Death Bringer

  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.”

  Mist sighed. “The Necromancers are selfish cowards. They haven’t posed a threat to anyone in hundreds of years and I doubt they’re going to start now.”

  “I hate to say it,” said Ravel, “but Elder Mist is right. It’s hard to take them seriously when they’ve barely poked a head out of their Temples in so long. Maybe if we knew a little more about this Passage thing…?”

  “The Necromancers are working to keep us in the dark,” Skulduggery said. “Two people with vital information have so far been killed. That in itself tells me they’re planning something big.”

  Ghastly frowned. “You told me once that the Passage is something that will break through the barrier between life and death.”

  “Yes.”

  “So what does that actually mean?”

  “To be honest, Ghastly, I haven’t a bull’s notion.”

  “Elder Bespoke should be addressed by his title,” Tipstaff said.

  “Of course,” Skulduggery said. “To be honest, Your Highness, I haven’t a bull’s notion. The Necromancers believe life is a continuous stream of energy, flowing from life into death and around again into life. It’s all very vague and unsatisfying. They want to save the world, which is nice of them, but as of yet, they haven’t told us what they want to save the world from.”

  “Well,” Ravel said, “maybe we’ll get lucky and Lord Vile will make an appearance, kill the Death Bringer like he said he would, take care of this whole thing before it becomes a problem and then walk off into the sunset.”

  “I think it would be a mistake to count on Lord Vile to do anything other than murder a whole lot of people,” Skulduggery said.

  “Agreed,” said Ghastly.

  “Detective Pleasant,” Madame Mist said, “it is a well-known fact that you don’t like the Necromancer Order. That you take particular exception to their activities – especially since Solomon Wreath began training your protégée.”

  “That would be an accurate summation, yes.”

  “You don’t feel that your attitude could be tainting your objectivity?”

  “When it comes to the Necromancers,” Skulduggery said, “I’m not objective in the slightest. That doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Our next move should be a visit to the Temple, where we can ask Solomon Wreath about this unknown agent who keeps killing the people we want to talk to.”

  “So you’re requesting that more Sanctuary resources be made available to you, should you need them?” Ravel asked.

  Skulduggery shrugged. “Yes I am, Your Almighty Holiness. What’s the point of having friends in high places if you can’t use them to settle old grudges?”

  Ghastly looked at Ravel. “We need to find out what they’re up to.”

  “This is a waste of our time,” said Mist.

  Ravel shook his head. “I’m willing to go along with Skulduggery on this one. It might turn out to be nothing, but we need to find out what this Passage is, and we need to stop people dying.” He sat back in his throne, raising an eyebrow. “Hear that, Skulduggery? The Elders have spoken. That is the sound of the system working for you.”

  Skulduggery tipped his hat to them. “I’m not going to lie to you, I could get used to this.”

  Chapter 9

  Friends in Low Places

  alkyrie’s boots crunched on old graveyard gravel on their way to the crypt. Skulduggery didn’t even have his façade up – there was no one around on this bright evening to see them anyway. By this stage, Valkyrie knew the cemetery well, which was an odd boast for a sixteen-year-old to make, she was aware.

  Skulduggery knocked heavily on the crypt door. Thirty seconds later, it opened, and a pale face regarded them with casual indifference. Valkyrie recognised him. His name was Oblivion, or Obliviate, or something. Or maybe Oblivious. No, she doubted it was Oblivious. Although…

  “Yes?” said Oblivious. “What?”

  “This is why I like Necromancers,” Skulduggery said. “You’re all so cheerful all the time. We’d like to speak with Cleric Wreath, please.”

  “Cleric Wreath is busy,” Oblivious said lazily, and started to close the door.

  Skulduggery jammed it with his foot. “I’m sure he’d love to see us, though. Look, she’s his favourite student.”

  Oblivious observed Valkyrie then sighed. “We already have a Death Bringer, thank you. We don’t need another one.”

  “He’s expecting us,” Valkyrie said. “He said to come right over, he’s got exciting news. He said we could walk right in, actually.”

  “Your name isn’t on the list,” Oblivious responded.

  “Well, maybe not on your list,” Valkyrie laughed.

  “Are you implying that there is more than one list?”

  “I don’t know,” Valkyrie said mysteriously. “Am I?”

  Oblivious frowned. “I’m not sure what you’re—”

  “Super!” Skulduggery exclaimed, and Oblivious yelped as Skulduggery shoved the door op
en and barged through. Valkyrie hurried down the narrow steps after him.

