The Devil's Banshee Page 6

  “It’ll be the last time, Elinor,” replies Mitchell, holding my axe between his knees. “Trust me. But this is important.”

  Mitchell swipes his hand down over the edge of the curved blade. He makes a noise like a baby being force-fed root vegetables. I take his hand in mine and our dead blood mixes once more.

  “Plan B,” we both say.

  “And what is Plan B?” asks Elinor.

  “Something that will not be necessary, my princess,” I reply, letting go of Mitchell’s hand. Medusa is already pulling a strip of cloth out of her backpack and winding it around Mitchell’s hand.

  “No more blood,” she whispers to him. “Okay?”

  “I’m afraid he can’t promise that,” says a wheezing voice from the shadows. My axe clatters to the ground as Mitchell drops it. Elinor and Medusa cry out in fright.

  “Who’s there?” I shout. “Show yourself.”

  An old man steps out of the darkness. He’s wearing a long red robe that falls to the ground. His head is covered by a red skullcap. With a long, hooked nose, pointed chin, and cloudy eyes, he isn’t the most pleasing of fellows to look upon.

  “So it has come to pass once more,” says the old man. “It has been many centuries since I was last required.”

  “Who are you?” asks Medusa. “What did you mean, Mitchell can’t promise no more blood? You have no idea who we are or where we’re going.”

  “Oh, but I do know where you’re going. And there, child, you’ll find nothing but blood,” replies the old man. “Septimus, old friend. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  “Miss Powell, you asked that I tell you when I am leaving,” says Lord Septimus softly. “That time has come sooner than I expected. This is Virgil, and he is your guide into the Circles of Hell.”

  Sex

  Alfarin and Elinor

  Employment was a way of death in Hell. Hard work and toil came naturally to Vikings, but many other devils were desperately unhappy about having to exist in the Afterlife in the same manner that they had lived. Most factions stayed within their own groups: Vikings worked in establishments that provided food, ale, weapons, ale, brawling services, woodwork and ale; Romans were the bureaucrats; and any royalty was responsible for what little entertainment was on offer in the oppressive, hot darkness of Hell.

  Peasants were given the jobs no other devil wanted, such as cleaning toilets. This continued for many centuries until those who were called reality television stars arrived. I did not understand this phenomenon, but they all appeared to suffer artificial browning of the flesh and oddly shaped lips.

  I had employment in my cousin Thomason’s bar. I collected glasses and cleaned them. My father, King Hlif, made me take on the job as a way of further punishing my insolence in refusing to marry Elinor Powell. My kin were still unaware that it was Elinor who had refused me, and that I had taken the blame to ensure she was not banished from the halls of Valhalla.

  It would stay that way. Not all secrets were an ill.

  By this time, Elinor’s reading and writing were so good, she did not clean out toilets like the other peasants. Instead, she was employed as a records clerk for the Grim Reapers: a role she had continued after the influx of soldiers during the Great War.

  Elinor and I were growing ever closer. I found myself searching for red hair amongst the sea of bodies that swarmed around the corridors of Hell. I found myself craving that first smile of hers as she spotted me. I would even occasionally resort to deliberately dropping food on my tunic, because I knew Elinor would be the one to wipe it off.

  It was hard to hide my true feelings around my kin. During feasts it was customary to slap any delightfully big bottom that happened to pass our way—and I had done so many times. But the longer I spent with Elinor, the less I felt inclined to behave like that. Was I ailing? Could a Viking lose his Vikingness? There were times when I thought I knew myself around Elinor, but there were other moments when I believed she was changing me into a man I did not recognize.

  “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.”

  I knew Elinor and I had never met before in the land of the living, so why did these words from our very first conversation keep haunting me? Elinor refused to talk about many things, like her death, and her family in Hell. But the one that caused me the most frustration was her steadfast determination not to discuss why she had come looking for me in Hell.

  It was as if I were being prepared like a hog for slaughter.

  I did not welcome the unknown. But I trusted her.

  Elinor and I had settled into an easy existence; a cycle of something that could be described as domesticity—without the hair-pulling, rump-slapping and kneeing of private manly parts. We worked, we read, we learned, and I ate enough for the both of us to be satisfied. At the end of the day, I returned to the hearth of my kin, but I did not always feel at home there.

