The Devil's Banshee Read online

  I certainly did.

  The four angels have been exiled because they were the unwitting victims of the Hell-made virus unleashed by The Devil’s Dreamcatcher. Jeanne is so angry with the fate that has been forced upon her that she has almost managed immolation here in Hell.

  Not for the first time, I wish I could take the French warrior with us into the realm of the Skin-Walkers and the Unspeakables.

  But it cannot be. She is not a devil; she is a misplaced angel. It will be dangerous enough, entering the Circles of Hell. To add to our burden with an untested Jeanne, however brave, could be a disaster. I must lead this quest with a strong heart and a strategic mind.

  And a full stomach. Is that pizza I smell?

  “Food’s up,” calls the sweetest voice of all, and Elinor tiptoes into the accounting chamber, balancing four pizza boxes in her hands.

  “Elinor, you are an angel!” cries Mitchell. “I tried to get Medusa to go down to the kitchens for food, but she refused.”

  “I’ve got better things to do than be a slave to your stomach, Mitchell Johnson,” replies Medusa, flicking an elastic band at his head.

  “Ow!”

  “Bull’s-eye!” crows Medusa triumphantly.

  “I got ye a quadruple meat feast, Alfarin,” says Elinor, handing me a cardboard box that is dripping with glorious grease.

  “My princess,” I reply, although my fervent rapture is drowned out by my intestinal tract, which is making the noise of a goat bleating in pain.

  “Hello, Aegidius,” says Elinor. “I am very sorry. I did not know ye would be here, or I would have brought ye pizza, too.”

  “I am here for General Septimus, not to eat food that falsely proclaims to be from my homeland,” replies the Roman.

  “Huh?” asks Mitchell, a slice of pepperoni pizza hovering inches from his open mouth.

  “I think Aegidius is saying our pizza isn’t really Italian,” replies Medusa thickly. She has just placed an entire slice of Hawaiian pizza in her mouth. I do not know whether to be impressed or appalled.

  Who am I fooling? I am impressed.

  Another devil enters the accounting chamber. Five becomes six, but Lord Septimus has the aura of ten devils. One day, I hope my magnificence will press people against the walls of Hell, instead of just my stomach.

  “I’m glad to see that there are some things about Team DEVIL that do not change,” says Lord Septimus, in a drawling voice that is akin to those who arrive from the American state of Texas. “I thought I could smell pizza.”

  “Can’t think on an empty stomach, boss,” says Mitchell. “And this might be my last meal.” He takes a swig of Coke from a can and burps loudly.

  I know my friend is trying to keep the intense atmosphere jovial for Elinor’s sake, and I silently thank him for it. Intentional humor has never been my forte, although I seem to make other devils laugh. Intimidation and an impressive beard are my personal strengths.

  “I take it you have something for me, Aegidius?” asks Lord Septimus. “Unless you have decided to join my interns and their two friends, of course?”

  “Another letter arrived this past hour, General,” replies Aegidius, taking the smoking letter out from the folds of his toga. “And I have personally ensured that another has taken up the position vacated by the deserter.”

  “Do not call him that,” replies Lord Septimus sharply, opening the letter. “Sometimes it takes a braver man to flee.”

  Mitchell and Medusa are watching Lord Septimus with open mouths. It is rare to hear him speak with such an edge to his voice.

  “Who deserted, boss?” asks Mitchell. “Don’t tell me another Unspeakable’s escaped Hell!”

  “No . . . no,” says Lord Septimus. “It’s . . . it’s nothing, Mitchell. My apologies, Aegidius. I did not mean to speak harshly. I just feel responsible for the fate of . . . our informer.”

  “Your men understand fate, General,” says Aegidius. “And your men embrace war. We are ready.”

  “That is good news, Aegidius, for our time is coming,” replies Septimus. “But let us speak no more of it now. I will be out of commission for the rest of the afternoon, for I must see Team DEVIL to their destination.”

