Death Bringer (34 page)

Chapter 51
Flirting Disastrously

eople were dancing and chatting, talking business and politics and history, drinking wine and champagne and toasting fallen comrades. The house had been transformed from the quiet, safe place that Valkyrie came to when she needed respite to a glamorous ballroom of extravagance. As much as she appreciated the change, there was a part of her that couldn't wait for the people to clear out and normality to return.

She waited until Gordon's latest audience had moved away, and then she approached him before anyone else had a chance. “Enjoying yourself ?” she asked.

“Immensely,” Gordon said, beaming when he saw her. “I'd never met most of these people when I was alive, but I'd heard about them. I'd heard all the stories, all the legends. Some of these people, quite literally, saved the world.”

“Pretty impressive.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Don't be sarcastic.”

“I'm not,” she laughed.

“For someone like you, who actually
has
saved the world, such a feat might lose some of its romance. But for me, a dead writer who just
wrote
about these things? It is still quite remarkable.”

“And humbling?”

“Well, maybe not humbling. I'd like to see any of these people write a best-selling novel.
Then
I'd be impressed.”

“Are you getting any ideas for more books?”

“My head is filled with ideas. If I weren't hosting this shindig, I'd be composing words right this second. I swear, I haven't talked to this many fascinating people since I made a surprise appearance at my fan club meeting. Do you think they're enjoying it? Is there enough wine?”

“There's plenty of wine, and those little canopies are lovely.”

“Canapés, my dear.”

“They're a bit small, though.”

“They're meant to be small.”

“They'd be more satisfying if they were bigger.”

“I think you're slightly missing the point of canapés.”

“But all in all, yeah, everyone seems to be enjoying themselves.”

“I thought I'd find you here,” Skulduggery said, walking over. “I assume your detective instincts kicked in and you were going to ask your uncle about those men with the guns…?”

“Of course,” Valkyrie nodded. “Gordon. The morons in the masks. How did they get in?”

“Ah,” Gordon said, his face clouding, “now that I do not know. As you can imagine, there aren't many catering companies who specialise in events like this, but I was assured every person working tonight was discreet and had experience. I've had someone trying to get through to the planner, but no luck so far.”

Valkyrie shrugged at Skulduggery. “I have been unable to find a clue.”

“You're a wonderful detective,” he sighed. “Are you ready for Round Two? There are still plenty of people who want to meet you.”

“There's more?” she whined. “But my face is tired from smiling.”

“I never said you had to smile. I never smile.”

“You're a skeleton. You're always smiling.”

“Not inside. Inside it's a scowl. I think there are also one or two young men who would like to ask you to dance. And now that you're not with Fletcher any more…”

She narrowed her eyes. “What young men?”

“You were talking to both of them a few minutes ago. Hidalgo Bolt and Geraint Mizzle.”

“Really? Hidalgo? He's kind of cute, I suppose. And when you say young men… what ages are they?”

“Hidalgo is, I don't know… He might be in his fifties.”

She stepped back. “Oh gross!”

Skulduggery's head tilted. “Charming. Geraint's younger, if that's any use to you. He's in his twenties.”

“That the lanky guy with the frizzy hair? He didn't exactly come across as overly confident, did he? Or co-ordinated. How'd he get an invitation?”

“He didn't. His mother brought him. She wants me to help set you up with him.”

Valkyrie glared. “Don't you dare.”

“I happen to think that you'd get on very well with Geraint. I doubt he'd speak much, which would suit you down to the ground because then you can just talk without fear of interruption.”

“Oh, I'm not denying that, on paper, he sounds like my perfect man, but there is no way in hell that's going to happen. Tell his mummy no.”

“She'll be heartbroken.”

“I don't care.”

“She had such high hopes for you two.”

“Stop joking about this, I swear to God.”

“Gordon, what do you think? You think she should at least dance with Geraint?”

“What harm could it do?” Gordon asked.

“Great harm,” Valkyrie said. “Huge harm. Let's face it, if he dances with me when I'm wearing this dress and looking like this, he's going to fall in love with me.”

Gordon laughed, and clapped his hands. “Yes, he is, my dear.”

