Death Bringer (6 page)

“It sounds hard.”

“The good things in life always are. But you're not looking for love, are you? Of course you're not. What girl your age is? You want fun. You want someone… amazing. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been going out with Fletcher?”

“A year and a half, maybe.”

“If you care for him, and I know you care for him, you won't want to hurt him. But time passes and feelings deepen. And that's when the real hurt will set in. Are you taking him to the Ball?”

Valkyrie blinked. “The what?”

“The Requiem Ball, dear.”

“Oh. Um, I don't know. Am I even going? Skulduggery didn't say anything.”

“Of course you're going. You've saved the world, haven't you?”

“Well, yeah, but the Requiem Ball is to commemorate the end of the war with Mevolent, and I had nothing to do with
that
.”

“Do you really think you'd be allowed to miss it because of a trifling matter of
details
? If you don't go this year, you'll have to wait another ten years for it to come around again, and that would never do. Oh, you'll love it. The women dress in the most beautiful gowns, the men wear tuxedos and we dance the night away. It is quite the social highlight of the decade.”

“When you say ‘dance',” Valkyrie said, “you don't mean the way you'd dance at a nightclub, do you? Because that's the only kind of dancing I know how to do.”

“It's nothing extravagant,” China assured her. “A waltz or two. A tango. A minuet. Even a quadrille, if we're feeling debauched. We're going to have to get you into a gloriously decadent dress, I think, with gloriously decadent shoes that will make you even taller than you are now.”

Skulduggery knocked on the door, and China let him in. He was, as ever, impeccably dressed. “We were just talking about the Requiem Ball,” she said. “I assume the two of you are going?”

“Naturally,” Skulduggery replied, removing his hat.

“We are?” Valkyrie asked, clearly surprised. “You didn't tell me.”

“Did I not? How unlike me. Still, I simply couldn't deprive you of your chance to see me in a tuxedo. I wear it well, as you can imagine. Besides, it would be rude not to invite you. Technically, you own the venue where it's being held.”

“I what?”

“It used to be held in a mansion owned by the late Corrival Deuce,” China said, “but your dear uncle Gordon has offered us the use of his house instead. Or
your
house. Whichever it is.”

“Ah,” said Valkyrie. “Well, it's certainly big enough. I mean, it's got rooms I never go into. Will I have to do anything? Like stand at the door and welcome people, or…?”

“Nothing like that,” Skulduggery said, sounding amused. “You'll be treated as just another very important guest. There'll be nothing for you to worry about. And if all the smiling and small talk proves too much for you, you can always disappear into Gordon's study and read one of his books until everyone leaves.”

Finally, Valkyrie smiled. “OK. OK, yeah, I can do that.”

Skulduggery turned to China. “Back to business, though. Has Valkyrie spoken to you about what we're after?”

“You mean the person who set the Jitter Girls on you? I'm afraid I was of no assistance in the matter. I do, however, have other news you may not have heard. I was waiting for you to join us before I divulged.”

“Please,” Skulduggery said, “divulge.”

China gave the information a respectable pause. “The Necromancers have their Death Bringer.”

Valkyrie looked up sharply. “They what?”

“Who?” asked Skulduggery.

“Nothing has been announced yet,” China said, holding up her hands, “so nothing has been confirmed, but apparently one of the fledgling Necromancers has recently experienced the Surge. It must have unlocked some hitherto unknown reserves of power, because every Temple around the world is celebrating in typical Necromancer fashion. Very quietly, of course, with barely any smiles.”

Skulduggery looked at Valkyrie. “Do you have any idea who the Death Bringer could be?”

“Well, the only one I know of who was waiting for the Surge was Melancholia, but—”

“That's her,” China said. “That's her name. Melancholia St Clair.”

Valkyrie shook her head. “She's the Death Bringer? Wow. I mean… wow. Didn't see that coming. It's nice to be let off the hook and all, but… You're sure?”

