Death Bringer (4 page)

“Take our daughter,” Valkyrie's dad said, waving his hand airily. “We have another one now.”

Valkyrie laughed, leading Fletcher through the crowd. They left the church and walked round the corner. When they were sure they weren't being watched, Fletcher turned to her, kissed her, and the moment their lips touched, they teleported. The church and the grass and the sunshine vanished, replaced by a cottage being lashed by rain.

Valkyrie broke off the kiss instantly and leaped sideways to the Bentley, which was under the cover of a tree. Fletcher joined her.

“The sun is splitting the stones in Haggard,” she said, glaring. “Don't you think staying dry will be kind of important for when we teleport back?”

“You make a good point,” Fletcher conceded. “See, there's a reason why you're the girl and I'm the boy. You think about things, while I…”

“Don't?”

“Exactly,” he said happily.

Skulduggery walked towards them from the cottage, his gloved hand raised to divert the rain around him. His suit was impeccable, his hat cocked just right. His face was sallow-skinned, but as he neared he tapped the two symbols etched into his collarbones, and his features flowed away, revealing the skull beneath. “Sorry to pull you away,” he said to Valkyrie.

She shrugged. “I was there for the christening itself. Once that's done with, it's just a family get-together, and Christmas is enough for me. Is the old lady home?”

“I knocked on windows and doors, but there's no answer,” he said. “We'll have to let ourselves in.” Fletcher held out his hands, but Skulduggery shook his head. “Relying on teleportation is making us lazy, so we're going to do this the old-fashioned way. Valkyrie, would you mind keeping the rain off ?”

He turned, started walking back to the cottage. Valkyrie hurried after him, raising her arms, moving the air into a shield.

“You should really get used to manipulating water instead of relying on air all the time,” he told her. “One of these days you're going to wish you'd practised more. There's very little point in being an Elemental sorcerer if you only use two elements.”

“But air and fire are the handiest,” she said, pretending to whine. “Manipulating moisture just doesn't grab me that way. And as for earth…” She trailed off.

They reached the front door and Skulduggery knelt, working the lock pick. Fletcher stood behind Valkyrie, trying to avoid the raindrops that got through her defence.

“And yet,” Skulduggery said, “your Necromancy lessons are continuing without interruption, are they not?”

“Well, yeah, but I
need
more lessons in Necromancy because Solomon isn't as good a teacher as you are.” He looked at her and she grinned, then shrugged. “Besides, most of the training I do with you these days is combat. I'll get the Elemental stuff back on track, I promise.”

Skulduggery grunted. Ever since Tanith Low had been lost to a Remnant, he had changed what he'd been teaching Valkyrie. There was no way she'd be able to match Tanith's speed and agility, so going up against her using pure martial arts would end in disaster. The new stuff she'd been learning was ugly, brutal and effective – combatives, not martial arts. It had taken Valkyrie a while to adjust, but the threat of Tanith's return had spurred her on. A rematch was inevitable, she knew, so when she did go up against Tanith again, she was making damn sure that it wasn't going to be on Tanith's terms.

The lock clicked, and Skulduggery stood up and opened the door, then poked his head in. “Hello? Mrs Maguire? Anyone home?” He waited. No answer. He stepped inside, Valkyrie following. His hair suddenly in danger of getting wet, Fletcher hopped in after her. Aside from the steady rhythm of the rain, the cottage was quiet. It was orderly, and smelled of old person. Valkyrie took another step and the ring on her right hand grew colder.

“Someone's dead in here,” she whispered.

Stepping slowly and carefully, they entered the living room, where small porcelain figurines lined every surface and an old woman sat in an armchair, very dead.

Skulduggery took out his gun.

“Wait a second,” Fletcher said, his eyes widening. “Look at her. This was natural causes. She was old. Old people die. That's what old people do.”

Skulduggery shook his head. “There was someone else here.”

