The Devil's Banshee Page 9

  “There will be mead, and there will be women,” I said as we took up our regular seat in Thomason’s. “Temptations galore in such a den of sin.”

  My cousin and his friends were jeering. They had told me that Magna was intending to sit on me and kiss me.

  I could not take much more of the stress.

  “Oh, Alfarin,” said Elinor. “I admit I was a little jealous when ye told me ye were going to be surrounded by pretty girls all night, but I am at peace with it now. Indeed, I want to hear all about it tomorrow.”

  “Then you are in a place I do not think I could be in, if the roles were reversed,” I admitted.

  “Then ye must learn to trust me, as I trust ye,” she said.

  “What if I am not very good at trusting?”

  “Then ye must learn, Alfarin. It will make ye a better devil, a more content devil.”

  “I am a Viking before a devil.”

  “Viking, devil, man, big ol’ oaf with soup in his beard,” replied Elinor, pulling out a comb from her apron pocket. “One day, ye may have to place yer trust in others, and doing so may save ye from an awful fate. Now put on yer mask while I brush yer hair.”

  Yes, Elinor was always the better devil.

  9. Malevolence on the Wind

  “Climb up the monster?” screams Medusa. “Are you insane?”

  “I’m not climbing that freaking thing!” cries Mitchell. He doesn’t realize it, but he has backed into the wall and his sneakers are pressing down on the face of a screaming, twisted body. Because the tongue has been removed and the vocal cords ripped out, we cannot hear its cries, and that’s just as well, because the shrieks coming from the three victims in the beast’s mouths are enough to chill the blood of the undead. It is hard to imagine how the screams of all the condemned combined within the Nine Circles would sound. But I suspect the noise would bring Hell down to its very foundations, and it suddenly makes sense why the Unspeakables’ ability to make noise is removed.

  The monster is enormous. Medusa and Mitchell are right. Climbing it will be an impossible task.

  “Elinor, I will go on alone,” I say. “I will not blame or condemn you for leaving now.”

  “Leave? And go back to what?” replies Elinor. Her flaming red eyes are not blinking. The beating of the beast’s wings has hypnotized her. “If I return to Hell, I return to his dreams. I am scared, Alfarin. I am so very scared. But I trust ye, and I will go with ye into every circle of torment to find the Banshee if I have to.”

  She lies, whispers the voice of the wind again. The redhead has darkness in her. He has corrupted her mind and taken her soul. She will betray you to your doom.

  The beast is keeping a constant watch on Team DEVIL. Its three pairs of black eyes roll around in its heads as its brutally sharp talons swipe at the air. I can hear the sound of replenished flesh being torn from the bodies in its three mouths, like a wet zipper being relentlessly dragged up and down, up and down.

  Before I lead my friends into the worst danger we’ve ever faced, I look around one last time to confirm what I already know.

  “She is not in this Circle of Hell, is she?” Medusa whispers.

  “You did not expect it to be that easy, did you?” replies Virgil. “Beatrice is not simply going to leap out from wherever she’s hiding and reveal herself. But even if she were inclined to do so, where could she possibly conceal herself in here?” Medusa gives him an annoyed look, which he ignores. “Now, are you going to continue to the Eighth, or is your quest going to wither and cease to exist right now?”

  “Lead on,” I reply. I tighten the rope that links me to Elinor around my stomach. “Mitchell, Medusa, my friends. We will untie you from these bonds so you can return to Hell, if that is what your hearts desire. Elinor and I will continue with Virgil, even if it means climbing the back of the beast itself.”

  Mitchell swears, and I look at him in admiration. His ability to create new curse words and use them in the most interesting of ways is impressive, although I don’t think The Devil’s lady mother would be too happy to hear her name taken in vain like that.

  “We’re coming with you, Alfarin,” he replies, once he has stopped cursing. “But can we please plan this out before we do it?” My friend is pale of face, while both Elinor and Medusa are pawing at their own skin, as if they fear it will be stripped just by the wind in this cursed place. Virgil is standing just behind Elinor; he slowly raises his hand once more, as if he wants to touch her hair. I tighten my hold on the axe. No one touches Elinor or Medusa without their permission.