“That's the rumour going around.”

“When did you hear?” Skulduggery asked.

“This morning. I was going to call to let you know, but I was a little… preoccupied.”

“We should go,” Skulduggery said. “We need to report this to the Elders.”

China smiled. “It must be such a relief, after all this time, to have two of your best friends on the Council.”

“It's a nice change,” Skulduggery admitted, “but really, I mostly go to mock the robes they wear. China, thank you very much. Valkyrie?”

Valkyrie nodded, Skulduggery put his hat back on and they left, shutting the door behind them.

Silence settled in the apartment once again, and China frowned. She usually liked silence, liked the solitude that accompanied it. But not recently. Recently, the solitude was starting to feel rather like loneliness, and that was not a feeling she was accustomed to.

She stood by the window until she saw Skulduggery and Valkyrie walk to the Bentley. She felt an irrational urge to rush after them, to continue their conversation, to help them formulate plans and strategies. But she didn't. That wasn't who she was. China didn't join people. People joined
her
. That was the simple, inalienable fact of her existence, and she'd been around for too long to change it now. How much of this sudden fear of being alone was due to the threat posed by Eliza Scorn, China didn't know. But the fact was, if she allowed the situation to worsen, she could very well lose the friendship of the two most important people in her life.

And then those same two people could very well come after her with murder on their minds.

Chapter 7
The Death Bringer

reath watched her, while the others fawned. She sat like she was delicate, as if a sudden move might snap her in two. She was pale, sickly. Her blond hair was limp, her face a network of small, raised scars. She was still the tall, skinny girl she'd always been, but there was something different about her, even Wreath had to admit that. There was something in the way she looked at the people around her. No longer the student, no longer the girl who opened doors and fetched the High Priest's meals. She was special. She was important. She was the most important person who would ever live.

Craven was loving it, of course. Over the past few months he had taken a personal interest in Melancholia's studies, which was distinctly unusual for a man who despised helping anyone other than himself. But here he was, shaking his head in an attempt to appear modest, the man who had recognised the potential and nursed the Death Bringer through her Surge. Wreath had hoped that
he
would have been the one to do that, to guide Valkyrie when she needed guidance the most. It was not to be, however. The honour had never been meant for him. But why, oh
why
, had it gone to someone like Craven?

“Here sits our saviour,” Cleric Quiver said from Wreath's elbow. Wreath hadn't even heard him approach.

“I suppose she does,” Wreath said. “I have to hand it to Craven, though – he saw something in Melancholia that I completely missed. I had always viewed her as somewhat… unexceptional.”

“As had I,” Quiver responded. “I fully expected young Valkyrie to be the one.”

Wreath raised an eyebrow. “You never told me that.”

“It's not my job to tell you things, Cleric Wreath.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you're a hard man to like?”

“My mother may have said something along those lines.”

“That doesn't surprise me in the slightest.”

“Not to put a dampener on the occasion, but does the Death Bringer appear…
weak
to you?”

“She looks tired,” said Wreath, nodding. “She looks drained. From what I've heard, it was an unusually long Surge. What do you think those scars are for?”

“Cleric Craven says they are protection sigils, to guard her from her own power.”

“Do you believe him?”

The ghost of a shrug was all Quiver offered. “Our tests have shown extreme spikes and drops in her power level,” he said. “It is quite conceivable that she could hurt herself if careless. You don't believe him, I take it?”

“I don't know, to be honest. I don't even know if it matters. If she gets the job done, who am I to complain? Have your tests told you when she'll be strong enough to initiate the Passage?”

“Every spike is stronger than the one preceding it. If she continues in this fashion, a few days. Maybe a week.”

“With our dear friend Cleric Craven holding her hand every step of the way,” Wreath said, allowing the distaste to creep into his voice. “Are you ready for the world to be a better place?”

“I never really liked this world all that much to begin with, so any change would be an improvement. And you? You've always seemed to like things the way they are.”

