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“Cleric Wreath,” Tenebrae said, “you may continue.”
And the last of Craven’s supposed peers, the last to witness this constant belittling – Solomon Wreath. Cleric First Class of the Necromancer Order, infamous Field Operative and notorious trouble-maker, standing there in his tailor-made black suit while the rest of them wore proper Necromancer robes.
Craven had a special place of hatred reserved for Solomon Wreath, down deep in his heart.
“I believe Valkyrie is about to make a breakthrough,” Wreath said, and Craven’s eyes widened in alarm. “She’s becoming more proficient at Necromancy with every lesson. She’s taking giant steps now, progressing faster and faster. If she continues like this, I’m confident that she will choose Necromancy over Elemental magic when it’s time for the Surge.”
“I see,” said Tenebrae. “And how has Pleasant reacted to this?”
Wreath allowed himself a smile. “They’ve argued about it enough, so he’s not saying anything for the moment. He trusts her to find her own way, and so do I. It’s just that I think her way will be our way.”
“And you think she’s safe out there, with Lord Vile on the loose?”
Wreath hesitated. “I think she’s as safe with Skulduggery Pleasant as she’d be anywhere. Besides, Vile hasn’t been seen since he attacked Pleasant in the Sanctuary. He may well have vowed to kill the Death Bringer, but for all we know, he won’t be returning.”
Craven coughed lightly, and waited till they were looking at him. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I fail to see how any of this is a noteworthy development. We do not all believe that Valkyrie Cain will be the Death Bringer, Cleric Wreath. Some of us, in this room, believe she’s just another unexceptional girl.”
“Unexceptional?” Wreath echoed. “This girl is but a few months away from her seventeenth birthday and already she has saved the world and killed a god. What have you done?”
Tenebrae chuckled and Craven bristled. “What I mean to say is that while she may have the makings of a fine sorcerer, I have yet to be convinced that she will ever have the power to become the Death Bringer and initiate the Passage. And even if she does have that potential, she is, as you say, not even seventeen. She won’t experience the Surge for another three or four years. You want us to wait four years to see if she might be strong enough?”
“You have an alternative to waiting?” Wreath asked. “Did someone invent a time machine while I wasn’t looking?”
“Your sarcasm notwithstanding, I think it would be a mistake to put too much faith in a girl so heavily under the influence of Skulduggery Pleasant. Besides which, we have plenty of our own candidates. Take my protégée, for example. I believe that Melancholia St Clair has been showing signs of definite—”
“Melancholia?” Tenebrae interrupted. “You’re still insisting on her? Cleric, I haven’t seen anything special about that girl at all. The only extraordinary quality she seems to possess is the ability to look extraordinarily annoyed whenever I see her. Which hasn’t been for quite some months now.”
“Begging your pardon, High Priest, but I have been spending a lot of time as her personal tutor, and I think she could be the one.”
Tenebrae sat back in his chair. “You’re tutoring her?”
“Yes, High Priest.”
“But I thought you wanted her to excel,” Tenebrae said, laughing while Wreath smirked. Craven’s face burned, but he managed a grateful smile nonetheless.
“Waste your time however you want,” Tenebrae said, waving his hand. “But right now, the Cain girl seems to be the one viable possibility we have. No other Temple around the world has any candidates of worth. All eyes are resting on us. Cleric Wreath, I hope she doesn’t let us down.”
“As do I, Your Eminence,” Wreath said, nodding instead of bowing. Tenebrae didn’t seem to mind.
Craven stormed into the depths of the Temple, replaying the conversation in his head, substituting the things he had said with the things he wished he had said. They were so much better, all the caustic witticisms that occurred to him afterwards. They made him sound strong and smart and in control. In his imagination, he never blushed.
He reached the heavy wooden door, and spent a few moments calming himself. Tenebrae’s days were numbered, as were Wreath’s. Quiver, he wasn’t so sure of. Quiver never mocked him. Quiver never mocked anyone.
He entered the room, and Melancholia raised her head.
“I’m tired,” she said. She spent half her time tired. The other half was spent pacing the floor, practically crackling with energy. It was either one or the other – extremely powerful or extremely weak. Craven had wanted another few days to run more tests, to find the source of the instability and purge it, but his patience had run out.
“It’s time,” he said. “I’m presenting you to the High Priest. Clean that sweat from your face and follow me.”
“I don’t feel well,” she said, almost whimpered.
“I don’t care!” he roared, and grabbed Melancholia’s arm, yanking her to her feet. “They will not laugh at me again! No one will ever laugh at me again! We will wipe the smiles from their smug faces and they will worship you and obey me!”
She looked at him fearfully, with tears in her eyes, and he caught his anger and quelled it. He couldn’t afford to lose her. He couldn’t afford to lose the trust he had spent so long building up while he was carving those symbols into her flesh and listening to her scream.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said softly. “I’ll be with you. No one will hurt you while I’m with you. You’re a very special girl, and I love you as I would my own daughter.”