  But Virgil slowly drops his hand and shakes his head. There is something sorrowful about his movements.

  “We must aim for the area where the beast cannot touch us,” I say, pointing with my axe to the joint between the creature’s wings. “The beast is encased in ice up to its stomach. It will not break free. We can get to its back if we continue around to the end of this path. It will take us in another loop around the creature. We must jump from above to its shoulders and climb up to the base of its neck. It is a short ascent, and from there we can jump across, back onto the path of the upper concentric loop, to reach the doorway that will lead us into the next circle.”

  “The one reserved for the fraudulent,” says Medusa.

  “Medusa, I know you are the smartest person in the Underworld,” says Mitchell through gritted teeth. “But can we get the Hell out of this circle before we start thinking about the next one?”

  “I was just saying—”

  “Just for once, please, don’t say anything,” snaps Mitchell.

  Elinor takes my hand. “Can ye hear voices in the wind, Alfarin?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are they saying to ye?”

  Do not trust her, or the one with snakes for hair. All three will see the beast claim you for its own. Their bodies should be stripped of flesh with the other betrayers.

  The pull of the voice is physical, and it hurts. It is not just the biting of teeth on the wind. There is a corporeal pull, deep inside my chest. Something wants to guide me away from my friends.

  The beast with three heads swipes a long arm toward our group. Medusa, who is nearest the edge, screams and ducks, but her sneakers slip on the ice. Shards break away beneath her as she falls.

  “Medusa!” cries Mitchell, and he catches her hand as her legs slide over the edge. But momentum and the icy ground betray Mitchell. He starts to slip, too, and Elinor and I are jerked forward as the rope connecting us pulls us all toward the edge.

  “Let go of my hand, Elinor!” I cry. “Trust me.”

  And my princess does so without comment or question. With my full weight and the power of both my arms behind it, I slam my axe into the ice. Medusa screams as she falls over the edge. The beast’s razor-sharp claws are just a few feet away from us. It is flailing and flapping furiously in an attempt to capture new prey. I can smell the rancid stench of toxic blood on its breath, and amongst the wretched whispers of the wind is a new sound: the howling of wolves.

  But Team DEVIL remains above the fray as my axe stays true. My feet find firm ground, and slowly, with pain coursing through my stomach as the weight of the rope digs in, I start to climb. Progress is slow and laborious, but with every yard of new ground reached, I am able to remove my axe and plant it farther up the ice. Elinor is soon freed from her terror of plunging, but as she ascends with me, she cries out in pain as she bears the weight of Mitchell and Medusa.

  Untie them. They will drag you to your doom.

  With a sonorous roar that comes from the depths of my chest, I stop climbing and manage to push Elinor behind me. Then I grasp the rope and haul it upward. Mitchell’s head and body appear over the ledge. As I take on his and Medusa’s weight, I notice that the rope is rubbing on the ice and starting to fray. I fear it will not hold much longer. Beneath the snapping rope I can make out the mangled legs of a victim of the Ninth Circle. They are twisted in the wrong direction, and my disgust at the sight momentarily makes
me lose concentration.

  The rope slips through my fingers.

  “Alfarin!” cries Mitchell. “I can’t hold on for much longer! Medusa, use me to climb up and save yourself!”

  Medusa, dangling below Mitchell, looks horrified.

  Use the axe. Cut through the rope. Let them go.

  The wind’s voice stops biting and instead starts to caress my cheek. My axe is still embedded in the ice. I pull it out and stagger over to the edge. The extra give in the rope causes Mitchell and Medusa to slip farther down into the icy abyss.

  Use the axe. Cut through the rope. You do not need them. They will betray you before the end . . . my son.

  Mother? Is that my mother’s voice, and her fingers on my face? Ice and wind combine to swirl up into the ghostly outline of a woman. Her hair is flowing in the wind. Her slender arms are reaching out for me.

  Then I look down and see a waterfall of blood land on the ice below. It rises up into the shape of a Skin-Walker, Perfidious. Use the axe, my beloved son. Cut them loose.