“I got used to it,” Wreath admitted. “But I've lived my entire life waiting for the Passage – I'm not going to bemoan the fact that we're finally about to get it. You know, I think this is the most we've ever talked, you and I. Why is that, do you think?”

Quiver shrugged. “Until this point, I confess that I was never sure if I liked you. Now I just don't care any more.”

Wreath smiled.

Chapter 8
Friends in High Places

oarhaven stood like a dirty inkblot on a nice clean page. A small town, barely even that, beside a dark and stagnant lake, it was hemmed in on two sides by steep banks of brown grasses. It had its main street and its offshoots, its houses and bars and grim-windowed shops. Sorcerers lived in this town, but only the truly bitter, the genuinely resentful. The outside world was a world gone wrong, a world of ignorant mortals with their squabbling ways. In the bars of Roarhaven, of which there were two, the citizens were known to whisper of some future time when the mortals would fall and the sorcerers rise. And when the drink gave them the courage, these whispers would grow louder, turn to muttered oaths punctuated by fists pounding on tabletops.

Change, they said, was coming.

Roarhaven, Valkyrie knew, was many things. One thing it was not, by any stretch of the imagination, was a tourist town. So when the Bentley passed a rental car stopped outside what passed for the town's corner shop, Valkyrie frowned.

“Pull over,” she said.

Skulduggery looked at her as they slowed. “Here?”

“I've seen how this place treats strangers. I just want to make sure we're not going to need Geoffrey Scrutinous to come in and smooth things over.”

The Bentley stopped and Valkyrie got out. Skulduggery continued on to the Sanctuary as she walked back to the rental car. A woman sat in the passenger seat. Three kids were squashed in behind. American accents.

She smiled at the woman, got a curt nod back, and then she entered the shop. A few newspapers on the racks. No magazines. Some food, confectioneries, stationery, a fridge with cartons of milk and ham slices, and a broad American man arguing over the counter with the tight-lipped shopkeeper.

Valkyrie smiled as she walked up. “Is there a problem?” she asked.

“This man won't leave me alone,” said the shopkeeper.

The American frowned at him. “I'm trying to buy something.”

The shopkeeper ignored him. “He just won't leave.”

The American turned to Valkyrie. “We came into this store—”

“It's not a store,” interrupted the shopkeeper, “it's a shop.”

“Fine,” the American growled. “We came into this
shop
ten minutes ago. My kids picked out what they wanted, brought them up to the counter to pay. This jerk stood there, right where he is now, looking up at the ceiling while we tried to get his attention.”

“I was ignoring them,” said the shopkeeper. “I had heard that if you ignore them, they go away. This one did not go away.”

“You're damn right I'm not going away. I'm a customer and you will serve me.”

The shopkeeper sneered. “We don't serve
your
kind here.”

“You don't serve Americans?”

“I don't serve mortals.”

The American raised his eyebrows at Valkyrie. “And then he starts with this nonsense.”

Valkyrie looked at the shopkeeper. “Wouldn't it be easier at this stage to just let him buy the stuff and leave?”

The shopkeeper shook his head. “You do that for one of them, you'll have to do it for all of them.”

“For all of who? There isn't anyone else waiting out there.”

“They'll hear about it, though.”

“Hear about it?” the American said. “Hear about this little shop in the middle of nowhere where I actually bought something? First of all, I don't even know where we are! Far as I can tell, it's not on any of our maps. I can find that dirty lake out there, but there's not supposed to be any freaky little town beside it.”

“If you didn't know there was anything here,” the shopkeeper said, “then how did you find us?”

“We're sightseeing.”

“Sightseeing,” the shopkeeper said, “or spying?”

“Spying? On you? Why the hell would we spy on you? You're a lunatic with a crummy little store who seems to have a pathological need to
not
sell anything to his customers.”

“I'm sorry,” said the shopkeeper, “I can't understand your ridiculous accent.”

“
My
accent?”