  My Valhalla was becoming two separate worlds.

  Our comfortable routine changed one day when Elinor received a letter. It had been left on her bed.

  I did not make a habit of entering the sleeping quarters of the peasant girls, as they tended to swoon in my magnificent presence, but I made an exception this day, as Elinor’s hand had covered her mouth while she read the neat script. I thought it could be bad news. I knew I would have to be ready to offer a broad shoulder or a clean handkerchief for her to weep into.

  I did not have a clean handkerchief. The sleeve of my tunic would have to do.

  “I got a job in devil resources, Alfarin,” whispered Elinor as I finally reached her. “The flu pandemic amongst those left after the war has killed so many, they are taking on more staff. I got the job, Alfarin. I did it.”

  “I was unaware you had applied, Elinor,” I replied. “My axe and I pay tribute to your tenacity and filing skills.”

  “I’m getting closer, Alfarin,” said Elinor. “I’ll be able to check on every devil in existence now. I’m going to find the other one—I just know it. It’s fate. Fate.”

  And she kissed me briefly on the lips.

  It was the first time Elinor had shown me such physical affection. My heart was unaccustomed to the sudden rush of emotions that followed, and my head was spinning with her cryptic words.

  Who was the other one? What was fate?

  And were my lips too chapped?

  I never found out the answer to the last question, for it would be nearly one hundred years before Elinor showed me such physical affection again.

  6. Virgil

  Virgil. I know that name. It was mentioned over and over again in The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri. I had read that tome during my lonely sojourn in the library, and brought it with me for our journey. The language in the epic poem would be archaic to some, but for me, it was a welcome return to the speech of old. Virgil was a Roman poet, which explains his acquaintance with Lord Septimus. Virgil was the one who guided Dante through the Circles of Hell, on to Purgatory and eventually into Paradise. He was a mentor, protector and guide.

  My Viking reserve is overtaken by relief. If Virgil is to be our guide, we are saved, for he will know the way.

  “It is an honor to meet you, Virgil!” I cry, going down on bended knee.

  “This is Prince Alfarin, son of Hlif, son of Dobin,” says Lord Septimus. “On this quest, he is the leader of the four devils before you, Virgil.”

  Virgil massages his pointed chin and seems to appraise me. He offers no greeting in reply. Instead, he turns his attention to Elinor and Medusa. His large nose sniffs the air like a dog’s.

  “These two smell slightly less of meat and tomatoes and sweat,” says Virgil. “The inclusion of women is unwise, Septimus.”

  “Medusa Pallister, one of The Devil’s two interns,” says Lord Septimus. “And Elinor Powell—”

  “Yes, I know who these two young women are,” interrupts Virgil. “As
I said, unwise.”

  “We’re a team. We stick together,” says Mitchell.

  “Virgil? Weren’t you the guide Dante wrote about?” asks Medusa warily. “I read the Divine Comedy in school. You showed Dante the way.”

  “He was a dreamer, Dante,” says Virgil. “Blinded by love, like most fools.”

  “Team DEVIL intends to find Beatrice Morrigan,” says Lord Septimus. “They are returning her to The Devil.”

  The roughly hewn rock corridor starts to shake as Virgil laughs. It is a horrible sound. Whistling and gasping and hacking and screaming echo up and down the darkness. Elinor trembles and reaches out for Medusa. Mitchell backs into the wall and is showered in black crystals that fall from the roof. The torch in my hand extinguishes so quickly it is as if a blanket has smothered it.

  “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate,” booms a deep voice in the darkness. Hot fingers grope at my skin. Elinor loses all composure and screams, but I cannot reach her. My body is frozen in ice. A stench, worse than that which follows Fabulara, rolls over us in waves. I hear Mitchell gagging and then Medusa cries out for help. She screams that she is drowning.