  In war, perfidy is the act of deception. Suddenly, I comprehend his treachery. He is trying to trick us with words and whispers, but I will not be deceived. My mother’s voice dies on the wind as I call on the strength of the mightiest god, Thor. He does not desert me as I slam my sacred blade into the ice.

  “Hold on to the handle, my friend!” I call. “Pull yourself up as far as you can go, and I will do the rest.”

  Mitchell emits a guttural cry as he clasps his two hands around the handle. His fingers are long—piano-playing fingers—and his hold is steady. Elinor joins me, and together we pull Mitchell and Medusa over the ice and toward safer ground.

  “Whose idea was it to use rope again?” gasps Medusa. “That was inspired.”

  “It was mine,” replies Mitchell. He is lying supine on the ice with his left hand over his dead heart. He moves quickly when he realizes that a silent, openmouthed face, with missing teeth and bloody lips, is inches from his.

  “I could kiss you,” says Medusa.

  “Don’t—I think I’m about to puke,” replies Mitchell, scrabbling away from the Unspeakable that has locked desperate, pleading eyes with my friend.

  “Yer axe,” says Elinor. “Do not forget it, Alfarin.”

  I pull my blade out of the ice, and a large section cracks and falls away. From the darkness below, we hear it crash and splinter into a million segments.

  “Climbing the beast will be easy after that,” says Virgil, smirking.

  I am so conflicted. I do not care for this fellow, and his sneaky countenance is unsettling. I wish to ease my suffering by punching him in the face. Yet he is our guide, and if I am to lead this quest, I must place my trust in him, as the others have placed their trust in me.

  Once Mitchell has recovered, we continue to walk. I have a longing to hear my mother’s voice again, but the wind no longer speaks to me. It has searched my soul for treachery and has been left wanting. Earlier, I could tell from my friends’ countenances that they faced their own tests. This circle is for the treacherous. And Team DEVIL does not belong here, for we are true of heart.

  I turn to look at the hybrid monster. Its lumpy spine is clearly visible, but now that we are closer, I can see spikes and small ridges sticking out of its short fur. Virgil stands apart from the four of us, but it is more than just rope that separates us.

  “On the count of three, we jump,” says Virgil.

  “Can’t we go one at a time?” asks Elinor.

  “One movement will be less disruptive to the beast, rather than five singular movements,” I reply, understanding Virgil’s logic. “We do this quickly. It is not far to the next level. Hold on to the beast’s fur and use the spikes for your feet.”

  “Making sure we don’t impale ourselves as we jump,” mumbles Mitchell.

  “You are quite correct, Mitchell.”

  “I think he was being sarcastic,” says Elinor.

  “Okay, Alfarin,” calls Medusa. “On your count of three.”

  “One.”

  “Of all the batshit mental things we’ve ever done, this tops it all,” says Mitchell, readying himself into a back stance.

  “Two.”

  The beast knows something is about to happen. Its huge leathery wings are flapping in a frenzy. The icy wind is sending a tornado-like vortex swirling through the chamber.

  “Three.”

  Even Virgil cries out as we all land on the beast’s back. Our movements are quick and methodical. It reminds me of powering the oars of a longship. Virgil and I take turns to call “Climb, climb,” and though the beast thrashes and twists, it is unable to remove the five irritants from its fur. The hairs are sticky to the touch, and while the stench is grotesque, the adhesive aids our ascent.

  Mitchell and Medusa reach the upper ledge of rock first. They assist Virgil and then Elinor. All four hold the rope tight as I throw myself toward them. We are in the roof of the Ninth Circle, and the ice here is barely a rumor on the black rock. We run, not looking down or back until we are high above the three-headed beast. It has already gone back to clawing at the bodies in its mouth.

  From high above, the four concentric zones look like pretty, stacked circles of blue light. The bodies trapped within the ice are mere shadows. I know, though, that the sounds and smells I have been assaulted with here will stay with me for the rest of my existence.

  “Ye have icicles in yer beard, Alfarin,” says Elinor, gently brushing at my face with her fingers.

  “You don’t,” says Medusa to Mitchell. “Because you can’t grow a beard.”

  “But you do,” retorts Mitchell.

  “Frozen albino hedgehog.”