“It is quite silly.”

“So you can't understand me?”

“Not a word.”

“Then how did you understand
that
?”

“I didn't.”

“You didn't understand what I just said?”

“That's right.”

“You understood
that
, though.”

“Not at all.”

The American glowered. “I swear to God, I will reach across this counter and I will punch you right in the mouth.”

“Uh,” Valkyrie said, “I think we should all calm down a little. Sir, as you may have guessed, this isn't the friendliest town in the world. You go to any other town in the area, I can guarantee that you will be greeted with the biggest smiles you've ever seen. But they do things differently here.”

“We just stopped off for some soda for my kids. And I'm not leaving until this guy takes my money and gives me my change.”

“Please,” Valkyrie said to the shopkeeper, “take his money.”

The shopkeeper lowered his eyes to the money on the counter. His lip curling distastefully, he placed a finger on the note and dragged it to the till.

“You're a piece of work, you know that?” the American asked. The shopkeeper ignored him, and spilled a few coins on to the counter. With a sigh, he looked up. “Happy?”

The American stuffed the change in his pocket then picked up the drinks. “I heard the Irish were especially friendly.”

“That was before anyone ever came here,” the shopkeeper told him. “Now we're exactly as friendly as everyone else.”

The American narrowed his eyes, but managed to restrain himself from slipping further into the argument. “I'm going to walk out of here. Someone as rude as you, you're not worth my time.”

The shopkeeper didn't respond. He had gone back to looking up at the ceiling.

Valkyrie escorted the American to his car. “I'm really sorry about that,” she said. “I've been visiting this town for almost a year now, and they still don't like talking to me, either.”

Skulduggery walked over, a bright smile on his fake face. “Hello there!” he cried. “Everything OK?”

The American frowned suspiciously, but Valkyrie nodded to him. “Just the shopkeeper being rude again, that's all.”

“Ah,” Skulduggery said, “yes. Very rude man, that shopkeeper. All's well, though? No harm done? Excellent.” He crouched at the car window and looked in. “What a lovely family you have. What a charming family. They're all lovely. Except for that one.” His finger jabbed the glass. “That one's a bit ugly.”

The American stepped towards him. “What? What did you say?”

“Oh, don't worry, I'm sure his personality makes up for his face.”

Valkyrie jumped between them, keeping the American back. “He didn't mean it,” she said quickly. “My friend is not right in the head. He just says things. Bad things. I'm really very sorry. You should probably go.”

“Not before this creep gives my kid an apology.”

“Oh, God,” Valkyrie muttered.

“Have I offended you?” Skulduggery asked. “Oh, dear. I really am sorry.”

“Don't apologise to
me
,” the American snarled. “Apologise to my son.”

“Which one? The ugly one?”

“Whichever one you were talking about.”

“It was the ugly one,” Skulduggery confirmed.

“Stop calling my kid ugly!”

Valkyrie elbowed Skulduggery in the ribs. “Apologise this instant,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Of course,” Skulduggery said, and leaned down to the window. “I'm very sorry!” he said loudly so they could hear. “Sometimes I say things and I'm not aware that I'm saying them until it's too late. It's entirely my fault. My sincerest apologies for any offence caused.” He straightened up.

The American finally dragged his eyes off Skulduggery. “This,” he said, “is the nastiest town I've ever been to.”

“I couldn't agree with you more,” Valkyrie said.

He glared at Skulduggery one final time, then got into the rental car and drove off.

“What,” Valkyrie said, “was that?”

Skulduggery tilted his head. “What was what?”

“You called his kid ugly!”

“Did I?”

“It just happened twenty seconds ago!”

“Oh. I didn't notice, to be honest. My mind was elsewhere. I'm sure I was joking, though. And I'm sure he knew I was joking. It's all fine. It
was
an ugly kid, though. Did you see it? It's like it had two half-finished faces pushed together. Still, all that's in the past. I do hope they come back. They seemed nice. Come along.”

