by Derek Landy
“That’s got nothing to do with—”
“Stop treating her like she’s perfect.”
He laughed. “Oh, I know she’s not perfect. I know she’s—”
“You know she’s selfish,” Stephanie cut in, “and vain, and egotistical, and you know she’s uncaring. But look at you. You’d go back to her in an instant if she asked. Even if you knew that she was just with you for something to do, you’d fall in love with her all over again. You’ve forgiven her for cheating on you. You’ve forgiven her for treating you like an annoying, lovesick puppy.”
“I really don’t need to be insulted by you,” Fletcher said, and started walking away.
“I would never cheat on you,” she said before she could stop herself.
Fletcher stood still. She looked at his back. Her face was burning. She was blushing. She tried to fight it, tried to regain control and push down this horrible feeling of embarrassment, but every push made the feeling spill over even more. Fletcher turned.
“I don’t understand you,” he said. “You’re not …”
“Don’t say I’m not real. Don’t say I’m not human.”
“But you’re not,” he said, almost angrily. “You came out of a mirror. You’re a stand-in. You’re a, a weak imitation of the real thing.”
“Good,” said Stephanie. “I’m glad I’m a weak imitation. I wouldn’t want to be a good one, because then I wouldn’t care what you thought. I’ve grown, Fletcher. I’m more than I was.”
“You’re a killer,” he said, and Stephanie darted forward, grabbed his arm before he could leave.
“And I regret it,” she said. “I’m sorry I did it. I’m sorry I had to do it.”
“Feeling bad doesn’t make it OK.”
“But feeling bad is new to me. Feeling anything is new to me. I still don’t know how to deal with it. It’s scary and ugly and makes me feel sick most of the time but, Fletcher, please, don’t treat me like a thing.”
“Then how should I treat you? After everything you’ve done, how should I treat you?”
She looked at him, into his eyes. “Like a girl,” she said, and kissed him.
He shook his head. “You’re not … you’re not her.”
“No.” She kissed him again. “I’m me.”
The breeze picked up, and the smell of rotting meat wafted to them.
“Wretchlings!” someone bellowed. “They’re coming!”
Her heart lurching in her chest, Stephanie ran to the parapet. The darts were being fired, trailing white ropes. And now the Wretchlings came, emerging from the gloom, running up those ropes like demented acrobats, knives and swords and war hammers in their hands, swarming like ants over dropped food.
She whipped her head round to Fletcher. “The Energy-Throwers are in the streets. We need them up here. Get as many as you can.”
Fletcher nodded and vanished.
Stephanie pulled the Sceptre from her bag, took aim, and black lightning cleared four Wretchlings from the nearest rope. But there were more behind. There were always more. She leaned out to get a better shot, only noticing the floating ball of energy at the last moment. She turned away, squeezed her eyes shut, heard the explosion as the blast picked her up and tossed her away like just another piece of rubble. She crunched to the ground, rolled three times and came to a groaning stop.
Skulduggery stood on the battlements, sending great gusts of wind to knock the Wretchlings from their ropes. Every few seconds he’d have to dodge to one side to avoid an energy stream from down below, but then he’d get right back to it. The handful of other Elementals on the wall followed his example. Some of them weren’t so effective. Others weren’t so good at dodging. Despite their efforts, the first Wretchling came over the wall and others followed.
Stephanie blasted one of them to dust and got to her feet. Three came at her. She got the first two, but the third grabbed the Sceptre, pushed it back while his other hand closed round Stephanie’s throat. He had boils all over his face and a dagger in his belt. She pulled the dagger out and stuck it into his side. He made a sound like an angry cat and pushed her back further. She clawed at his face, bursting the boils, then slipped her finger into his mouth, her nail scraping by his clenched teeth. Curling her finger, she raked it out, felt his cheek split open in a spray of blood and pus. He howled, recoiled, and she jammed the Sceptre against his jaw and it flashed and he exploded into dust.
A flurry of movement and she ducked, spun, ran, Wretchlings right behind her, their hands snatching at her hair, at her jacket, pulling the stick from her back, too many to fight, their blades too close.