Melancholia nodded bravely, and he gave her a gentle smile as he led her to the door. What he’d said was quite true – he did love her like a daughter. He had a daughter, somewhere in the world, and he absolutely and without reservation despised her.
(#ulink_8fdde3ae-3093-5ff2-8bb9-92ed1f3bedb8)
alkyrie and Skulduggery backed away from the window.
The first Jitter Girl approached in that awful, messed-up, stop-motion way, moving slowly, her face blank. She reached the wall and vanished, and was suddenly inside the cottage with them.
Skulduggery’s hand closed around Valkyrie’s wrist. “Don’t move,” he whispered. “Don’t look at her.”
Fighting the urge to run, Valkyrie stayed where she was and kept her eyes down. The Jitter Girl flickered into her peripheral vision. Her heart thundered in her chest like hoof beats. The Jitter Girl paused, maybe to examine the porcelain figures on the sideboard. Valkyrie’s hair was wet. Her jeans were damp and her top was sticking to her. She was aware of all of this as she stood perfectly still. One of the Jitter Girl’s sisters moved slowly by the window.
The Jitter Girl passed behind Valkyrie, out of her line of sight. Valkyrie had never wanted to turn round so much in her life. Goosebumps rippled her flesh.
There was a mirror on the wall. Valkyrie could see Skulduggery and herself reflected on the edge of the glass. Her mouth was dry. In the mirror, she saw a pale hand slowly reaching for her own.
Skulduggery grabbed her, twisted her away, the air rushing as they hurtled through the broken window without finesse. They landed in the mud and scrambled up, a Jitter Girl on either side. The Girls grew as they came forward. Every flash made them bigger, made them older, made their hair paler and wilder. Their faces changed, from pretty and blank to contorted and tortured. Lines appeared on smooth skin. Mouths opened, lips cracked and white teeth became yellow, became brown, became blackened, and still they came forward.
Skulduggery’s gun went off, again and again, the bullets passing through the flickering creatures. Valkyrie hurled fire, threw shadows, but the Jitter Girls, all three of them now, advanced impervious.
Skulduggery was yanked from Valkyrie’s side. One of them had him, her fingers pressing into his clothes, sliding between his ribs. He screamed.
Valkyrie lunged for him, but slipped, splashing down in mud and muck, her hair in her eyes, calling his name. And then one of them was right in front of her, standing over her, her hand pressed against Valkyrie’s forehead, pressed into her skin. Valkyrie screamed as the fingers melted into her skull, poked through her brain. White daggers of blinding light seared across her mind. Her body seized up and her jaw locked. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. Images played in darkness as the little girl-monster wriggled her fingers. Images and memories, sensations and emotions, mixing up, matching up, latching on to each other, splitting off from each other, and still the little girl-monster played, curious, sifting through the insides of Valkyrie’s mind like she was looking for something, searching for someone, and she found it, found it waiting, found it watching. Found it ready.
Valkyrie went away, and Darquesse wrapped her hand around the little girl-monster’s wrist and she crushed it as she pulled the fingers from her mind.
Darquesse stood, still holding on to the wrist. The Jitter Girl screeched and contorted and jittered, but her arm remained in Darquesse’s grip. Darquesse watched her, fascinated. She poured magic out through her fingers and the little girl-monster returned to her normal size and screamed. It was like no human scream. It was like no animal scream. It was the scream of a creature who had never felt the need to scream before. It was new, and raw, a freshly born thing of exquisite agony and sudden, overwhelming fear.
Darquesse dropped her. Another was coming, jittering across the mud, eager to play, and there was so much magic in Darquesse’s veins, broiling and coiling and boiling inside her, that she just had to share it. The power leaped from her hand in a twisting, turning stream, crossed the distance between them and washed over the Jitter Girl, taking her off her feet. Unable to escape the flow, the little girl-monster squirmed and kicked and writhed in the mud, and Darquesse increased the intensity until she became bored of the screeches.
She turned to the last little girl-monster, who held her gaze for a moment before releasing Skulduggery. He fell, gasping. The Jitter Girl returned to her normal size and shape, regarding Darquesse with those wonderfully blank eyes, then moved to the box. Her sisters dragged themselves, in that flickering manner, to join her, and one by one they climbed back inside. Once all three were in, the top of the box closed over.
Darquesse turned back. Skulduggery Pleasant got to his feet, his exquisite suit covered in muck. His hat was in the mud somewhere, and the rain ran off his gleaming head.
“Hello,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Darquesse smiled, walking towards him.
“You’re very impressive,” he continued. “That’s a kind of magic I don’t think I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen every kind of magic. You are quite the curiosity, aren’t you?”
Darquesse could have turned his bones to splinters where he stood.