“I don't mean to be cocky,” she said, “but it's inevitable, right?”

Skulduggery nodded. “Can't argue with you there.”

“And the fact is, I don't need another guy telling me how great I am. I know how great I am. I'm me. And, to be honest, I'm finding it fairly weird that you're suggesting this so casually when the guy is, like, ten years older than I am. Aren't you supposed to be advising me
against
older men?”

“This is very true,” Gordon said. “And you're absolutely right. This Geraint is far too old. You're to stay away from that boy.”

Valkyrie frowned. “And now suddenly he seems so much hotter.”

“Typical teenage girl,” Skulduggery said, “wanting what she can't have.”

“So now
you're
saying I can't have him? My God, Geraint Mizzle is the hottest guy I've ever known.”

Skulduggery swept his hand towards the crowd. “Then go to him. Dance and fall in love.”

“Ah,” she said, shrugging, “maybe later.”

Hansard Kray came over, nodding to all of them. Valkyrie found herself standing a little straighter. “Pardon the interruption,” he said.

“Not at all,” Gordon replied, grinning. “Having a good night, are we? Do you like the music? It's certainly music made to be danced to, isn't it?”

Valkyrie glared at Gordon, but he ignored her.

“It is,” Hansard said, “and the night has been wonderful, thank you very much for inviting us. I was wondering, though, if any of you had seen my father.”

Gordon looked more disappointed than Valkyrie actually felt. “Oh,” he said. “No, I'm sorry, I haven't.”

“He's had too much to drink,” Hansard said, blushing slightly. “I'm afraid he might be wandering the house, insulting anyone he meets.” He looked at Valkyrie. “I do apologise for the things he said. Please know that if you
had
hit him, I would have understood.”

She smiled. “That's good to know. I could help you look for him, if you want.”

“You would?” he said, relieved. “Oh, thank you very much. If you could search those rooms over there, I'll search these rooms over here, and between us we should find him.”

He smiled again, and hurried off. Valkyrie frowned.

“I never thought I'd see the day,” Skulduggery said. “A boy who can resist the charms of Valkyrie Cain.”

“Shut up,” she growled, walking off. He followed.

“He's seventeen, you know,” he said. “From what I can gather, a thoroughly nice lad.”

“I don't care.”

“I don't know much about him, not really. His family keeps to themselves.”

“That's nice.” They walked from room to room.

“From what little I do know, however, he
does
like girls, if that's what you're worried about.”

“I'm not worried about it. Why should I be worried about it? I don't even care. I don't even know the guy. Why are you so intent on setting me up with someone all of a sudden? Haven't I made enough of a mess of this kind of thing already?”

“You have,” Skulduggery conceded. “But everyone needs a hobby.”

They moved towards raised voices, sliding through the gathered onlookers to see Arthur Dagan pinned to the ground by a small man with glasses.

“Caste,” Skulduggery said, “let him up.”

The small man shook his head. “Every time I let him up he flings himself at someone else.”

“I'll kill you!” Arthur warbled, his face smushed into the floor. “I'll kill you all!”

“I'll take responsibility for him,” Skulduggery said. “Let him up, if you would.”

Caste sighed, and stood away. Arthur struggled to his hands and knees.

“Before you stand,” Skulduggery said, “know this. If you attack anyone, I'll call in the Rippers. They'll lock you up for the night and they won't be gentle about it. When you stand, we will escort you to your car, and then your son can drive you home. If you agree to this, stand. If you don't, you may as well lie back down.”

Arthur glared, then stood. “Very well,” he said. “But I can walk to my car without your assistance.” He swayed dangerously, and Skulduggery took his arm before he fell. “Unhand me!”

“Don't be stupid,” Skulduggery said. Valkyrie walked on Arthur's other side as they moved to the front of the house, but didn't help. She didn't think he'd appreciate it.

“The Requiem Ball,” Arthur said, spitting out the words. “Just another excuse to meet up and be smug and superior. If we had won, we wouldn't hold a gloating party.”

“If you had won,” said Skulduggery, “we'd all be dead, yourself included.”

“You don't know what you're talking about. You're a heathen.”