He walked towards the Sanctuary. Valkyrie hurried to catch up.

“Are you feeling OK?” she asked.

“Me?”

“You.”

“I suppose I'm feeling a little discombobulated. A little out of sorts. But I'm fine. I'll be fine. Why are we here?”

She frowned. “We're meeting with the Elders about Melancholia.”

He snapped his fingers. “Yes! Excellent. Good. So we are. Marvellous.”

The Bentley was parked outside an ugly building of concrete and granite. The Sanctuary was round and flat and low, and squatted beside the stagnant lake like someone had dropped it from a great height. It had one main entrance and three hidden exits. No windows. No paint. No frills. Inside it was just as frugal, stone walls and curving corridors flowing in a concentric pattern to the middle. Cleavers stood guard and sorcerers and officials went about their business. No matter the weather outside, it was always cold in the Sanctuary.

The Administrator met them when they entered. “Detectives Pleasant and Cain, the Council is waiting for you.”

Skulduggery nodded. “Lead the way, Tipstaff.”

Tipstaff nodded politely. They followed him on a bisecting route through the ever-decreasing circles of corridors, straight to the Round Room at the building's core.

Pictures of dead Elders lined the walls, salvaged from the gloom by small spotlights. Three large chairs, like thrones, were placed in the middle of the room, and on those thrones sat the Elders. Ghastly Bespoke sat to the left, the light playing on the ridges of the scars that covered his entire head. In the middle sat Grand Mage Erskine Ravel, a handsome man with beautiful eyes and the slyest smile Valkyrie had ever seen, and on the right sat Madame Mist, a Child of the Spider, who looked at them through her veil. Out of all three Elders, she was the only one who didn't seem to mind the robes they had to wear.

“Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain seek an audience with the Council,” Tipstaff announced, bowing before them. “Does the Council acquiesce?”

Ghastly sighed. “Is this really necessary?”

Tipstaff looked up. “Protocol must be followed, Elder Bespoke.”

“But they're our friends.”

“That may be so, yet rules exist to guard us from chaos. This is a new Sanctuary, and protocol must be established and followed.”

“So we sit up here on these bloody thrones,” Ravel said, “and they stand down there? We can't walk around or, I don't know, grab a coffee while we talk?”

“If you want coffee, I'll be more than happy to bring you some, Grand Mage.”

“I don't want coffee,” Ravel grumbled. “Fine. OK. We'll follow the rules. Skulduggery, Valkyrie, sorry about this.”

“No need to apologise,” Skulduggery said. “The whole situation is highly amusing, believe me. I like your robes, by the way.”

“I tried to redesign them,” Ghastly muttered, “but apparently, that's not allowed, either.”

Tipstaff said nothing.

Madame Mist didn't move an inch as she spoke. “Now that the quaint small talk has been dispensed with, perhaps the detectives could tell us what they came to see us about – something to do with Melancholia St Clair, no doubt.”

Skulduggery hesitated. “You've heard, then.”

“We have,” said Ravel. “What do we know about her?”

“She's a few years older than me,” Valkyrie said. “Not much more than a low-level student. She's spent her life in the Temple, reading the books and practising how to sound really pretentious when she talks. I don't think anyone expected her to suddenly become so powerful. Wreath didn't. Tenebrae didn't.”

Ghastly moved in his seat, trying to get comfortable. “Is she trouble?”

“She's nothing but a Necromancer,” Mist said in her soft voice. “All this talk of the Death Bringer is a waste of our time. Darquesse is the true danger. We should be focusing our energies on finding and killing her before she has a chance to strike.”

“The Necromancers should not be dismissed so casually,” Skulduggery said as Valkyrie looked away.

“I agree,” Ghastly nodded. “If Valkyrie had turned out to be the Death Bringer, we could have kept a close eye on things. That would have been ideal. But now that there's an actual Necromancer in that position, we lose that advantage.”