrounds her, and her speed is greater than that of any devil I know, but it is not an angel’s immolation.
Fear has dampened her anger.
She is being chased. Three Skin-Walkers are on her tail. They do not run like wolves on all fours, but are loping on two legs with their long arms trailing toward the ground. Their heads are bent so it appears the wolf heads are the ones desperate for the feast.
That means there are another five Skin-Walkers close by.
I have seen diversions before; in life I instigated them myself when marauding with my Viking brethren.
Jeanne is being chased into a trap.
Prír Tigir Ein
Alfarin, Elinor, Mitchell and Medusa
Team Devil was completed the day Mitchell Johnson introduced us to Medusa Pallister—again. Of course, we did not know this was a second meeting. Not at the time.
She had been hired as a second intern in the accounting office, to work alongside Mitchell. Clearly, my friend was quite taken by this intriguing girl with her wild curls.
Elinor would call it fate. Mitchell would call it good luck. Medusa later discovered it was a paradox.
I silently called it the actions of a master tactician, manipulating time itself.
Lord Septimus was not a devil to be crossed.
By anyone.
31. Perfidius’s Threat
The stubbornness of angels. Why didn’t Jeanne stay with us? I know better than anyone the folly of leaving one’s brethren in the midst of battle. We cannot reach her in time. Even without her weapon of flight, I would not be able to outrun her and the Skin-Walkers. My strength is my greatest gift, but even though my reflexes are quick, I am no distance athlete.
And I cannot split our remaining group up and ask Mitchell and Phlegyas to go after her, because then they will be left unprotected without Elinor and Virgil.
Team DEVIL screams as we watch Jeanne being overpowered like a gazelle. One Skin-Walker jumps for her neck; another leaps for her back. She is down in seconds.
Medusa pulls Mitchell toward her and kisses him hard on the mouth.
“This is Rory’s fault!” she cries, pushing him away. “I have to make this right.”
“Medusa!” yells Mitchell. “What the Hell?”
We all cry out as Medusa breaks free from the formation and dives into a vortex of wind that is winding a path to where Jeanne is trapped and about to be mauled. Elinor and Mitchell are hollering Medusa’s name, but it is the pleading voice of Melissa Pallister we hear being carried by the wind as a ball of flame erupts in the center of the funnel.
“Why would she do that?” gasps Virgil. “I do not understand . . .”
I pull him around and grasp his face in my hands; his skin is soft like butter. Virgil’s eyes are no longer foamy white in color; they are jet-black.
“You can see!” I exclaim. “How?”
“Forget Virgil!” shouts Mitchell. “We have to get to Medusa and Jeanne before the Skin-Walkers destroy them both!”
The three Skin-Walkers that were chasing Jeanne have been joined by the other five, but they are so preoccupied with getting Jeanne, they have not noticed the tornado gathering strength beside them. A fireball is dropping from the funnel, but the flames are being wrapped around the tendrils of wind, and at least ten feet of the twister is now encased in flames.
Such bravery. Such sacrifice. The firestorm that is Medusa is about to land directly on the eight Skin-Walkers.
Cupidore and Perfidius are the only two Skin-Walkers to jump out of the way in time. The other six are sucked into its midst and carried away. Their howls of pain and surprise reverberate around the Second Circle of Hell. The ground shakes and the intensity of the hail and rain increases. Ice coats my hair and beard. My tunic is in shreds, and I realize, for the first time, that everyone’s clothes are in tatters.
But on we run toward Medusa and Jeanne. Both are lying in crumpled bloody heaps on the ground next to an Unspeakable who is clawing at the ground toward Medusa. Safe from the inferno of fire are Cupidore and Perfidious, who are returning for Medusa as well as Jeanne now. The rest of their pack is forgotten in their bloodlust.
I take my axe in both hands and run. With momentum as my ally, I plow through the frozen Unspeakables. Mitchell and Phlegyas are charging at my side, both of them roaring like kings in battle. Elinor and Virgil follow just a few steps behind. Both are crying out with the same voice. I am so shocked to hear it that I nearly stumble.
It cannot be.
For them to be crying out in the same voice can mean only one thing.
Finally I understand who Virgil truly is.
For I have heard that cry before.
It was the warning alarm we heard back in
Hell when we were trying to make our escape—the one that sounded during the riot.
And it means that not only is my Elinor liberated, but M.J. will be safe.
