Death Bringer

  “As far as I know. They rang Dad—”

  “Stop calling him that.”

  “Sorry. They rang your father and told him they were charging Moore with assault and battery. They still have him in the police station.”

  Valkyrie stood very still, the phone to her ear. Her body was numb.

  “Are you still there?” the reflection asked. “I have to go. Your father’s waiting.”

  “You should have called me.”

  “They tell you to turn your phone off when you’re in the hospital building.”

  “The moment you heard about it, you should have called me.”

  “I was never given those instructions.”

  “You should have assumed.”

  “It’s not for me to assume anything. As you keep reminding me, I’m not real. I have no thoughts of my own. I only do what I’m told.”

  “Then do what you’re told. From this moment on, tell me immediately if anything bad ever happens to my family.”

  “Very well. What are you going to do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Now. What are you going to do now?”

  “What do you think I’m going to do?”

  “I think you’re very, very angry. I think you’re going to break into the police station and hurt the man who hurt your mother.”

  Valkyrie didn’t say anything. She hung up the phone, and left the house.

  Running was an odd sensation. It was like she was hovering above, watching her body move of its own accord. She watched herself run through the narrow lanes of Haggard, keeping away from the bigger streets and roads, keeping away from people. She passed in and out of shadows, in and out of sight, a wraith in black with murder in mind.

  The police station was well lit. Valkyrie approached it from the side, dropping from the high wall into the car park. No one around. Not many cars. She avoided the security camera and ran to the nearest window. Suddenly she was no longer floating above – she was sucked back into her own head, and she felt how cold she was, how the rage burned like ice in her belly. Tendrils of darkness slithered between the window and its frame, and she twisted her hand and the tendrils snapped the lock and the window popped open. She used the air to boost herself up, then climbed into a bright bathroom that smelled of disinfectant.

  She went to the door, listened for a moment. Somewhere, phones rang. Somewhere, people talked.

  She stepped into the corridor. It wasn’t a big building, and Valkyrie figured the cells would be as far away from the main entrance as possible, so she turned right. She rounded the corner and ducked into a room, an interview room by the look of it, to avoid a passing cop. She waited until his footsteps receded before she emerged and continued on. She came to three cream-coloured steel doors with glass partitions. The first two cells were empty. There was a man lying on a bed in the third.

  Shadows crept into the lock and smashed it from within, and Valkyrie was walking into the cell before Moore had even lifted his head from the thin pillow. The door closed behind her.

  He looked at her. He was in his early twenties, skinny, with a bad haircut and a cleft in his chin. A plaster covered a thin cut along his cheek. His left forearm was bandaged. He stood up, still looking at her, frowning now. She reached a hand towards the camera, up high in the corner of the cell, and sent a dart of shadow into the lens. Moore stepped back.

  “What was that? What the hell was that? Who are you?”

  She stepped closer, hands by her sides, shoulders relaxed. Inside she was cold. There was a block of ice inside her. The voice spoke to her.

  Kill him.

  When she was close enough, she swung her right hand up, fingers splayed and palm open, twisting into the strike. She caught him on the hinge of the jaw and he crashed back against the wall. A power-slap, Skulduggery called it. As powerful as a punch, without the risk of broken knuckles. One of the new weapons in her arsenal, ever since Tanith went bad. Valkyrie watched Moore try to stand up straight. His legs gave out and he fell back. His mouth was hanging open and his eyes were clouded. She waited while he shook his head and his eyes refocused. He looked at her and she watched his anger build.

  Moore sprang from the wall. She let him grab her, let him pull her in, and she fired an elbow into his face two, three times. He let go, but she didn’t, she latched on, kept firing those elbows, driving him back, never letting go of him. He tried to shout, but she hit him in the neck and he gagged. She didn’t give him a chance to throw a punch of his own, didn’t give him a chance to push her away. She was all over him, elbows and headbutts. In between his sudden yelps of pain she heard someone snarling, realised it was coming from her. She didn’t stop. She had blood on her face and it wasn’t her blood and she didn’t stop. This man had attacked her mother. This man had attacked her mother.