“Skulduggery!” she roared, running for the ledge, unable to stop, and they grabbed her and she jumped and they all went over.
Stephanie plummeted.
Below was darkness sprinkled with streetlights. The wind whipped away the screams of the Wretchlings before they reached her. She turned over as she fell, watching them fall with her, their eyes wide and mouths open, terror etched on their faces, their eyes fixed on the ground below.
And then someone else was falling between them, the skull betraying no emotion as gloved hands found her, and she slid into his arms and Skulduggery looped up, leaving the Wretchlings to continue their descent while Stephanie held on for dear, sweet life. He set her down on a rooftop across the street from the wall.
Her legs were shaky and every nerve was jangling and all she wanted to do was collapse, but she narrowed her eyes as he hovered over her. “Am I missing something?”
“You’ve done enough,” he said. “Go back to Haggard.”
“I can help.”
“We’re going to lose.”
“No. We can use the Accelerator, start boosting magic.”
“And when that happens there’s going to be a lot of unstable people looking to do violent things. Whether we win or lose, Roarhaven isn’t safe.”
“But I have the Sceptre.”
“And someone’s going to kill you for it. Stephanie, go home. You can’t help us any more. If we fail, you’ll need to protect your family.”
“No, I can—”
“I don’t have time to argue. Valkyrie, please, for once in your life, do what I say.”
She looked up at him. “I’m not Valkyrie.”
His head dipped, the brim of his hat cutting across his brow like a frown, and then he rose higher. “Good luck,” he said, and flew back to the wall.
hey kept coming, a never-ending stream of Wretchlings. By morning the dead were three-deep up on that wall, and then their focus shifted, and they stopped trying to get over the wall and just came through it. The gates opened with a great splintering crack, and Wretchlings and Warlocks swarmed in and the Sanctuary mages met them. Magic was tossed to and fro and men and women went down screaming, but up close it was battle the old-fashioned way. Blood and blade and grunts and spittle. Vex hated the old-fashioned way.
A Wretchling with a face like a battered shovel came at him with a sword in his fist. Vex knocked the sword to one side, tried to swing his own, but there were too many people around, too much jostling for space. He almost apologised for the delay. Hold on there like a good fellow and I’ll kill you the moment I’m able. Nice weather for it, eh?
Suddenly his arm had space and he jabbed out, puncturing the Wretchling’s chest and shoulder and throat with the tip of his blade. Someone shoved him and he knocked the Wretchling to the ground. Vex stood on him, kicked him, stabbed him a little more until a Warlock barrelled through, roaring curses in some language Vex neither knew nor was interested to learn. Still too tight to really swing, Vex could only bash the opposing sword with his, making sure it didn’t get too close. The crowd around them surged in all directions at once, and Vex found himself pressed up against the Warlock with his hands trapped below him. The Warlock had one arm pinned to his side, the other crushed against his own chest. They headbutted each other while they waited for a space to open up. The Warlock had a great big beard. Vex bit the beard an
d pulled back and the Warlock roared in displeasure. The beard tasted horrible.
Vex slipped on something and went under, cursing, suddenly lost in a forest of legs and boots that threatened to trample him into the ground. He tried to rise, got a knee in the face that knocked him sideways, finally reached up and grabbed hold of someone and dragged himself towards the light. He broke the surface, pressed the point of his sword under the bearded man’s chin and thrust skywards. The sword jarred a little when it hit the underside of the man’s skull, and he pulled it out again.
The fighting was spreading out a bit, now that the sudden, illogical eagerness for death and dying had abated. Energy crackled in Vex’s hand and he blasted a Warlock who was about to do the same to him. A Wretchling leaped over Dai Maybury, who was rolling around in the dirt with a Warlock, and came at him with a swing that would have taken his head off if he hadn’t blocked. Their swords clashed again and scraped off each other, screeching like fingernails on a chalkboard. Vex pushed him back, hacked at his arm, cleaving through muscle and bone. The Wretchling’s sword fell, still gripped by his hand, and Vex slashed downwards into his throat. The Wretchling died standing, then toppled backwards, ripping Vex’s weapon from his hands.