  “I didn’t give you permission!” Oblivious raged. “Guards! Guards! We have intruders!”

  Two Necromancers appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Skulduggery waved to them. “We’re not really intruding,” he called down. “This is all a big misunderstanding.”

  “Stop right there!” shouted one of them.

  Skulduggery held his hand to an ear he didn’t have. “What’s that?”

  “Stop!”

  “Keep going?”

  “Stop!”

  “OK, we’ll keep going.”

  The Necromancer guards backed off as Skulduggery and Valkyrie reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “Is Solomon in?” Skulduggery asked. “We’d like to give him a present that Valkyrie got for the Death Bringer. It’s a small gift, just to say congratulations, the best woman won, et cetera et cetera. Valkyrie, show them the gift.”

  Valkyrie smiled at them, searched through the pockets of her jacket and came out with a half-empty packet of Skittles.

  Oblivious came charging down the stairs. “You do not have permission to be here! You are trespassing!”

  “Only a little bit,” Skulduggery said. “We’ll wait here for Wreath, if you wouldn’t mind calling him.”

  Oblivious jabbed a finger into Skulduggery’s chest. “I demand that you leave!”

  “But that would defeat the whole purpose of coming here.”

  “We can do this the easy way,” Oblivious snarled, “or the hard way.”

  “What’s the easy way?”

  “You leave immediately.”

  “And what’s the hard way?”

  “We make you leave.”

  Skulduggery’s head tilted. “What’s the easy way again?”

  “Let them through,” said a voice from behind the guards. Solomon Wreath walked towards them, dressed in a black suit with a black shirt, cane in hand.

  “But they’re trespassing,” Oblivious protested weakly.

  Wreath waved a hand. “Only a little bit.”

  “But our orders are from the High Priest himself. Now that we have the Death Bringer, we can’t allow any outsiders into the Temple, for her safety.”

  “Then they’ll stay here in the Antechamber. They’re practically already outside.” Wreath’s good humour faded for a moment. “Now go away.”

  The guards dispersed, and Oblivious swallowed thickly and backed off.

  “Sorry about that,” Wreath said, turning to them.

  “Quite all right,” Skulduggery responded.

  Wreath smiled. “I wasn’t talking to you. Valkyrie, I wanted to speak to you before this, I really did, but things have been hectic here, and—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said, shrugging. “Melancholia gets to save the world. That’s cool. Saves me from having to do it, right?”

  “Still, I should have been the one to tell you. No one was more surprised than I when Craven brought her forward as the Death Bringer. But we’ve run some preliminary tests on her powers and they exceed anything we’ve ever seen, so she certainly qualifies. I’m not sure how it happened, it defies explanation, but… well. It happened.”

  “Really, Solomon, it’s OK. You’re not going to ask for the ring back though, are you?”

  Wreath smiled. “No. Just because you’re not the Death Bringer doesn’t mean you won’t make a powerful Necromancer.”

  “But if this Passage thing happens, and I’m not trying to mock your beliefs or anything, won’t we be living in a paradise?”

  “Am I to take it that you don’t yet believe the world is about to change?”

  “Sorry. It’s just kind of hard to imagine. Again, it’s your belief and I don’t want to offend you…”

  Wreath smiled. “You could never offend me.”

  “I bet I could,” said Skulduggery. “Solomon, we want to talk to you about a friend of yours we ran into yesterday. Absolutely charming fellow – bald, he was, with a terrible goatee. He set the Jitter Girls on us while he made his escape.”

  “That’s dreadful,” Wreath said. “But I’m afraid it doesn’t ring any bells. Anything else? Any other distinguishing marks or specific traits?”

  “He was killing an old woman because she knew something about the Passage, and a few days earlier he’d killed a homeless man for the same reason,” Skulduggery said. “Is that specific enough for you?”

  “That all sounds terrible,” Wreath said. “And yet, again, no bells are ringing.”

  “Solomon,” Valkyrie said, “come on. He was a Necromancer. He was one of you.”

  “That doesn’t mean I know anything about what he was doing.”

  “But you do know him, yes?”

  He looked at her. “Bald, with a goatee? I might.”

  “The people he killed were of no threat to anyone. Paul Lynch was a Sensitive with a history of mental health problems. The only person who was ever going to listen to him was the old lady who was killed next.”

  Wreath nodded. “It does seem quite… excessive.”

  “What’s the bald man’s name?” Valkyrie asked.

  Wreath sighed. “Dragonclaw.”

  She frowned. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “That’s a ridiculous name.”

