Death Bringer (27 page)

“First, we have to find out where they're hiding her.”

Valkyrie put the brush down, went to the door and opened it. “Can I ask you a question? And I don't mean this in a bad way, but
are
you insane?”

Skulduggery looked at her. “Would it make any difference if I was?”

“Probably not.”

“Then why put labels on ourselves? That's a job for a psychiatrist. We punch people, Valkyrie. That's who we are. Embrace your inner lunatic. Fun times guaranteed.”

She smiled. “You're a bad influence.”

“I never claimed otherwise. Your reflection is still naked, by the way.”

Valkyrie shrieked, shoved him back and slammed her bedroom door closed.

Chapter 39
Killing Craven

reath never had a problem with killing people, but he always preferred it when he had right on his side, when they deserved it, and when he was sure he could get away with it. Today he planned to kill Craven, and while he was sure that right was on his side and that Craven thoroughly deserved what was coming to him, he wasn't overly confident he could get away with it. Still, he figured, sometimes you've got to do what you've got to do, and then sometimes you've just got to run like hell after it's done.

Getting Craven alone was proving to be a problem, however. He had everyone convinced that he had all the answers, so now they flocked around him like he was the High Priest. It was a most disheartening sight. Necromancers were feared the world over. Nobody trusted them, nobody liked them and everyone had a scary Necromancer story to tell around the campfire. Necromancers were supposed to be cold and weird, pale-faced and disturbing. It was an image that had been carefully cultivated over generations. And now, here they were, sycophantic and scared, gushing praise and mindless worship over a man who could very well be leading them towards a most inglorious end.

“I have just spoken with the Death Bringer,” Craven announced solemnly. Wreath watched as an expectant hush spread through the crowd. “Last night, the souls of our dead brothers and sisters spoke to her in a dream. They thanked her for her actions, told her they had never felt more powerful.” A woman appeared beside Wreath, her hood up to cover her face. She said nothing, just watched as Craven continued. “They explained that they were now a part of her, adding to her strength, adding to her wisdom, and that once the Passage happens, they will return to us and guide us towards our destiny. They asked her to tell you all not to worry, not to fear. Cast your doubts aside, they said. Embrace what is to come.”

He closed his eyes and bowed his head, allowing the murmurs to ripple.

“I dreamed of no such thing,” said the woman beside Wreath, her voice low enough so that only he could hear.

He looked at her. The hood was still up but he could see the point of her chin, and the raised scars that crossed it.

“This is what he wanted all along,” Melancholia whispered. “He wanted everyone listening to him, paying attention to what he has to say. That's why he did it.”

“That's why he did what?” Wreath asked.

Melancholia moved slightly, and he saw a thin smile. “That's why he made me who I am. That's why he had Tenebrae killed.”

Wreath glanced around, making sure no one could overhear. “Craven had Tenebrae killed?”

“As good as,” said Melancholia. “He brought him to see me. What was I supposed to do?”

“And why are you telling me all this?”

“Why do you think?” Melancholia murmured, just as the crowd started to quieten down again. “Because he plans to kill you next.”

“Brothers and sisters,” Craven said, drawing everyone's eyes back to him, “we are preparing to bid farewell to the world we know. This existence is a flawed thing. It needs to be improved. It needs us to do it. Because of us, because of you, the Death Bringer will usher in the Passage… tonight.”

The congregation of easily led idiots gasped. Someone at the back actually started sobbing with joy. Wreath turned to Melancholia, but she was gone. He spied her on the far side of the room, slipping out the door. Nobody noticed her. They were all watching Craven.

“Tonight, my friends, our destiny is at hand. No longer shall we grovel at the whim of forces beyond our control. Tonight, we seize control. Tonight, we become the masters of existence!”

There were cheers, and chanting, which would probably have been impressive if there had been more than thirty people in the crowd. But as it was, it sounded weak and a little silly.

“Prepare!” Craven roared, as if he were addressing an amphitheatre. “The day of reckoning is upon us!”