A sword caught him across the back, would have cut through to his spine were it not for Ghastly’s clothes. He turned, grabbing on to the Warlock who powered into him. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs. God, this one was heavy. Vex tried pushing him off and it was like pushing a wall of muscle. He poured his magic into his hand and unleashed it into the man’s ribs, and the Warlock grunted and rolled sideways. His clothes were armoured, too, though, and he got to his feet a fraction of a second behind Vex. And he still had that sword.
He stepped in and swung, knocking Vex back. Vex pushed a Wretchling into the Warlock’s next swing and grabbed his dagger as he died. He slashed at the Warlock’s throat, missed, and the Warlock went low and took his leg out from under him. Vex rolled to avoid the sword that clanged off the ground next to his ear, wondered if the Warlock’s boots were armoured. He plunged the dagger into his foot, got a screech in return. Obviously not.
Vex threw himself between the man’s legs, ignoring the sword strikes his clothes absorbed. The Warlock started to hop about, trying to get at him, but Vex stayed on his knees, scurrying about underneath, keeping his head tucked below the Warlock’s groin. Not the most dignified of ways to fight a battle, perhaps, but since when had dignity ever kept a man alive?
Someone dropped a war hammer and he dived at it, swung without looking. The hammer crunched into the side of the Warlock’s knee. The knee caved in sideways and the Warlock screamed, toppled, landed on his elbows, still screaming. Vex stood, the Warlock screamed up at him, and the war hammer met his face and brooked no argument.
He turned to another Warlock, who backed away, his eyes focused on something behind him. Vex risked a glance, found himself staring along with everyone else. Six sorcerers hovered in the air, smiling. Vex recognised two of them. They had not been able to fly the last time they’d met.
The Accelerator-boosted mages sent columns of air rippling towards the enemy, so fiercely that they snapped bones and ruptured skin. They threw fire like napalm and Vex had to scramble to avoid being caught in the inferno. Flesh melted and dripped to the ground as the screams rose to the skies. The six sorcerers landed and strode towards the enemy, each one of them keeping the smile on their face. Wretchling and Warlock fell before them, and suddenly the unceasing tide through the gates slowed to a trickle.
A Wretchling jumped on one of the sorcerers, but increased strength seemed to be among the gifts the Accelerator bestowed. The sorcerer laughed as he held the Wretchling by the throat, legs kicking uselessly. He didn’t even seem to care about the dagger in the Wretchling’s hand, at least not until it was buried up to its hilt in his neck. The Wretchling was dropped and the sorcerer fell to his knees, gurgling blood, a look of surprise on his face.
Smiles faded on the faces of the other five sorcerers. A Warlock caught one of them full on with a beam of energy. It took her head off. The remaining four roared in anger and swept forward in a bloody swathe of destruction, but the enemy had their measure now. They could be killed, and so they were.
But, as the last of the six sorcerers fell, another ten appeared in the sky above them. And none of these were smiling.
Someone grabbed Vex from behind and he whirled, but when his elbow crunched into flesh he was standing on top of the wall.
“Fletcher! Sorry!” he said as the kid went stumbling. Saracen caught him, made sure he didn’t fall.
“It’s OK,” Fletcher said, both hands to his face. “I really should have expected that.”
Once he was sure he hadn’t busted Fletcher’s cheekbone, Vex joined Skulduggery and the Monster Hunters at the parapet, looking down. Each supercharged Roarhaven mage was dying, but they were taking down dozens of Wretchlings before they went. “Can’t believe Erskine used the Accelerator,” he said. “He knows it’ll turn them nuts.”
“As long as they’re directed at the Warlocks and not us, I’m not complaining,” Gracious muttered. Then he frowned. “Of course, it’s only a matter of time before he does direct them at us, isn’t it?”
“Ravel will send them after us the moment the tide turns in Roarhaven’s favour,” Skulduggery said. “By the looks of things, that could be anytime in the next few hours. So we need to strike now. Or rather, I do.”
Saracen looked at him. “What?”
“I need you all to stay here. One of us won’t be missed, but any more than one and the alarm will be raised and I’ll never be able to get near him.”