  Kill him.

  He was on the floor now and she was on top of him, her hands tightening round his throat. His strength was gone. His efforts to dislodge her, to break the stranglehold, were useless. He was weak and she was strong. The coldness inside her was burning. She was talking to him, her words scraping through gritted teeth, but she couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  His hands fluttered uselessly around her arms. His eyes were rolling back. Blood and spittle flew from his mouth. He was turning purple.

  Kill him, the voice in her head whispered.

  She dug her fingertips in even tighter. This must have been how Melancholia felt when she held Valkyrie’s life in her hands. It was power, pure power, pure and beautiful. It filled her, energised her, mixed with her rage and made her smile, just like Melancholia had smiled.

  Valkyrie frowned, saw her hands around his throat, saw Moore’s life about to leave him. Her hands sprang open and she staggered to her feet. He turned on to his side, coughing and sucking in great gasps of air.

  The voice was gone now. Banished from her mind. She suddenly felt queasy, like she was going to vomit.

  Moore dragged himself away from her, towards the far wall. Valkyrie’s hands were shaking. Her legs were trembling. Her head pounded.

  “If I ever see you in this town again,” she said to him, “I’ll come back for you and I won’t stop. Stay away from this town. Stay away from my mother. Or I swear to God, I will kill you.”

  He curled up and she left the cell. She retraced her steps, squirmed out through the window, barely getting outside before she threw up. Her legs were liquid, wouldn’t support her weight. The cops were going to find her out here. She realised she was crying.

  A shadow fell over her, blocking the moonlight. Caelan reached down, took her into his arms like she weighed nothing, and carried her into the darkness.

  In her back garden, she watched him and he watched her. The night was warm. The sounds of the waves drifted over the wall.

  “You’ve been following me,” she said.

  The shadows draped themselves over his sharp features. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t deny it.

  “You’ve been doing that a lot, haven’t you? Following me. Watching me.”

  “Looking out for you,” he said. “But only at night. Only when you’re vulnerable.”

  Valkyrie shook her head. “That isn’t right,” she said. “You shouldn’t do that to people. You shouldn’t watch them. I don’t want you to do it any more.”

  “I need to make sure you’re safe.”

  “I don’t need your protection.”

  He didn’t respond to that. Instead, he asked, “Did you kill him?”

  She hesitated. “No.”

  “Did you want to?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sound ashamed. You shouldn’t be. You have darkness in your heart, as do I.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Of course it is. It’s a part of who you are. You can’t fight it.”

  She heard a car. “They’re back,” she said. “You have to go.”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  “I don’t want you watc
hing me or my family.”

  “You better hurry, they’re almost in the house.”

  She gave him one last look, then hurried through the back door and ran up the stairs, and she heard the front door open and her mother’s voice. She went to the window, looked out. She couldn’t see Caelan out there, but Valkyrie knew that he was.

  Chapter 33

  Willow Hill

  hen Willow Hill Retirement Home had closed down twenty years earlier, nobody had wept. It had been a cold place, of long halls and strong smells, that seemed to infect its staff and its citizens with a dangerous level of indifference. Bodies, once young and strong, wasted away with barely a whisper of protest, following dutifully after minds that were in no condition to lead them. People gave up in Willow Hill. In Willow Hill, nobody seemed to bother.

  The Necromancer Order had purchased the Home ten years previously, and had done nothing to prevent the slow decay that seeped through the walls. They let it crumble. They let the local kids throw rocks through the windows and spray-paint the outside. The only thing they didn’t allow was anyone to break in, to spend the night. There was no telling when the Order might be in need of refuge, and they didn’t want to deal with an infestation of mortals when this need arose.