“I was closer to the Faceless Ones than you could ever hope to be, Arthur. I was trapped with them for almost a year, and do you know what I learned in that year? That your gods are just as petty and spiteful and small as anyone I've ever met.”

“Your bones will burn for your insolence!” Arthur said, outraged. He tugged his arm free, would have toppled were it not for Valkyrie. He recoiled from her touch, and sneered. “And you, the god-killer. How do you think you'd fare against the Faceless Ones without the Sceptre of the Ancients, eh? Do you think it would be quite so easy to murder them now that your weapon has been destroyed?”

“No,” she said, frowning at him. “Obviously not.”

“The Dark Gods shall rise again,” Arthur promised loudly, and vomited. Both Valkyrie and Skulduggery pulled away instantly.

“Aw,” Arthur said, looking down at himself.

“You're disgusting,” Valkyrie told him.

“I don't feel well,” Arthur said, and burped.

Skulduggery's hand closed around Arthur's upper arm, and he shepherded him out into the night air.

“You found him!” Hansard said, running up behind.

The valet brought the car round, and Skulduggery and Hansard managed to bundle Arthur in. “We will have our revenge,” Arthur vowed from the back seat.

“Not tonight you won't,” Skulduggery said, slamming the door.

Hansard stood and shook his head. “I knew it would be a mistake coming here,” he said. “But my father said it was important. He said we had to attend. It's probably an honour thing or something. Although he doesn't
look
very honourable right now.”

Valkyrie peered at Arthur through the window, and winced. “I think he threw up again.”

“Typical,” Hansard said. “Well, thank you both for your help.” He shook Skulduggery's hand, then Valkyrie's. “I hope to see you again.”

“I'd like that,” Valkyrie smiled.

“Until next time,” Hansard said, “when hopefully, you won't have my father's vomit in your hair.”

Valkyrie's eyes widened and she dropped her head forward, saw a strand of hair with something dripping off it, and shrieked. Skulduggery quickly passed her a handkerchief. She wrapped it around the strand and scrubbed, then she flung the handkerchief to the ground and flicked her hair away from her face. When she looked up, Hansard was already driving away.

She glared at Skulduggery. “You could have told me!”

“I was waiting for a good time.”

“There is never a good time to tell a girl she has sick in her hair!”

“And that is what I learned tonight,” he said, nodding.

Valkyrie looked at the departing tail lights. “Whenever he thinks of me,” she moaned, “this is what he'll think of. He won't think of me totally owning this dress. He'll think of me with sick in my hair.”

“What does it matter to you?” Skulduggery asked. “You don't care, do you? You don't even know him.”

“Don't use my words against me,” she grumbled. “I hate when you do that.”

Chapter 52
All Fall Down

elancholia opened her eyes. “I'm ready,” she said.

Craven took a moment to appear serene, and nodded. “Kill them without pain,” he said gently. “They are not our enemies, not really. They are merely ignorant. Kill them, take their lives, grow ever stronger. Then the Passage can begin.”

She lowered her head. Craven made sure that when he stepped behind another Necromancer, he did so very discreetly. If the others thought that he was even the slightest bit wary of Melancholia's new ability, they could lose faith in his leadership.

“I can feel them above us,” Melancholia murmured. “Almost three hundred lives. So, so bright.”

Craven managed to get to the far side of the cellar, and stayed by the steps. If he saw any Necromancer in this room fall, he was ready to bolt.

“There are others outside,” Melancholia continued, “but I'm leaving them for now.”

“Focus on taking the lives of the people in the house,” Craven called over. “And try not to kill our own people upstairs.” He said that with a smile, but his insides were fluttering.

Melancholia took a deep breath.

Ghastly saw someone in the crowd and frowned. He moved to her, took hold of her arm, turned her so he could see her face. “What are you doing here?”

“Mingling,” Eliza Scorn replied, smiling. “I'm not allowed to mingle?”

“I wasn't aware you were on the guest list.”

“I'm owed favours,” she said. “And I have friends. I have so many friends. I even have friends that you think are
your
friends. Are you having a good night?”

“You should leave.”

“But the party's just getting…”

She stopped talking, frowned and swayed, and Ghastly's vision dimmed. All around him people were dropping. Scorn fell and Ghastly's strength left him, the ground came up to meet him and then everything went dark.