  “Enough, Virgil,” bellows Lord Septimus, and the crushing weight of ice leaves me. The torch illuminates once more. I catch a glimpse of Virgil; he is momentarily transformed from a man into a gargoyle-like creature. His face is contorted by anger and hate, but his eyes linger upon Elinor. They have changed from opaque white to a fierce, burning red. A forked black tongue flickers between pointed black teeth. He is a snake in a man’s skin.

  “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate,” repeats Virgil, and he is the man once more.

  “What does that mean?” asks Mitchell, the bulge in his throat bobbing furiously. “What did you just do to us?”

  “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” says Virgil quietly. “That’s what those words mean. You are foolish to do this. You are but children. Go back. I implore you. Go back.”

  “We can’t!” cries Medusa. “I promised The Devil—”

  “Foolish girl,” growls Virgil. “Whatever you promised The Devil is not worth this risk. Septimus, I will not do it. Look at them. They are young, but whatever it is they’ve done, whatever it is they’ve experienced, is going to complicate things. My journey with Dante Alighieri was a comparative cakewalk to what this passage will be. His soul may have been lost, but it was not forsaken. Can you say the same for them? Take this one—” Virgil sniffs at the air again and jerks his head toward me. “I can tell already that he is in grave peril. His feelings for that quiet one beside you will be his undoing. The odds are good that he will not make it out the other side.”

  “I am not afraid,” I say loudly. “And if I am in grave danger, then I will be destroyed trying to do the right thing. For I will not allow Elinor to be taken back as The Devil’s Dreamcatcher. I will not. I. Will. Not.” My axe slams into the rock with each word, and I am surprised to feel the heat of immolation rising inside me.

  “The Devil’s Dreamcatcher,” gasps Virgil. “What do you mean?”

  “Alfarin—” says Elinor quietly.

  “No,” I interrupt, unable to look at her. If I do not say this now, I may never be able to say it. The weight of words is so crushing, I am the Norse god Tyr, holding up the world with one hand. “The shame I felt, Elinor, at not being able to protect you. The dishonor that still bleeds from my wretched soul . . . I would die a thousand deaths to protect Mitchell and Medusa, but for you, for you there is no number. And if I cannot stop The Devil in his nefarious ways, then I will cease to exist. My soul will rot for the carrion birds to scavenge. You have to let me do this. For you, but for me also.”

  “Oh, Alfarin,” says Medusa softly. Mitchell whispers something into her ear, and she falls into his chest.

  I am still unable to look at Elinor. My princess, my world. Will she think me a lovestruck fool for laying my heart open to the decay of Hell? My status as a Viking, a man, a devil, has been built on my reputation as a fearless fighter, with brute strength and a weapon that looks like a comet streaking through the air when I wield it. But Elinor has made me more.

  I like the Viking, the man, the devil that Elinor has made me become—but does she?

  It as if I have spoken the question aloud. Her warm, slim arms embrace me around my neck. The kiss is glancing, and yet I know I will remember every fold of skin in her lips as she presses her mouth gently to mine.

  “Ye mean more to me than life itself,” whispers Elinor. “If I could give ye my beating heart from centuries ago, I would.”

  “Where do they get these lines from?” wonders Mitchell aloud. Elinor blushes as red as her eyes and backs away.

  “Don’t ruin the moment,” says Medusa, but the moment is gone. Still, Elinor does not take her eyes from mine, and the rest of Hell melts into a blurred shadow, frothy at the edges like a tankard of beer.

  With a roar, I grab Virgil by the folds of his long red robe. He is slightly smaller than me in height, but I have more muscle mass in one bulging bicep than he has in his entire body.

  “You are the guide, yes?” I roar. “Speak, man. Every second in this tunnel is a second wasted.”

  “I am, I am . . . ,” replies Virgil. “Now unhand me, you brute.”

  I bring his pointed face to within an inch of mine. Virgil smells salty.

  “You will take us into the Nine Circles of Hell. I do not ask you to help us remove the Banshee, and I will not ask you to fight whatever heinous creatures we find in there, but by the blade of my axe, you will show us where Beatrice Morrigan is.”

  I can feel Virgil’s feet poking at my shins; I have lifted him clean off the ground.

  “You think you can get what you want with threats and violence?” asks Virgil, saliva pooling at the side of his mouth. “You will not last past the Seventh Circle, Viking.”