  Craven, in particular, liked retirement homes. He liked the peace and the quiet, the still quality of stale air. Most of all he liked the death that lingered like a faint memory.

  His fellow Necromancers, thirty-four in all, were gathered in what had once been the dining hall. Craven waited at the door, judging the pitch of a dozen conversations, and then he walked slowly into the room and waited for everyone else to stop talking. When there was silence, he cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and shook his head sadly. “It is with deepest sorrow,” he said, “that I tell you today that High Priest Auron Tenebrae has rejoined the stream of life.” Shocked mutterings reverberated through the assembled Necromancers, and Craven continued. “Lord Vile killed him before turning his sights on our saviour, the Death Bringer. She was strong enough to survive. The High Priest, unfortunately, was not.”

  “Where’s the body?”

  Craven frowned, seeking the one who had interrupted his solemnity. It was Wreath. Of course it was Wreath.

  “We were unable to retrieve it, Cleric Wreath,” Craven said. “But I saw it happen myself. High Priest Tenebrae is no more. This is a day of great sadness.”

  “It is indeed,” Wreath said, “because we didn’t just lose Tenebrae, did we? We lost over three dozen others.”

  “A terrible tragedy.”

  “Tragedy, you call it? Melancholia killed them. I call it murder.”

  Craven looked shocked, and glanced back at Melancholia. She was sitting with her head down and her hood up. For a moment there seemed to be a slight smile on her face. Craven turned back to the crowd. “Murder? How can it be murder? This is the Death Bringer. She released our fellow Necromancers to the great stream because she needed their strength and their courage to defeat Lord Vile and those Sanctuary dogs. I assure you, every single one of them was prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice, and I’m sure they did so gladly.”

  “She didn’t exactly give them a choice,” Wreath said.

  “I didn’t have time.” All eyes turned to Melancholia, who kept her head down. “I’m sorry I killed those people. I knew all of them. I’ll miss them, but I know I’ll see them soon, just as I know I’ll see the High Priest again. I have a… a responsibility, Cleric Wreath, to bring about the Passage. That’s the only thing that means anything any more. Surely you, of all people, know that we must do whatever we can to ensure that the world is saved.”

  “And you think you’re really the one to do that?”

  “I don’t know. In all honesty, I don’t know. I have doubts. Beneath this power I am still me, I am still Melancholia St Clair. I have my fears, Cleric. I’m afraid I’m not going to be strong enough, or brave enough, and I’m afraid I’m going to falter just when you need me the most. I don’t want to let you down, Cleric.”

  Craven didn’t smile, even though his lips wanted to. He watched Wreath glower, while all around him the Necromancers were looking at Melancholia with a new level of understanding. It was a masterful speech.

  “The Sanctuary will be getting desperate,” he said, drawing their attention back to him. “As long as we remain here, we should be safe. Another four days. That’s all we need. Let the Sanctuary agents tire themselves out searching for us. They won’t find us. They won’t find anyone who knows where we are. As long as we remain here, as long as we remain together, they will not defeat us, and we will save this world.”

  He clasped his hands and closed his eyes, and they began applauding. They were applauding.

  He turned, left the room. The White Cleaver trailed after him as per his new assignment – Personal Bodyguard to Vandameer Craven. Craven was sure that the Cleaver was deeply honoured by such a position, even if he didn’t show it.

  Shadows collected ahead, and when they dissipated, Solomon Wreath was standing there with his arms folded. “You saw it, did you?”

  Craven slowed as he neared. “I’m sorry?”

  “Tenebrae. You saw Vile kill him?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did. It was quick, though, and from that we must take comfort.”

  Craven turned to one of the grimy windows that lined the corridor. “It’s all changed, isn’t it? There’s no going back – not now. I… I need someone I can trust by my side, Solomon. Are you that man?”

  Wreath grunted. “I wouldn’t have thought so.”