He motioned them to stay put, and left the room. Fletcher looked at Valkyrie searchingly, but all she could do was shrug. After a few moments, Skulduggery came back in and put his gun away.

“How do you know there was someone else here?” she asked.

He nodded behind him as he took a small bag of rainbow dust from his pocket. “Notice the figurines. Horrible little things, aren't they? Little cherubs, cheap and tasteless. See how they're so lovingly arranged, evenly spaced, all looking outwards? Now look at the ones beside you.”

Valkyrie looked down. Fat little figurines, holding harps and little bows and arrows, were positioned haphazardly along the edge of the cabinet. “They fell,” she said, “and someone put them back in a hurry. Someone who didn't care enough to face them all in the same direction.”

Skulduggery broke up the lumps in the powder. He took a pinch and threw it into the air. It fell gently in a small cloud, changing colour as it did so. “Adept magic was used,” he murmured. “Hard to tell what sort. But it was recent.”

“How recent?” Valkyrie asked.

Skulduggery put the bag away. “The last ten minutes.”

Fletcher glanced over his shoulder. “So the attacker could still be in the area?”

Skulduggery took out his gun again. “Always a possibility.”

Valkyrie patted Fletcher's arm. “Don't worry,” she said. “If the bad man comes, I'll protect you.”

“If the bad man comes,” Fletcher responded, “I'll bravely give out a high-pitched scream to distract him. I may even bravely faint, to give him a false sense of security. That will be your signal to strike.”

“We make a great team.”

“Just don't forget to stand in front of me the whole time,” he said, and then yelled. Valkyrie jumped and Skulduggery whirled, and Fletcher pointed at the window. “Outside!” he blurted. “Bad man! Outside!”

Skulduggery charged, thrust his hand against the air and the window exploded outwards. He jumped through, Valkyrie and Fletcher right behind him. The rain pelted them, made the ground muddy. A bald man in black slipped on the trail that led into the woods, fell to his hands and knees. He cast a quick glance behind him. He had a long nose and a ridiculous goatee beard that ended in wispy trails far below his chin. He fumbled with something they couldn't see, and then sprang up. He slipped and slid, but kept on running, leaving a wooden box open on the ground behind him.

“Back,” Skulduggery said. “Back inside the house. Move!”

Valkyrie went first, vaulted through the broken window, landing just as Fletcher teleported in. Skulduggery came last, flattening himself against the wall.

“Hide,” he whispered.

They ducked down.

The rain battered the cottage. Valkyrie risked a look up at Skulduggery.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“It's a box,” he whispered back.

“What kind of box?”

“A wooden one.”

She gave him a look. “OK, I'll try this. Why are we hiding from a box?”

“We're not. We're hiding from what's
inside
the box.”

“What's in the box?”

“Is it a head?” Fletcher asked.

“It's the Jitter Girls.”

He peeked out. Valkyrie raised herself up slightly so she could see over the windowsill. The wooden box sat there on the trail in the mud and the rain.

“Who are the Jitter Girls?” she asked.

“Triplets,” Skulduggery said. “Born in 1931. When they were six years old, something tried to get into this world through them.”

“
Through
them?”

“It planted seeds in their minds, changed them mentally and physically. It dragged them just out of step with our reality, tried to make them a conduit through which it could emerge.”

“What are we talking about here?” Fletcher asked. “A Faceless One?”

“No,” Skulduggery said, “I don't think so. This was something else. Their parents panicked. Doctors couldn't help. Remember, this was Ireland in the 1930s, cut off and isolated from a world that was advancing around it. Everyone thought the children were possessed by the devil. They tried exorcism after exorcism, but the girls just got worse. Then I was called.”

“Could you help?” Valkyrie asked. She took another peek. The box was still just a box.

“They were too far gone,” Skulduggery said. “They spent a year in agony, twisting and squealing while strapped to their beds in the asylum.”

“Good God.”