  “Where is the entrance?” I say slowly, elongating my vowels. If I have to drag Virgil by his hooked nose, then by Thor’s fury, I will. He called me Viking as an insult. I claim the title with pride. Team DEVIL has never truly seen me in the mind-set of a warrior. Even on my deathday, it was self-preservation that they saw from that rickety shed that smelled of piss. What I am now, is truly a prince among devils. Determination and deliverance are my allies on this quest.

  And my axe is getting hungry for some real action.

  “I will be your guide,” mutters Virgil. “But do not say, when you are face to face with the worst that Hell can throw at you, that I did not warn you. Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate. These are words that will haunt you all for the rest of your existence. Limbo, lust, gluttony, greed, anger, heresy, violence, fraud and treachery . . . you will see, taste, smell, hear and feel the evil of man, and in the face of all this, you will find yourself wanting, Viking.”

  I turn to Lord Septimus. His red eyes gleam in the darkness.

  “You may return to the Underworld,” I say. “I will lead on from here.”

  “Your father would be proud of you, Prince Alfarin, son of Hlif, son of Dobin,” says Lord Septimus. “As am I.”

  He turns to Mitchell and Medusa.

  “Don’t say good-bye,” whispers Medusa. She is shaking.

  “Stay true to one another, and accept help where it is offered,” says Lord Septimus.

  “We’ll be back, boss,” says Mitchell. Medusa is not the only one shaking. My friend is having a vertical seizure.

  “Miss Powell,” says Lord Septimus. “You are the calm in the center of the storm, and the heart that binds the four of you together. Do not doubt yourself, or your friends. Use whatever information you have at your disposal.”

  “Thank ye, Mr. Septimus,” replies Elinor. She holds out a slim hand, which The Devil’s accountant shakes; then, after a slight hesitation, Lord Septimus bends and kisses it.

  “You never cease to amaze me, Team DEVIL,” says Lord Septimus. “And Virgil”—he turns to the old man—“if you betray my charges, then know that I will s
earch every inch of the Skin-Walkers’ domain for you, and I will not rest until I have scattered your remains within the Nine Circles and beyond.”

  “Your threats might scare everyone else in the Underworld, Septimus,” replies Virgil, “but I have experienced too much down here to be fearful of mere words.”

  Lord Septimus does not touch the guide, but the look he gives the old man would make even the Skin-Walkers quail. It is anger and contempt and a warning rolled into one. I immediately vow to perfect such an expression myself, but I am distracted by a subtle movement to my right. For a brief moment, the shadows of Team DEVIL are not of two males and two females. They are taller, wider. Four figures mounted on animals.

  Then the shadows bleed away like dissolving ice, filling the crevices of rock with darkness.

  “Mere words can incite an army, Virgil. Both Prince Alfarin and I have gone into battle on less. Remember that, when the time comes to choose a side.” Lord Septimus turns to me. “See it through to the very end, Prince Alfarin. Do not waver in your commitment. To the very end, do you understand?”

  And then, with a blast of hot air that crackles like electricity, Lord Septimus disappears.

  Sjau

  Alfarin and Elinor

  I was born a Viking prince. The first son of King Hlif, son of Dobin. As soon as I could understand the language of my fathers, I knew I was destined for greatness . . . or so I was told. My father mother, Queen Tabitha, called me the mestr, which means “the greatest” in the English tongue. My father had sired several children with other wives after I was born, but all had died in their first year.

  I did not know the love of a mother. Mine passed over when I was a babe in arms. Her name was Valencia, which means “strength.”

  I was never told how she died, and she was rarely mentioned by my father or our kin. I was forbidden to ask questions because that was not the Viking way. Our women were tough. I was always left feeling that despite her name, she wasn’t strong enough for whatever fate befell her. I once overheard Queen Tabitha say my mother had deserted her place. That she had brought shame on the line and that her blood was bad. This confused me. My father’s next sons had all perished, too—was his blood not bad? I once questioned this aloud, and Queen Tabitha boxed my ears. Questioning the king’s bloodline was tantamount to treason. Fault always lay with the women. Always.