Melancholia sighed. She kept her eyes closed and didn't say anything. She didn't have to. Craven and everyone else in the room could feel the death seeping down towards them.

“Magnificent,” somebody breathed, and Craven had to agree. To experience the sudden death of that many people in the same instant was a rare treat – but one that would soon be dwarfed into insignificance by the death of half of the world's population.

“Now,” Craven said, “we're ready for the Passage.”

Broad smiles broke out, and laughter. Hands were shaken and backs were slapped. A joyous occasion, indeed. The culmination of everything they had worked for their entire lives. Craven barged through them, back to Melancholia. It was important to be seen close to her at a time like this. Such things are remembered, after all. Who was standing next to whom. Who gave the orders. Who took the credit.

Before he got to her, he heard running footsteps, then one of the Necromancers he had posted outside the door appeared at the top of the stairs. “Rippers!” he cried. “They're coming!”

“Hold them off !” Craven shouted, chopping an invisible line across the basement with his hand, then sweeping it forward. “Go! Hold them off !”

The Necromancers on the losing side of the invisible line stared at him, wide-eyed.

“I command it!” he roared.

They looked at each other, and then one of them moved, and then another, and then they were rushing up the stairs to their deaths.

Once they were out, he slammed the door after them, catching a glimpse of his brethren, their shadows hesitant and wavering, stumbling towards the sickle-waving Rippers. He locked the door to their screams, and half-stumbled down the steps.

Six Necromancers remained down here, plus the White Cleaver and Craven himself, all looking towards Melancholia, who sat with her head down, the hood covering her face, making it impossible for Craven to judge her mood. If any kind of a pattern had emerged, her mental instability would have grown along with her power, and he didn't want to be on the receiving end the next time she lashed out. He motioned to the Necromancer nearest him.

“Solus,” he said. “Make sure the Death Bringer is able to stand.” Solus stared at him. “Me?”

“Do not make me repeat my instructions,” Craven said tartly, making sure he stood beside the White Cleaver.

Solus hesitated, then took a step, and another, until he stood before Melancholia.

“Um,” he said. “Death Bringer? Are you, uh… Are you OK? Do you need anything?”

Melancholia didn't look up. Outside the door, there were more screams and howls of pain.

“Only,” Solus continued, “we don't have an awful lot of time, and… and we really need you to initiate the Passage at your earliest convenience.”

“Are you telling me what to do?” came Melancholia's soft voice from beneath the hood.

Craven watched Solus go pale. “No,” he whispered. “I'd never presume to…” His words failed him, and he stood there, and a tear actually rolled down his cheek.

Melancholia's shoulders rose and fell in a weary sigh. “Oh, Solus,” she said.

“Please don't kill me,” Solus said.

Melancholia stood up slowly. “But your death will add to my strength.”

“Please, I want to stay alive.”

“You're a Necromancer. You're meant to embrace death.”

“I… I don't embrace it… I'm scared of it…”

“I know you are. I know you all are. Which tells me that none of you truly understands.” She took her hood down, and when she opened her eyes to look at the gathered Necromancers, they were glowing red. “You're hypocrites. All of you. You talk of the stream of life and death, you talk of the beauty of it. But the true beauty is to become part of it, to flow from this existence into the next. Yet the Passage is meant to block the stream. Why?”

Craven forced himself to step forward and inject some authority into his voice. “Melancholia,” he said, hoping no one noticed how high-pitched he sounded, “these are philosophical discussions best left to the scholars in the classrooms. You have fulfilled your potential at such a young age that you have not yet had the opportunity to see these arguments resolved. Therefore, you must trust in our judgement and wisdom that this course of action is best for everyone.”

Melancholia smiled at him. “And yet, Cleric Craven, I do not trust in your judgement
or
your wisdom.”

The strength flowed from Craven's legs, but by some miracle he remained upright.

“The Passage is an idea concocted by the small-minded,” Melancholia continued. “The great irony is that the sorcerers who fear death the most are the sorcerers who claim to understand it the fullest. The Necromancer Order is an Order of hypocrisy and fear and ignorance. You have no right to speak of death the way you do, because you so obviously cling to stale ideas of immortality. Truly, I feel sad for you.”