Thirty morons cheered, and Wreath started to look forward to the moment he used the knife.

“Rousing speech,” Wreath said.

Craven looked up, startled, as Wreath stepped out of the shadows. “Cleric,” he said, his hand patting his chest, “you shouldn't do that. For a second there, I thought you were Lord Vile.”

“Lord Vile probably wouldn't have cared how rousing the speech was,” Wreath pointed out.

“True, I suppose,” Craven said. “So, are you excited?”

“About?”

“Why, the Passage, of course. Weren't you the one who said the sooner the better?”

“I suppose I was. And she's ready, is she? Melancholia?”

“She fully expects to be.”

Wreath nodded, searching his peripheral vision for the White Cleaver. When he didn't see him, he stepped a bit closer. “I expect that dream she had was a comforting one,” he said.

“Indeed it was,” Craven nodded. “It allayed a lot of her fears. One tends to forget her young age. In many ways she is still a child, and like any child, she needs an encouraging word every now and then. She has been comforted.”

Wreath was close now, close enough to take the knife from his coat and plunge it into Craven's soft belly. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure everyone else was walking the other way. “Do you think our brothers and sisters are ready?” he asked.

“I think so,” Craven said. “Don't you?”

Wreath smiled at him. “I think they're dumb enough to do whatever they're told. How about you, Cleric Craven? Are you ready?”

“I am, Cleric Wreath. This is what we have been living our lives for, is it not?”

“True enough, I suppose.”

“Forgive me, but you don't look like a man whose dreams are about to come true.”

Wreath looked him right in the eyes, right in those soft, wet eyes that looked like drops of blue ink swimming in milk, and he let himself smile. “How about now, Craven? Now do I look like a man whose dreams are about to come true?”

He took the knife from his pocket and Craven saw it, stepped back, mouth open to scream, then there was a blur of white and Wreath ducked, barely avoiding the scythe that swooped towards his head. He raised his cane, blocking the scythe handle as the Cleaver spun, tried to stab with the knife but a boot came from nowhere, sent him pinwheeling back.

Craven had found his voice and he used it to scream for help. The Cleaver darted towards Wreath and he darted back, cursing himself for his impatience. He brought the shadows in around him and stepped through them to the next room, moving quickly, shadow-walking again to the other side of the walls, emerging into the morning sun. He ran, took off before they could follow him. He'd left a car out there for a quick escape, but even as he jumped in and gunned the engine, he realised he had only one place left to go – and it wasn't going to be pretty. Roarhaven never was.

He parked off Roarhaven's main street, if it really could be called that, and waited for the Bentley to show up. The town was small and withered and nasty, and the Sanctuary was big and grey and ugly. He was hungry, but he didn't dare step into the squalid café that jutted from the street beside him like an uneven tooth. Apart from all the obvious concerns regarding his personal safety, the place just didn't look
sanitary
.

An hour or so after his stomach first started rumbling, the Bentley swept by, and parked outside the Sanctuary. Wreath got out, wondered about the likelihood of Skulduggery Pleasant shooting him before he got halfway across the road, and then decided to shadow-walk over to them. The shadows curled around him, and when they dissipated, he was standing by the rear wheel as Valkyrie closed the passenger door.

“Now, before you do anything rash—” Wreath started, and she spun and hit him, cracked her knuckles painfully along his jaw. He went back a step, one hand to his face, nodding. “OK, that's fair, but before this gets out of control—”

Skulduggery jumped and slid across the roof of the Bentley, the heel of his shoe slamming into the side of Wreath's head. Valkyrie snapped her palm at the air and his cane flew from his grip. Wreath staggered, waving his hands.

“Please,” he gasped, “stop hitting me for five seconds.”

Valkyrie glanced at Skulduggery, who paused. Wreath spat blood and straightened up. “Thank you,” he said. “I've come to discuss—”

Skulduggery punched him and Wreath's head rocked back, and he dropped.