  Craven turned, smiled. “Nor would I, my friend. Between us, there has been nothing but animosity and distrust. Years, foolishly wasted on childish games – for what purpose? Pride? Vanity? I know not. But we are here. Now. Thrown together. You, the last Cleric of our Temple. And me, suddenly looked upon as prophet, as leader, as High Priest.”

  Wreath unfolded his arms. “I’m sorry, what? Exactly who is looking at you that way?”

  “Why, they are. Our fellow Necromancers. They look to me for answers I cannot give.”

  “Because you’re not the High Priest.”

  “But if I am not,” Craven said, as gently as he could, “then who is?”

  Wreath frowned. “Craven, you’re a Cleric. We lost a High Priest, another will be assigned. It’s how these things work.”

  “Would you wait for someone new to come in and take over? If we stand united, we need no one else.”

  “If we stand united under you, you mean.”

  “Then I won’t be the High Priest,” Craven said impatiently. “It’s just a title, after all. A name. It’s all meaningless, the petty rivalries, the power plays. Oh, how I lost myself to it, back when my eyes were shut and my mind was closed. But now, I see. The way is clear. The Death Bringer will unite us, my friend. If you cannot believe in me, at least believe in her.”

  “She killed thirty-eight of us.”

  “For which she has just apologised.”

  “She’s unstable.”

  “She’s adjusting.”

  “She’s a mental case. And what about her power? One moment she can barely lift her head, the next she’s flinging people around like they’re leaves in the wind. How can she be expected to usher in the Passage if she can’t control how long she’ll be able to stand upright?”

  “I have faith.”

  “I don’t.”

  “That is… troubling.”

  “No, it’s reasonable.”

  “Melancholia is the Death Bringer. Yes, it’s not like we thought it would be. It’s not as clean. But it’s real, and it’s happening. She has the power to do this.”

  “She had better. If she doesn’t, if she fails, we’ll never get another chance. They know what we want now – they know what we’re after. If we continue with this, and she fails, we’ll be hunted down across the world. They’ll destroy our Temples, our teachings, everything. She’d better be the one, Craven.”

  “She is.”
>
  “Because if she isn’t, we should kill her now and see what we can salvage.”

  Craven’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “If we stop, now, immediately, we can take care of this. We can take the blame – me, you, Melancholia, the others. We can take the punishment. But our brothers and sisters around the world will be left alone, left to find the one true Death Bringer.”

  “Melancholia is the one true Death Bringer!”

  “No, she’s the one you made.”

  Craven fell silent.

  “This is our last chance. If there is any doubt about her, we should sacrifice ourselves for the greater good.”

  “There is no doubt in my mind that she can do it.”

  “Well, there’s plenty of doubt in mine.”

  “Our enemies are closing in,” Craven said angrily. “We need to stop them. We need to strike back. Instead, we are at each other’s throats once again, when we can least afford it.” He sighed, and turned to the window. “Leave me now. I am tired.”

  Wreath didn’t speak for a moment. “Craven, I’m going to be very nice to you, and not break your jaw for what you just said to me. I’m just going to forget you ever said it, and backtrack a little. You think we should strike at our enemies, do you? With what, exactly? We have just over thirty Necromancers, and practically none of them have combat experience. And even if they did, who should we strike against, do you think? The Sanctuary? Its agents? Pleasant and Cain, maybe? Or how about Lord Vile? Should we strike against him?”

  Craven turned. “You mock me, Cleric Wreath.”

  “Oh I do, Cleric Craven, for you are easily mocked. You have no idea what it is you’re saying at any given moment, do you? You think just as long as you’re issuing orders, you’re a leader. Well, here’s a newsflash for you, sunshine. That’s not how it works.”

  “You are most insolent.”

  “You’re not the High Priest, Vandameer. If our enemies are closing in, then this would appear to be the perfect time for Melancholia to initiate the Passage. If she proves unable to carry out her duties, she must be put down.”

  “Those are dangerous words you speak.”