“Their parents came in every single day. They'd sing to them. Nursery rhymes and old Irish songs. There was nothing I could do. The thing, whatever it was that was using them, I think it realised its plan wasn't going to work. So it retreated. It went away, left them alone. They died soon after.”

“That's terrible.”

“It is.”

“And so how are they in that box out there?”

Skulduggery shrugged. “They came back, didn't they? Any poor soul tortured like that isn't going to rest easy. They have too much pain to deal with by themselves, so they need to spread it around. That's what I think, anyway. The truth is nobody knows why they came back, or why they started killing people. But that's what happened.”

“And they're in the box because…?”

“Everyone needs a home.”

“I see. I'm not altogether sure, though, why we're hiding from them. If they can fit into that small box, how dangerous can they be?”

“It looks like you're going to see for yourself,” Skulduggery said, his voice dropping back to a whisper.

Valkyrie peeked.

Impossibly, a pale hand emerged from the box. It trembled slightly as it lengthened, and it was an arm now, that curled. The hand gripped the edge of the box.

She ducked down.

“What's happening?” Fletcher asked.

“They're climbing out,” Valkyrie said dumbly.

“If they're as dangerous as you say they are,” Fletcher said to Skulduggery, “then let's go. Let's get out of here.”

“They need to be contained,” Skulduggery said. “That's why the killer brought them, to cover his escape. We can't leave – there's no telling what they'd do if they were allowed to roam free.”

Valkyrie took another look. At first, she thought there was something wrong with her eyes. A girl climbed out of the box. A little blonde six-year-old, wearing a white dress with a bow, moving like bad animation. She was stiff, jerky, missing out the smooth motion between the lifting of the foot and the placing it down as she walked. There was no other word for it. She
jittered
.

Behind her, another pale hand emerged. “How do we fight them?” asked Valkyrie softly. “I don't know,” Skulduggery said. “Fletcher. Go see China. She must have
something
in her books about fighting these things.”

Fletcher shook his head. “I'm not leaving.”

“It wasn't a request.”

“Then come with me,” Fletcher said. “Valkyrie, at least. I'm not leaving her here.”

Valkyrie turned to him. “Yes you are. Go. Be quick.”

He grabbed her. “I'm not—”

She took his hand off her. “We don't have time to argue. Do it. Go.”

He stared at her, torn, then narrowed his eyes. “I'll be right back.”

“I'll be waiting.”

He didn't even kiss her – he just vanished.

Valkyrie turned back to the window. “Hell,” she breathed.

All three Jitter Girls were out, and all three were walking towards the cottage.

Chapter 4
Craven

raven walked into the High Priest's office with his head bowed.

“Late again, Cleric?” said Auron Tenebrae, High Priest of the Order, Patriarch of this Temple and a man with a gaze so withering the sun itself dared not show its face when he was in one of his moods. Or so the legend went. “This is the third time this week. If our little meetings are too much of an imposition for you, please let it be known and we will surely reschedule around your most arbitrary of whims.”

Craven bowed again. “My deepest apologies, Your Eminence. I have no excuse for my tardiness, other than I work without cease for the good of the Order.”

“And I'm sure we appreciate it,” Tenebrae said, already sounding bored.

Craven bowed so low his back hurt. He hated the High Priest, hated the distaste that flowed from him daily. A constant stream of snide remarks over the years, collecting in a vast reservoir inside Craven's mind that he was never going to forget, and was certainly never going to forgive. No matter the flattery he offered, the compliments, the fawning, all he got in return was this river of barely concealed contempt. The worst of it was that Tenebrae made no effort to confine this contempt to moments when they were alone. Standing at the High Priest's shoulder was Nathanial Quiver, Cleric First Class of the Necromancer Order, stringent Keeper of the Law and a man who seemingly possessed no facial muscles that would enable him to smile. Any such muscles, Quiver probably thought, would be put to better use on a good frown.

“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.