  “Frozen albino snake-lady.”

  “Ignore them, Virgil,” says Elinor, wisely preempting the condemnation that will inevitably come from the old man at such a flirtatious exchange. “The fact that a strange, cold tundra can exist within such oppressive heat has addled their minds. They will thaw.”

  “We should go through the next door,” says Medusa, blushing slightly and stepping away from Mitchell, or at least as far as the connecting rope will permit.

  “Hang on,” says Mitchell. “Just one last thing. I know it’s dumb, but it’ll make me feel like we tried everything we could in here.” He steps toward the edge, and instinctively we all hold on to our segment of rope.

  “Beatrice Morrigan!” shouts Mitchell. “Beatrice Morrigan—are you in here?”

  An unpleasant sound escapes Virgil that can only be described as part hacking cough, part muffled scream and part contemptuous laugh. It does little to inspire my confidence in him as a supportive guide.

  Below us, the yellow head of the beast snaps up; blood runs down its chin.

  “I don’t think the Banshee is here,” says Elinor, pulling at Medusa. “Come, let us get out of this infernal place.”

  But when we turn, we find that the doorway to the next circle is blocked.

  Perfidious, the leader of the Skin-Walkers, has found us once more.

  Tíu

  Alfarin and Elinor

  “Ye cannot sign yer name on something that is not yers, Alfarin,” scolded Elinor. “It is fraud.”

  “But I am helping the infirm, Elinor,” I replied. “And besides, I am not doing this for personal gain, and that is what makes fraud . . . well . . . fraud.”

  “Ye are doing this for personal gain, Alfarin, and ye know it.” Elinor seemed to grow taller when she was being overly righteous.

  Or perhaps it was just when she was right, which was most of the time.

  My father, King Hlif, son of Dobin, had had an accident. It was the annual Viking beer fest, and he had slipped on spilled mead. He ended up in Hell’s casualty unit in traction, with his arms at an angle to his body that suggested they had been stuck there in a game of Pin-the-Appendage-on-the-Viking. He was healing well, but only because the healers had tranquilized him with a new veterinary drug that had been developed in the land of the living for ren
dering large animals unconscious. It had taken so much to knock my father out, it was rumored that the introduction of the drug on earth had been delayed because the stock had been depleted.

  So I had been charged with taking over my father’s business affairs in the halls of Valhalla while he healed. A task I was more than worthy of owning.

  Until Elinor got involved.

  My closest and most trusted friend in Hell was an honest devil. I had often wondered how she ended up in Hell at all. If ever there was an angel with red eyes, it was Elinor.

  Yet she could nag like a housewife on washday.

  All I wanted to do was lower the age of drinking for my Viking kin who were unlucky enough to die before the age of eighteen winters. Some years ago, the HBI forced the proprietors of Hell’s drinking establishments—including my cousin Thomason—to adopt the modern earthly custom of imposing a minimum drinking age. They decided upon eighteen, and my father, being a king, officially declared it law with an oath at Thomason’s.

  The HBI claimed the change was made for the well-being of the young. But I know the real reason: the fewer inebriated souls they had to deal with, the easier their existences were. Also, they hated it when young devils made merry.

  I’d never been particularly interested in drinking; ale quickly went to my head, and thus I’d spent several hundred years in Hell not giving it a second thought, even as I dried thousands of glasses a day at Thomason’s. But that changed the moment the HBI told me I couldn’t. We can hardly drink ourselves to death, I reasoned. And I worked hard, dammit, so why shouldn’t I be permitted to partake? I wanted to drink like a man—or, better yet, like my great-aunt Dagmar, who could drink like ten men.

  After giving it some more thought, I decided that adjusting the minimum drinking age to sixteen winters seemed fair. Vikings died young. We should not be penalized for that. The fact that sixteen winters was also my age was irrelevant. A mere coincidence.

  “I will tell the Grim Reapers if ye do this, Alfarin,” hissed Elinor. We were making our way along the crowded corridors after Elinor had had a hard day at work. I’d had a hard day, too—listening to her telling me I was committing fraud by rewriting the oath on the drinking age, sealing it with the king’s ring and claiming it was my father’s will.