My blade slices into Cupidore just as he is lowering his head and extending his wolfish tongue to lick Medusa’s neck. He flies through the air with his entrails exposed. The inevitable flashback to my death does not weaken my resolve. Perfidious spits and snarls as we circle him, but the advantage is ours once more.
“You dare enter our domain and attack us,” growls the leader of the Skin-Walkers, standing to his full impressive height. “This will not go unpunished. You have opened the door to an existence of never-ending fear and pain, Viking.”
“Mitchell, carry Medusa,” I order. “Phlegyas, take Jeanne. Virgil, get us out of here.”
“Give me the Viciseometer,” says the guide. “I am now able to see us into the final circle.”
I pass the vibrating red timepiece to Virgil. It illuminates with a red glow that is like a ball of fire. Elinor helps Phlegyas to pick up Jeanne. The French angel’s thick dead blood has been diluted by the relentless rain, and it runs in a river down their bare arms. She moans softly; her eyes are open. Medusa is also awake, but her groans are louder. Mitchell has her cradled in his arms.
“Do not change the times,” I say to Virgil. “You must imagine the place we are to travel to. That will then transfer into the face of the watch.”
“I know how to use this,” says Virgil with a small smile. “I have used it many a time before.”
I catch a glimpse of the Viciseometer as a sea of locations from Virgil’s mind flashes across its face. For an instant, it settles on an ornate chamber decorated with bloodred drapes that frame a massive bed. A stone dais lies at the foot. Virgil and I lock eyes as the Viciseometer’s face finally settles on what I know is the next circle.
“I will come for you first, Viking,” snarls Perfidious. I turn from Virgil to find that the wolf-man’s body is twitching with submissive pain at being so close to Elinor and Virgil. But the Skin-Walker is not backing down. “If it takes a thousand years, I will have you. You will not be protected forever by a vessel of The Devil’s dreams. Before the end of days you will make a mistake, and I will take out your throat and drag you into the mouths of the beast in the Ninth.”
“And Bót will be waiting for you,” I reply, kissing the bloody blade of my axe, my sins finally atoned for. “Now, Virgil!”
The wind is warm as we are sucked through time to the final circle. The end is close.
And we have The Devil’s Banshee.
Prír Tigir Treir
Alfarin, Elinor, Mitchell and Medusa
The Devil’s Dreamcatcher was a weapon: the finest any realm would ever know. We discovered this on our journey with Medusa back to the land of the living, where we hunted down an escaped Unspeakable, her stepfather.
We learned firsthand the power of the Dreamcatcher he had in his possession. It was terrifying in its greatness.
But do you wish to know the downside to the finest weapons of war?
They aren’t exclusive to one side.
32. Limbo
The Banshee has been Virgil all along, but in disguise. Whether she is keeping up this charade by choice or force, I do not know. What I do know is that one false move now could jeopardize everything we have fought so hard for. I believe that something in Team DEVIL has been drawing the Banshee out, and the longer she is in our company, the clearer her true self will become.
If I am not mistaken, that something is love. Lord Septimus told us that The Devil loved Beatrice Morrigan very much. Unless he took her to be his wife by force, and I have not been told he did, then I must assume that feeling was reciprocated.
But the Banshee has been in the Circles of Hell for a long time. And after spending centuries in a place of such doom, it stands to reason that all sense of love that resided in her soul has been long forgotten. This realm of evil, this chaos, has become her death. In coming here, Team DEVIL has reminded her what it is like to love, and we must continue to do that in order for her to be completely unmasked.
Mitchell is holding on to Medusa as if his death depends on it. Her skin is slowly returning to normal after her second immolation, but it is the damage inside I am most worried about. I thought seeing Rory Hunter would be the worst scenario she would face in that
Second Circle, but his physical form was just the vessel of evil. The real horror for Medusa was hearing her own voice, remembering.
Reliving.
Jeanne is being cared for by Elinor and Phlegyas. They are tearing up pieces of cloth from Virgil’s red robes by hand and are wrapping the strips around Jeanne’s torn skin, but she is so badly hurt that I can tell she needs to be healed properly by those who can mend the bodies of the dead.
Time is not on our side.
Time is never on our side, even when we think we have the means to control it sitting in a hidden pocket.
I place my hand on the guide’s shoulder.
“Is this the final circle for us . . . Virgil?”