  Four gulps echo around the accounting chamber. The quadruple meat feast pizza that I just finished devouring is suddenly sitting uncomfortably in my stomach. I want to start this journey so badly, and yet I feel a sense of prickling cold invading my skin. I am ashamed to know that it is fear. I have felt it before, just seconds before a peasant’s rusty hatchet blade was swung through snow and blood to end me.

  Aegidius bows and leaves the accounting chamber without a word to us. Lord Septimus closes the door behind him.

  “Does Aegidius know what we’re doing, Septimus?” asks Mitchell.

  “No, he does not,” replies Lord Septimus. “But he will not question me. My soldiers were—are—accustomed to sending and receiving only the information that is relevant to them. And he is very loyal.”

  As Lord Septimus speaks, I do not imagine the quick curl of the lip and penetrating glare he gives the door that connects the accounting chamber with the Oval Office. If looks could kill, then Lord Septimus would be a weapon to rival the Dreamcatcher.

  Hell hath no fury like a devil scorned.

  “When did ye wish to leave, Mr. Septimus, sir?” asks Elinor. She rubs her neck twice, but stops when she realizes we are all watching her.

  “We will depart for the Nine Circles only when all four of you are ready,” replies Lord Septimus, and the softness in his voice is the antithesis to the hatred that flamed in his red eyes just seconds ago. “And Prince Alfarin, I will need to debrief you once you are ready.”

  “I am your servant, Lord Septimus.”

  “And in you I am placing my greatest trust,” he replies. “I know you will not let us down.”

  “Medusa, how are the provisions?” I ask, wiping my greasy fingers on my tunic, keen to show Lord Septimus that I am worthy of his trust.

  “I’ve packed food, water, clothes for everyone, and several changes of underwear. . . .”

  “You and clean underwear, Medusa!” exclaims Mitchell. “I’ve told you before, me and Alfarin can just turn ours inside out.”

  “No you haven’t,” she replies. “And that’s disgusting.”

  A frown crosses Mitchell’s face. “Was that paradox Medusa, then? I can’t remember.”

  Medusa digs Mitchell in the ribs with her elbow. Her aim is lethal.

  “It doesn’t matter if that was paradox me who said it. Turning your underwear inside out to get out of washing it is disgusting in any timeline.”

  I cross the floor to Elinor. She is watching their bickering with a faint smile.

  “I will be ready when you are, Elinor,” I say.

  She slips her hand into mine and squeezes. “I am ready, Alfarin, because I have my friends with me.”

  Suddenly an electric-blue flash zaps across the ceiling of the chamber. Medusa squeals and ducks down with her hands pressed against her snakelike hair.

  The connecting door opens.

  And in walks The Devil.

  Prír

  Alfarin and Elinor

  A companionship had been forged in the heat and fire and written words of Hell. It was not an effortless friendship. It required much thinking on my part. This I found exhausting, and as a result I often drifted off during my work at Thomason’s, and just as often, was awoken with a bucket of cold water to the face. My kin believed I was being tired out from other activities, and I did not correct them. I did not wish to be mocked. I was a proud prince.

  Elinor Powell and I would meet in the library every day. She would teach me how to read, and I would impress her with my rapid understanding. Elinor Powell did not know that after we said our good-byes, I would go back to the labyrinth of books and continue by myself. The words she had spoken when she first encountered me often repeated in my head.

  “I have been searching for ye for a hundred
years. So when ye are ready to be the devil I know ye will one day become, Alfarin, son of Hlif, son of Dobin, ye come and find me.”

  What did Elinor Powell know about me? I wanted to ask her, but my arrogance kept me aloof.

  That did not change the fact, however, that I was developing an aching desire to make her proud of me.

  Elinor Powell was accepted by my kin. She held her own and did not swoon in the company of such male magnificence. Indeed, she did not seem to be very impressed by bulging muscles and sweaty armpits at all. So, after reading a tome on the female of the species, I wondered if I should impress her with my nurturing side.

  It did not go according to my plan.

  “Will ye stop yer fussing, Alfarin!” exclaimed Elinor. “If I tell ye nothing is the matter, then ye just have to trust me.”

  “If you will not allow me, then at least permit one of my kin to have a look, Elinor,” I replied.