  “We are quite aware of how ridiculous it is, thank you. He’s used for black ops, but not very often. He tends to… go too far. Using the Jitter Girls as a delaying tactic is a perfect example of this.”

  “And you know nothing about it?” Skulduggery asked.

  “Not a thing,” Wreath said. “I’ve been busy lately, in case you haven’t noticed. I was ready to take Valkyrie to the next stage of her training – but now it seems as if Melancholia will be taking up everyone’s time. Joy of joys.”

  Valkyrie heard the main door open again as someone else entered the Temple. She heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

  “So when might we get to experience this wonderful and world-changing Passage?” Skulduggery asked.

  “Soon enough,” Wreath said. “Don’t you worry about it.”

  “We heard we had until Sunday. Would that be about right?”

  Wreath did an impressive job of keeping the frown off his face. “Where did you hear that?”

  “So it is Sunday, then.”

  Wreath scowled. “Maybe. By our calculations, Sunday would seem to be the best time to attempt it. Whether or not things work out the way we’d like remains to be seen.”

  “On Sunday the world changes.”

  “On Sunday the world is saved.”

  “Yes,” Skulduggery said, “well, we’ll see about that.”

  They turned, saw Dragonclaw coming down the steps. He caught sight of them and froze.

  “Some people here to see you,” Wreath called lazily, and Dragonclaw spun on the step and ran back the way he had come.

  Skulduggery bolted after him, Valkyrie at his heels. They ran up the steps and burst out into the open air to see Dragonclaw sprinting for the gate. He had a dagger in his hand, and with it he drew in the lengthening shadows and flicked them behind him. Skulduggery went right, Valkyrie went left, and the shadows passed harmlessly between them. Dragonclaw waved the dagger in a circle, surrounding himself with darkness, and vanished.

  Skulduggery didn’t stop running. “He can’t shadow-walk far,” he said. “He’s still in the area.”

  A car sped by on the road outside the cemetery, Dragonclaw at the wheel.

  They ran for the Bentley. Valkyrie had barely buckled her seatbelt when Skulduggery jammed his foot on the accelerator and they shot forward. They got to the end of the road and turned, taking the corner so tight it was like the Bentley was on rails. Dragonclaw’s car, a black Hyundai, appeared through the windscreen. It overtook a van and swerved dangerously. The Bentley was gaining fast.

  The Hyundai left the road, spinning its wheels as it slid sideways, and then took off down a narrow lane, careening fro
m wall to wall. Skulduggery braked, changed gears, swung smoothly into the lane in pursuit. The walls whipped by on either side and Valkyrie cringed, expecting the wing mirrors to be snapped off. Skulduggery, of course, would never allow that to happen.

  Dragonclaw wasn’t as skilful. The Hyundai hit a broken pallet that had been discarded in a pile of rubbish and it jumped slightly, its left side screeching against the wall. He pulled away too sharply and hit the right wall, jamming the Hyundai the width of the lane. As the Bentley braked, Valkyrie could see Dragonclaw clambering over the seat and tumbling out of the car on the far side.

  She got out, Skulduggery already moving for the Hyundai. They both used the air to jump the ruined car, but when they landed on the other side, Dragonclaw was gone. Valkyrie started to run, but Skulduggery reached out, grabbed her arm.

  “He must have known we’d go to the Temple,” Skulduggery said. She realised he had his gun in his hand. “He must have taken into account the chance that we’d find him.”

  Valkyrie frowned. “You think this is a trap?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “but I try not to underestimate my opponents, no matter how ridiculous their beards.”

  A man walked into the lane from the other end. Valkyrie tensed. He walked towards them slowly, taking his time. Wary of distractions, Valkyrie splayed her left hand, doing her best to read the air. If someone dropped from the buildings above, hopefully she’d notice the disruption to the air currents before they landed on her head.

  The man walked closer. He wore a frayed coat and old, ill-fitting clothes. He was unshaven, and needed a haircut. He was holding something – a photograph. When he was twenty paces away, he stopped, examined the photo, then looked up.

  “Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain,” he said. His accent was thick, Eastern European, and he sounded bored. “I’ve been paid to kill you.” He put the photograph away.

  “Interesting,” Skulduggery said. “Does it make any difference, the fact that I’m pointing a gun at you?”

  The man shrugged.

  “He doesn’t seem worried,” Valkyrie murmured.

  “That’s never a good sign,” Skulduggery murmured back. He spoke louder. “We have no quarrel with you. We just want the man who hired you – we want Dragonclaw.”