“Is she in there?” Skulduggery asked. “Valkyrie? Can she hear me?”
Darquesse said nothing.
Skulduggery’s head tilted. “Are you going to let her come back? That’s her body you’re wearing. That’s her face you’re using. You can’t keep her sleeping for ever. It isn’t your time yet. This is still Valkyrie’s time. She gets to walk around. She gets to live. Not you.”
She could see his consciousness. It formed a shell around his skeleton, a shell of multicoloured lights. It sparkled prettily. This shell was how he thought. This shell was how he felt. When he had pulled himself back together, all those hundreds of years ago, he recreated himself in a form that only she could see. She reached out and gently dug her fingers into the shell of light. Skulduggery gasped and went rigid. She turned her hand, twisting his consciousness, feeling and understanding how she could tear through it or pull it away, shred it to pieces or turn it to vapour. What she held, buzzing, between her fingertips, was life itself. It was a wonderful thing, a glorious thing. She released him and he staggered back, but she was already forgetting he was there.
She rose off the ground, into the rain-filled air, floating high above the cottage. She could see across the countryside from here, to the city in the distance. She wondered how easy it would be to turn the whole city to dust. Probably not that hard. Not if she focused.
Somebody rose up to meet her.
“I want Valkyrie back,” Skulduggery said. “Give her back right now. I’m not going to ask again.”
Darquesse smiled at him. She liked him, she really did. He was unique. She didn’t want to kill him. Not yet. Not when there were still ways for him to amuse her.
Darquesse went away, and when Valkyrie blinked her wet hair was in her face and she was falling to the earth.
“Bloody hell!” she hollered.
Skulduggery swooped down, caught her, held her close as he descended.
“No need to shout,” he told her.
She clutched him tightly. “What’s happening? How’d we get here?”
“You don’t remember?”
“How I got into the bloody sky? No, I don’t bloody …” She trailed off. “Oh, wait. I do. It was her.”
“Indeed it was.”
She sagged in his arms. “Great,” she mumbled.
They touched down. Valkyrie swayed on her feet a moment then nodded, and they walked over to the wooden box.
“So that’s it, then?” she asked, a headache starting up behind her eyes. “She can just come and go whenever she likes? Every time things get too dangerous, am I just going to Hulk out, change into the person who’s going to kill the world?”
“I don’t think it’s quite so simple,” Skulduggery responded. “From what I could see, the Jitter Girl literally had her hand inside your head. That would shake anything loose. And I know you don’t want to hear it, but Darquesse did save us.”
Valkyrie folded her arms, shivering. “You’re right. I don’t want to hear it.”
“You saved us, then. Does that sound better?”
Valkyrie glared at him through the rain. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“Yes, you did. You are Darquesse, Valkyrie. Darquesse isn’t a different person, no matter how many times we talk about her like she is. At its simplest level, Darquesse is a state of mind.”
“I’m sorry?”
“She’s you, without your conscience, or your feelings. She’s you without your humanity.”
“You’re saying she’s a mood swing?”
He shrugged. “Or maybe you are her mood swing.”
“Don’t even joke about that.”
Skulduggery picked up the wooden box and they started back towards the cottage. “I’m not joking. The fact is we have no way of knowing if the person who we think we are is at the core of our being. Are you a decent girl with the potential to someday become an evil monster, or are you an evil monster that thinks it’s a decent girl?”
“Wouldn’t I know which one I was?”
“Good God, no. The lies we tell other people are nothing to the lies we tell ourselves.”
“You have an amazing ability to depress me sometimes, you know that?”
“I try my best.” Skulduggery gestured, and his mud-soaked hat rose into his hand. He gazed at it forlornly. “How are you feeling?”
“Headachy. But fine. Bad man got away.”
“Yes, he did.”
“He killed Paul Lynch and now the little old lady Lynch confided in. Somebody doesn’t want us to know anything about the Passage. You think he was a Necromancer?”
“Even though dressing in black is in no way an indication – yes, I quite do.”
She nodded. “Me too. Plus, he had a ridiculous beard. I should probably ask Solomon about him.”
“I should probably help.”
“No hitting.”
“A small amount of hitting.”
Fletcher lunged out of thin air before them, his eyes wide, fists clenched, ready to fight. He looked at them, spun round, spun back again.
“Where are they?” he asked.
“Back in the box,” Valkyrie told him. “Did you find out anything?”
“China wasn’t at the library,” he said, the rain flattening down his hair. “Nobody there could help me. How did you beat them?”
“With unimaginable skill,” Skulduggery said. “Valkyrie, I’ve got a two-hour drive back to Dublin where dry clothes await me.”
She nodded. “I’ll be ready.”
He walked to the Bentley. Fletcher turned to Valkyrie, hands loosely holding her arms. “I didn’t want to leave,” he said quietly.
She smiled. “I know.”