  Why was this proving to be so difficult? Had the book lied to me? Did women not want men to take an interest in their grooming habits?

  “I am telling ye, there is nothing to see,” said Elinor. “And yer kin are not going foraging through my hair like monkeys on the hunt for lice, either.”

  “But if it is lice . . .”

  “Will ye keep yer voice down!” cried Elinor. “And for the fiftieth time, I do not have head lice.”

  I had chosen the anniversary of Elinor’s death to show my nurturing side. Most devils took their death anniversary in one of two ways: they gloried in the majesty of their passing, or they sank into the blackest of depressions and attempted to kill themselves. The latter was an exercise in futility, as they were already dead. The former was the way of the Vikings. We did not need a reason to celebrate; we just needed a location.

  Elinor Powell was unlike other devils. She had accepted her passing with stoicism and grace. It was a quality I much admired in any devil. Elinor had told me she was meant to pass on at that moment in time. Elinor spoke of fate as if it was of comfort to her.

  But as the fourth of September had drawn closer, I noticed that Elinor had started to rub and scratch at the back of her neck more and more. Even my kin had noticed. My father brother, Magnus, believed Elinor to be infected with the bubonic plague—but then Magnus believed every devil was infected with some kind of pustular affliction.

  “It is not lice. I do not have the plague, the pox or scabies, Alfarin,” chided Elinor. “We have only known each other a few months. One day . . . one day . . . I will be able . . .” Then her red eyes filled with tears, and I felt a strange sensation in my chest. It was the same sensation I felt when I was served only ten dumplings at dinner instead of fifteen.

  It was a feeling of being bereft.

  But I had not meant to make Elinor Powell cry. I had only wanted her to like me. I had wanted to show her I cared.

  I needed a different book.

  “I am sorry, Elinor,” I said remorsefully. “Forgive my inquisitive nature. What can I do to make it up to you? Would you like my serving of beef stew at dinner tonight? Or would you like to braid my hair? Shall I score my skin with one thousand strokes of penitence?”

  “Oh, shush now, ye big oaf,” replied Elinor, sniffing. “It is just me being silly.”

  But Elinor did not strike me as silly or foolish, and later that night, when I found her brushing her long red hair before we left the library, I saw her silently weeping over the usual congratulatory deathday message from The Devil.

  I said nothing.

  And I did not tell her I saw the long pink scar on the back of her neck.

  3. The Devil’s Farewell

  As The Devil walks into the accounting chamber, Elinor and Medusa fall back against the stone wall. Both of Elinor’s hands are on the back of her neck. It is the position she takes when she is frightened or worried, and it pains me, for I know now that I am the cause of her obsessive behavior.

  I place myself in front of Elinor and Medusa with my axe raised. Let them come, I think to myself, expecting an army of ghouls to bleed out of the walls once more. Let The Devil’s guards come. He is in our domain now, and I will strike my blade through anyone who tries to take our girls away from us again.

  At the same time as I take a stance to protect Elinor and Medusa, Lord Septimus strides across the room and places a warning hand on Mitchell’s arm. They could not be more different, in appearance and history, and yet I am often reminded of a father and son when they are together. The anger on my friend’s face is majestic to behold. It is hatred and a burning desire to see a face with a black goatee floating in a toilet on level 666.

  Mitchell’s hatred of The Devil matches my own. We are brothers joined by death and love and loyalty.

  “Team DEVIL!” exclaims The Devil in his high-pitched voice. Some would say he sounds like a girl, but I believe that is insulting to the female of the species.

  “Sir,” says Lord Septimus calmly. “I thought you had a meeting with Florence Nightingale. Aren’t you due for your shots?”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” replies The Devil, twisting his black goatee around his index finger. “Septimus is a worrier, isn’t he, Mitchell? Always looking out for those he cares about.”

  The Devil smiles. Behind me I hear Elinor make a noise. I cannot tell if she is sobbing or gagging. Neither sound is one I welcome. I can feel the heat starting to burn inside my chest; my hands are shaking. The flaming torches around the accounting chamber are reflecting off the silver blade I sharpened with loving care this morning. It is a color that is permanently tattooed on many of my earthly memories—and the moment of my passing—because the fire in this room is also the color of blood.