“A short walk, and then we will be in the fields of the castle in the First Circle of Hell,” he replies, turning to stare at me. “That is my dwelling. It has been my dwelling for many years now. So many years I had . . . forgotten . . .”
His eyes are still as black as ink. This is good. What is hiding within is not withdrawing from me.
“I will need the Viciseometer back,” I say, holding out my hand. “I made an oath to Phlegyas.”
“We haven’t found Beatrice Morrigan yet,” says Mitchell, rocking Medusa. She is clutching at his arm with clawed fingers. “Alfarin . . . remember Elinor and M.J. We’re running out of time.”
“But we are through the worst,” says Elinor. “We are so close.”
I want to tell them. I want to give them hope, especially Mitchell, who is in a world of internal pain over his brother, but I cannot. Subtlety is not a state that comes easy to me, but I must at least try, using the skills that Elinor and Lord Septimus have been teaching me over the centuries.
Beatrice Morrigan is still hidden deep within Virgil. I must ease the Banshee to the surface gently.
“Virgil, please . . . lead us through the final circle,” I coax. “We would never have come this far without your guidance. We will forever be in your debt.”
“Remember, there is still a Skin-Walker here,” replies the guide. “He is the watchman for those who are waiting.”
“Waiting for what?” asks Mitchell.
“A second chance.”
“At what?” I reply.
“At life,” replies Virgil. “This is a place where evil breeds evil. Those who occupy the First Circle are the seeds of the evil yet to come.”
“What?” cries Mitchell. “You mean they’re just sitting around, waiting to be reincarnated?”
“In a manner of speaking,” replies Virgil. “Do you think the Skin-Walkers want a cessation of pure evil on earth? Of course not. You know yourselves that Heaven and Hell are not split into good and bad. The Afterlife is not that simple. Not that black-and-white. The dead are simply divided up. But the arena of hate that is the Nine Circles needs to be replenished in order for the Skin-Walkers to feed. And so the Unspeakables in the First Circle are held back from their fate in the other eight circles so they may go back and breed more evil. Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate. Remember those words I first spoke to you? ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.’ Hope is left at the entrance to the First, but the First is where it all starts.”
“Then take us away from true evil and toward hope,” I say. “For it is that which we have all been clinging to all along, even you . . . Virgil. We never abandoned hope. If we had, we never would have entered the Ninth. I still have hope.”
“Hope?” echoes the guide, his eyes glistening like small pools of oil. “I lost mine a long time ago.”
“What did you hope for?” I ask.
Virgil stares into the dist
ance. “I hoped for hope,” he replies. “My existence had become too . . . noisy. Too colorful. Too . . . dramatic. I longed for peace.”
“So you came into the Nine Circles of Hell to find it?” mutters Mitchell. “You’re nuts.”
“Maybe we can help you get hope back,” I say, a little more earnestly. “If you want it.”
Medusa is attempting to stand. Her legs are wobbly, like a newborn deer’s.
“Your eyes, Virgil!” she exclaims, coughing up blood into her hand. “They aren’t white anymore. Can you see?”
“For the first time in a long while,” replies Virgil.
And Medusa smiles. It transforms her face, giving it light and color and health.
“Phlegyas and I will carry Jeanne,” calls Elinor. “But we must get her to the healers in Hell before too long, Alfarin.”
“No!” cries the Maid of Orléans. “I am going home. I am going back to—” Her French accent is lost in a growl that escapes from her shredded throat as she calls out. Blood oozes from her neck, and she clamps her hand down on the wound. It seeps between her long fingers like jam between pieces of bread.
“Viking,” says Phlegyas. “The Skin-Walkers will come for me in the end. My escape from Hell is only temporary. But before I am returned to my place at the River Styx, I wish to see my home. When we are through the First Circle, take me to Delphi in Greece. I wish to atone for my crimes in life before I am brought back here.”
“No, Phlegyas!” cries Elinor. “We can keep ye safe.”
“Sweet child,” says Phlegyas, laughing. “I wish to see blue skies and mountains once more. You have given me a chance to do that. Yet fate is not our friend. We all have a path, and to be the ferryman of the Fifth Circle is mine.” He turns to Virgil. “When we get the chance to go home, old man, we should take it. Yes?”
“Alfarin,” pleads Mitchell. “My brother.”
“Virgil,” I say. “Please lead us.”