“There,” Skulduggery said as his consciousness left him. “That's five seconds.”

When Wreath opened his eyes, he was lying on the floor of a room in the Sanctuary with his hands shackled behind his back. Skulduggery sat on a chair with his legs crossed, looking down at him. Valkyrie stood beside him.

“Interesting,” Wreath said. “You haven't killed me.”

Skulduggery took off his hat, flicked something from the brim, and put it on his knee. “There's still time,” he said.

Wreath grunted slightly as he sat up without the use of his arms. Valkyrie waited till he was sitting straight, then stepped over and put her boot to his shoulder. “Very mature,” Wreath sighed as she tipped him over again. He lay with his face squashed against the floor. “But if this is how you want to conduct this conversation, it's fine. I am hardly in a position to argue.”

“You're damn right,” Valkyrie said. “You attacked me.”

“I did, I'm sorry. I didn't want to, but I did it. I hope I didn't hurt you too badly.”

“If I were you,” Skulduggery said, “I'd be more worried about your own state of discomfort.”

“Oh, I am, Skulduggery, believe me. My overriding concern right now is my own well-being. Which is why I'm here. I've come to make a deal. I can tell you where Melancholia is.”

Skulduggery's voice betrayed no hint of surprise. “Why would you want to?”

“Because she's going to ruin everything. Her and Craven. They're going to bring the Necromancer Order to its knees. They need to be stopped, and you're the only ones who can do it. Well, you and the rest of the Sanctuary agents, obviously.”

“So you suddenly want to stop the Passage?” Skulduggery asked.

“Stop it? Good God, no. The Passage is the only thing that will save the world. But Melancholia is not the one to bring it about. She's too unstable. She's too unpredictable. Does she have the potential to kill millions? Yes, probably. But billions? I doubt it. And unless three billion are killed in the same instant, it's not going to work. The only thing she'll accomplish is the pointless death of millions of innocent people.”

Valkyrie shook her head. “You've got some warped ideas of right and wrong, you know that? So you come running to us to clean up the mess you made? Why don't you guys handle it?”

“Because I'm the only one who can see the truth. The others, there aren't many but there are enough, have been blinded by Craven's words. I tried to take care of it without you, but my little assassination attempt didn't work out too well.”

“Then where is she?” Skulduggery asked.

Wreath smiled. “Not yet. First, you get the Council to agree to my terms.”

“There are no terms, Solomon. Tell us where she is.”

“I want my attack on Valkyrie and my involvement in events so far forgiven and forgotten.”

Skulduggery took his hat from his knee and uncrossed his legs as he sat forward. “You were planning the murder of three billion people.”

Wreath nodded. “And I'd like that to be forgotten about, please.”

“What do you think will come of this? We know what the Passage is now. Everyone does. You think it's going to go back to normal, with Necromancers left alone to scheme and plot? Temples are going to be torn down all over the world. It's over for all of you.”

“Not necessarily. I think it's still possible to blame this whole thing on one man.”

Skulduggery tilted his head. “Craven.”

“His mad ramblings have led to this,” Wreath said, displaying an impressive air of sadness. “He wilfully misinterpreted our sacred teachings. He warped what the Passage is truly about. Can we be held responsible for the actions of a madman? A fanatic?”

“You really think that act is going to work?” Valkyrie asked, frowning.

Wreath smiled up at her. “Why not? Everything that man has done reinforces what I've just said. He experimented on poor Melancholia. Brainwashed the poor girl. His insane ambition drove him to murder our kind and gentle High Priest, Auron Tenebrae. Tenebrae would never have condoned the actions he's taken. But Vandameer Craven is unlike anyone I've ever met before. He is magnetic. He makes you want to follow him into destruction and madness. I am ashamed to say that I, too, was under the spell of his fervour, his faith, and his charisma.”

Valkyrie blinked. “Charisma?”

“Yes.”

“Don't you think that's stretching it a little too far?”

“Do you think so?”

“Some people will have met him.”