  What color does The Devil bleed, I wonder? If it’s as black as his mind and heart, it will be darker than the shadows that are now swarming across the walls. Watching. Waiting.

  “Don’t look at him, El,” whispers Medusa. “Look at me. Hold my hand. That’s it, look at me.”

  “Medusa Pallister always knows what to say,” says The Devil, leaning to his right to peer around my body. “Such a smart young lady.”

  “You stay away—” Mitchell starts.

  “Mitchell, be quiet,” says Lord Septimus; his voice is so low I can feel the vibrations of it against my own chest. It’s like a heartbeat. How strange it is to feel that after one thousand years of death.

  “And Mitchell Johnson, or should I call you M.J.?” The Devil’s top lip curls. He is enjoying this. “The one who would give everything up for a brother he’s never even known.”

  “Sir, with the greatest of respect, is there a point to this visit?” asks Lord Septimus. “I would be happy to call back Aegidius to assist you if you are in need of something to calm you before your shots.”

  “I just wanted to wish Team DEVIL bon voyage,” replies The Devil. “That is the tradition in the land of the living, is it not? Then again, you are about to embark into the Circles of Hell and not Disney World, so perhaps bon voyage was the wrong phrase. Such a frightful place. It’s a Small World is my idea of Hell on earth.”

  The master of Hell starts laughing at his own joke. I can feel Elinor trembling behind me.

  “I’m certain Team DEVIL is thankful for your kind words, sir,” says Lord Septimus; his bloodred eyes flash a warning to all of us to maintain our silence. Mitchell is not struggling in Lord Septimus’s arms, but I can see him shaking with rage. My friend was the first of us all to immolate. I know that, like me, if he could complete such a transition now, together we would blow level 1 of the central business district apart.

  “So, who is to lead this adventure?” says The Devil. He sweeps a pile of papers from one of the desks onto the floor and perches on the edge. “All expeditions need a leader. Someone brave. Someone prepared to sacrifice themselves when the going gets tough.”

  “I will be leading,” I say. “I am not afraid of the Circles of Hell.”

  “Why, Alfarin, son of Hlif, son of Dobin,” says The Devil. “I approve. You’re go
ing 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. I believe that’s Visolentiae’s domain, is it not, Septimus? You’ve already met that particular Skin-Walker. And I know Cupidore is looking forward to seeing Medusa once more. He liked the smell of you, girl.”

  “Maybe he likes the smell of Beatrice Morrigan more,” says Medusa sharply.

  The Devil’s black eyes narrow at the mention of his wife’s name. “You had better hope for the lovely Elinor’s sake that he does not,” he replies. “And remember what I told you in my domain, Medusa Pallister.” He flashes me a look with his ink-black eyes, and for a moment I wonder if The Devil can read my mind. “I don’t cope well without sleep, and the longer I am made to wait for a Dreamcatcher, the worse it will be. For everyone.”

  The flaming torches on the wall are starting to lower and dim, as if the fires of Hell are cowering in the presence of such despotic evil. Then with a sudden clap of his hands, The Devil jumps to his feet.

  “I feel the need to break into song!” he cries. “What about ‘So Long, Farewell’? I do love The Sound of Music.”

  “I will ensure that the film is streamed to you once you have recovered from your shots, sir,” says Lord Septimus. His voice is so calm, so steady. “But you should head down to the medical center. Miss Nightingale’s needles get larger the longer she waits.”

  “They do, don’t they! Why, last time I swear that woman stuck a needle the size of a Toblerone bar into my backside. I couldn’t sit down for a week. Oh, Septimus, what would I do without you?” asks The Devil, sighing dramatically. “Well, bon voyage it is, then, Team DEVIL. And to you, Alfarin, son of Hlif, son of Dobin, do not forget what is at stake here if you fail.”

  “We will not fail,” I reply. I know my irises are red after one thousand years in Hell, but they are now infused with so much anger I feel as if I could burn holes in The Devil’s face just by looking at him.