“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 i
t. 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.
Chapter 53
The Death Bringer Rises
hey had come when they’d heard Gordon shouting for help. Skulduggery had leaped over fallen bodies, Valkyrie right behind him. They burst into the ballroom. All around them, the guests lay on the floor, silent and unmoving.
The ring was so cold on Valkyrie’s finger that it almost burned. “They’re dead,” she whispered.
“They just fell,” Gordon said, from the far side of the room. His eyes were wide, his voice hollow. “They were standing and talking and laughing and then they… they stiffened, and breathed out, and fell.”
Valkyrie frowned. “Melancholia?”
“She’s not dead,” Skulduggery murmured, and then his head tilted to the people around them. “Which means neither are they.”
“What?”
“She sucked their lives from them, drank those lives in, used them to make her stronger. If we can get to her before she wastes that strength, we can force her to return those lives to their owners.”
“That’ll work?”
Skulduggery raised his hands, fingers flexing. “In theory.”
Valkyrie’s breath became a cloud in the air. “What are you doing?”
“Cooling things down,” Skulduggery said. “Their life forces won’t do them a whole lot of good if we allow their brains to die. You have a change of clothes, I expect?”
She hugged herself as the temperature plummeted. Particles of frost began to glisten on the faces around her. “In the Bentley.”
He threw her the keys. “You might want to hurry.”
She nodded, backed off, turned and ran.
There was a commotion. Rippers had run in from outside, congregating at the door to the basement. Valkyrie ran past, out of the house, kicking off her shoes and unlocking the Bentley with a beep. The boot opened and she grabbed her trousers from her bag, pulled them on under her dress, buckled them, pulled on her socks and boots. She searched for the zip on her dress, cursing, yanking the whole thing round her body till she found it. She whipped the dress off, stuffed it into the trunk, couldn’t find her T-shirt so she just gr
abbed her jacket, put it on as she ran back to the house. It was freezing in there, so cold it actually made her hesitate. She zipped up her jacket as Skulduggery walked from the room beside her, and he joined her as she ran for the basement.
They passed three bloodied bodies, and Skulduggery went first down the steps. Dead Necromancers and Rippers covered the floor like a carpet. The White Cleaver stood half-crouched, his back to the wall, his scythe swinging. The remaining Rippers had him surrounded.
“A girl,” Skulduggery said, ignoring the Cleaver situation as he started turning over bodies, “blonde, scars on her face. Is she here?”
The Rippers didn’t answer.
“She’s not here,” Valkyrie said, running her eyes over the upturned faces. “Neither is Craven. If she shadow-walked, she could be anywhere up to two kilometres in any direction.”
Skulduggery picked a stone up off the floor. He was quiet for a moment. “They’re in the caves,” he said, dropping it. “They had someone down there already, searching for the other side of the entrance. If they shadow-walked anywhere, they’d have shadow-walked down there.” He went to the wall, removed the brick and twisted the key behind it. A section of the floor rumbled and opened. Valkyrie followed him to the stone steps, looked back at the Rippers.
“Any of you coming?” she asked, but they didn’t move.
“They’re not Cleavers,” Skulduggery said, already halfway down the steps. “They’re mercenaries. They were paid to provide security, not chase after people. Their job is everything above ground – which means the White Cleaver.”
The Rippers paid her no attention. They started to close in on the White Cleaver, and Valkyrie left them to it. She hurried down the steps as the floor closed above. “They didn’t do a very good job at providing security,” she pointed out to the back of Skulduggery’s head. “Everyone’s dead.”
“True enough,” he said.
They emerged into the caves. A Necromancer woman lay dead before them – proof, if any was needed, that they were on the right track. They summoned flames into their hands and ran.
Valkyrie had been down here before, and each time she’d been lucky to escape with her life. The tunnels twisted into each other, opened out into vast, empty spaces and closed down into the narrowest of gaps. Travellers needed to respect the caves as much as any adversary – a wrong turn could lead to a step off a precipice and a long fall into cold darkness. And that was before the creatures down here were taken into account.