“So you’re going up against Ravel alone?” Donegan asked. “Him and Mist and all their cronies?”
“I won’t be alone,” Skulduggery said, “and it’s our best chance to catch him unprepared.”
Saracen shook his head. “Splitting up again. How many times do I have to tell you what a bad idea that is? The Dead Men work best when we stay together.”
“There is no Dead Men,” Skulduggery said, sounding almost surprised that no one else had realised it. “Ghastly and Anton have been murdered. Ravel’s betrayed us. Valkyrie is … gone. The Dead Men have had their last stand and we’ve fallen, Saracen. The three of us are all that remain.”
The sounds of war faded for a moment as that quiet, simple fact settled into Vex’s mind. They’d lost members before, but never so many, and they’d never lost one to betrayal. He looked at Saracen and Skulduggery, his friends, his brothers, and although they had history that would hold them together forever, he could feel the bonds between them start to loosen, and fall away. Suddenly Saracen Rue looked old and tired, and Skulduggery Pleasant came into focus as what he really was – a genius, a killer, a tortured soul, and the only true dead man among them.
hina stepped over the sorcerer’s unconscious body and sat at the desk, the monitors before her arranged like a shrine to voyeurism. Rooms, corridors, entrances and exits, all of them displayed in glorious, pixel-perfect definition. She found a card, wrote down the unconscious sorcerer’s name – Susurrus – and the password she’d got out of him – mydogrex1 – and left.
In here, deep in the Sanctuary, she couldn’t hear the explosions at the wall. She couldn’t hear the fighting or the screams or the battle cries. She could see the tension on the faces of the people she passed, though. Everyone walked quickly, everyone spoke urgently. These were Roarhaven mages, people who had been part of Ravel’s plan from the very beginning. It amused her to see them panicking. It made her smile.
She checked her watch. It was a delicate thing, thoroughly unsuited to what was to come, but she had to make do with what she had available to her. Gone were the days when she could afford the luxury of choosing a specific watch for a specific purpose. Ever since Eliza Scorn had destroyed her apartment – and most of her belongings – China had been forced to adopt a more practical approach to life. She acquitted herself well, a
s one would expect, but that didn’t mean she liked it.
As the appointed minute clicked into being, Skulduggery Pleasant walked round the corner, holding a carved wooden stick. The face he wore was grave and humourless, the kind of face a person wouldn’t want to examine too closely. Without even acknowledging his existence, China turned and started walking. He fell into step beside her, and they made their way to the cells. When Ghastly and Anton Shudder had been murdered, these cells were quickly filled by the sorcerers who tried to fight back. Once the Warlocks attacked, however, most of these sorcerers were released so that they could fight under Skulduggery’s command. Most, but not all.
Skulduggery let his façade melt away, and opened the first two cells they came to. “Tipstaff,” he said, “Mr Weeper, would you care to lend a hand in exacting a little justice?”
Staven Weeper emerged first. Young and a little too earnest for China’s liking, he had nonetheless tried to attack Ravel on three separate occasions for what the Grand Mage had done. That earned him a few points in China’s book, and so she did her best to ignore the way he mewled like a kitten when he saw her. Tipstaff, the ex-Administrator, stepped out and nodded to both her and Skulduggery. Ever the professional, he got straight to the point.
“By justice,” he said, “I assume you mean bringing Erskine Ravel to task for the crimes he has committed.”
“You assume correctly,” Skulduggery said. “But we’ll need your help to do it.”
Weeper looked suddenly worried. “Um, my magic isn’t really combat-based …”
“We know,” China told him. “We won’t need you to fight.”
“Then I’m your man,” Weeper said immediately. “Or I’d like to be. If you’d have me. Because I love you. I love you so much. If I were married, I’d leave her for you. I’m not married. But I’d still leave her. Just say the word.”
“Focus, Staven.”
“Yes. Sorry. I love you. Sorry. You must get that all the time. Sorry.”
“Hush, boy,” Tipstaff said. “Detective Pleasant, Miss Sorrows, what do you need us to do?”