Craven felt the eyes of every Necromancer on him, but he couldn't speak. His mouth was dry and his tongue was far too thick to form words.

“Which leaves me with a problem,” Melancholia said. “I have all this power, but nothing to do with it.”

“You must initiate the Passage,” Solus said. A shadow snaked up behind him and skewered him through the neck. He fell, gurgling blood. Melancholia didn't even look round.

“The Passage will destroy the stream,” she said, “and I have no wish to banish death. All I want to do is share it with as many people as I can.”

Craven frowned. “What?”

“Once you experience it, you will understand. This is not something you can learn about in old books. It's not something you can comprehend through philosophical debate. You need to become part of the stream. All of you.”

Craven backed away. “Us?”

“You. Everyone for miles around. Maybe even the whole country. And when this country is dead, I'll move to the next. I'll bring death to everyone. Then you'll see how beautiful it really is.”

Craven was so scared that he was actually relieved when the door burst open and the Rippers stormed in.

Three Necromancers panicked so much they found themselves charging towards the sickle-wielding maniacs. Swift swishes of those long blades cut them down mid-step, with only one of them having the time to make a sound. Craven grabbed the White Cleaver, pushed him towards them.

“Save me!” he screeched. “Protect me!”

The White Cleaver needed no further instruction. He dived into their midst, his scythe flashing.

Craven stumbled back with Adrienna Shade, doing his best to keep her in front of him. Melancholia strode across the floor to them, smiling.

“Shall we depart?” she asked, her hands on their arms, and the shadows swirled around them and then they were in darkness and gloom, away from the sounds of fighting. They were down below, in the caves. Shade tore herself from Melancholia's touch, turned and ran. Melancholia laughed and sent a shadow to slice through her back. Shade collapsed and Melancholia smiled at Craven. “You're not going to run from me, are you?”

“No,” Craven managed to say.

“I need somewhere quiet if I want to kill a country, and I need someone to look out for me while I do it.”

“I'd… I'd be honoured. But we need to keep moving. There are creatures down here who feed on magic, and if the Rippers find us…”

“I wouldn't worry about the Rippers or the monsters,” she laughed. “If I were you, I'd worry about Skulduggery Pleasant.”

Craven stared at her. “He isn't dead?”

“Oh, he's dead, but it's the same dead as always. He and Valkyrie weren't in the crowd when I took all those lives. I'd say they're looking for us as we speak. Come.”

She turned, led the way through the tunnel.

She was going to kill him. There was no way round it – Melancholia was going to kill him, and she wasn't trying to hide it. Craven knew what his options were. He could run, but he doubted he'd get very far, or he could fight, but that option scared him even more than running. He knew what Solomon Wreath would do in his place. He would bide his time, wait until Melancholia was distracted, and then he'd attack. It would be short, sharp and brutal. She'd be dead before she knew what had happened. That's what Wreath would do, and he wouldn't hesitate, either. He'd have that assurance he was always so good at wielding.

Craven didn't have that level of assurance, though. He was afraid he'd panic, misjudge the attack, or miss the moment. And then what would happen? She'd turn to him, laugh at his pathetic attempt, and with a casual flick of the wrist, she'd tear him apart.

His eyes came to rest on the back of Melancholia's head as she walked. If Wreath was with him, it would have been over by now. Melancholia would be lying dead on the ground, and they'd go back to looking for a Death Bringer they could control. But Craven was alone, and it was up to him to save himself. He raised his hands, feeling the power in his amulet ready to burst forth. His tongue slid over his dry lips. The ground levelled off and Melancholia walked in a straight line, like she was inviting him to try it.

What if she
was
inviting him? And what if he missed?

Head pounding in his chest, Craven lowered his trembling hands. He couldn't risk it. He couldn't risk making the attempt and failing. He couldn't risk angering her. For all he knew, maybe she'd decided that she needed him around to look out for her. Maybe she wasn't going to kill him after all.

Melancholia looked at him over her shoulder, and he saw the smile on her lips and in her eyes, which were still glowing with that deep, deep red.