by Derek Landy
“With?” Skulduggery prompted.
“Non-believers,” Wreath said.
“You can make an exception for me, can’t you?” Skulduggery pressed. Somehow, he was now in the lead and Valkyrie realised they were heading for the source of the quiet commotion. “And as for Valkyrie, don’t her lessons with you entitle her to hear this?”
“Valkyrie,” Wreath said, “you could be considered one of our indoctrinates, one of our trainees, and as such you could expect to be taught these things gradually, over the coming years.”
“But you’ll skip the formalities,” Skulduggery said. “Yes?”
Wreath sighed and spoke to her. “Death is a part of life. You’ve undoubtedly heard that before. It’s meant as a platitude, to comfort the bereaved and the scared. But the truth is, life flows into death and death flows back into life.
“The darkness we use in our magic is a living energy. You’ve felt it, haven’t you? It almost has a life of its own. It is life and death. They’re the same thing – a constant, recycling stream that permeates all universes.”
“Tell her about the Death Bringer,” Skulduggery said, looking around.
“The Death Bringer is not relevant to—”
“Well, you can’t hide it from her now, can you? So you may as well.”
Wreath took a breath to keep his temper in check. “We’re waiting for a Necromancer strong enough to break down the walls between life and death. Some people call this person the Death Bringer. We have conducted tests; we’ve researched; we’ve taken a very clinical approach to all of this. This isn’t a prophecy. Prophecies mean nothing, they’re merely interpretations of possibilities. This is an inevitability. We will find someone powerful enough to break down the wall, and the energy of the dead will live alongside us, and we will evolve to meet it.”
“They call this the Passage,” Skulduggery said. “What Solomon here is neglecting to tell you of course are the names of a few people whom the Necromancers have proclaimed to be the Death Bringer in the past.”
“She doesn’t need to know this,” Wreath said, anger in his eyes.
“I think she does.”
“Tell me,” Valkyrie said to them both.
Wreath hesitated. “The last person we thought was powerful enough to possibly become the Death Bringer came to us during the war. Within two years of starting his Necromancy training, Lord Vile was the equal to any of our masters.”
“Vile?” Valkyrie said. “Lord Vile was your saviour?”
“We thought he could be,” Wreath replied quickly. “His ascension through the ranks was unheard of. It was impossible. He was a prodigy. The darkness was…it wasn’t just in him. It was him.”
They turned a corner and followed a passageway to its end, Skulduggery leading the way without appearing to.
“And then he left,” Skulduggery said. “And joined Mevolent’s army. I bet that still rankles.”
“So you’ve been without a Death Bringer ever since?” Valkyrie asked.
“Yes,” Wreath said. He looked at Skulduggery. “Is that why you are here then? So you could make this clumsy attempt to embarrass me?”
“At first,” Skulduggery said. “But now I’m curious as to what trinket you’ve misplaced. Oh, look where we are. What a nice coincidence.”
They had arrived at a small chamber with wooden shelves at odd angles. The two Necromancers within fell silent immediately. Skulduggery went to step inside, but Wreath took hold of his arm.
“We didn’t ask for your help,” he said firmly. “This is a Necromancer affair.”
“It was here though?” Skulduggery asked. “Your trinket? Why don’t you tell us what has gone missing and I’ll tell you who took it.”
Wreath smiled thinly. “You’ve worked it out already?”
“I am a detective.”
Wreath took a moment then nodded to the two Necromancers and they left. He stepped back as Valkyrie joined Skulduggery in examining the room. “The missing object is a sphere, about the size of your fist, set inside a cradle of obsidian.”
“A Soul Catcher,” Skulduggery said.
“One of the last in existence,” Wreath nodded.
Valkyrie frowned. “Does that do what it sounds like it does? Why would you need to catch souls?”
“The Soul Catcher was used to trap and contain an individual energy,” Wreath told her, “to stop it from rejoining the stream. It was a barbaric punishment that we have long since outlawed.
“The last time an inventory was carried out was a month ago. If it was indeed stolen, it could have been stolen a month ago or it could have been stolen yesterday. The simple fact is, however, I can’t see how any thief could have got this far into the Temple without being seen.”
“Oh, it was definitely stolen,” Skulduggery said. “But the thief didn’t use the door.”
Valkyrie looked at him. “So who stole it?” Skulduggery pointed up. She clicked her fingers and raised her hand, the flames flickering across the patch of cracked and crumbled ceiling, large enough to fit a man through.
“Sanguine,” Valkyrie said.
Wreath frowned. “Billy-Ray Sanguine? What would he want with a Soul Catcher?”
“This is just a guess,” Skulduggery said, “but maybe he wants to use it to catch a soul.”
17
DEAD MAN TALKING
Vaurien Scapegrace was dead and Billy-Ray Sanguine had killed him.
Scapegrace was pretty sure that’s what happened anyway. He couldn’t remember all of it.
He remembered Sanguine taking him to one side, and telling him that he’d made a few calls and asked a few people, and nobody could vouch for Scapegrace as a remorseless killer of unparalleled skill, like he’d claimed. Scapegrace had tried to explain then that, fair enough, he hadn’t actually killed anyone yet, but it was only a matter of time, and if Sanguine and Scarab could just give him a chance, he’d prove himself worthy to be included in their plans.
At least, that’s what he’d planned to say. He dimly remembered getting as far as “Fair enough” and then…nothing.
Sanguine had killed him.
He opened his eyes, in a dark and dank dungeon, and looked up to see his Master’s face.
“Finally,” Scarab said and it was the greatest word Scapegrace had ever heard uttered. Finally. Here is my loyal companion, never to leave my side. Scapegrace smiled as he lay there.
“Stop grinning,” Scarab ordered. “You look deformed.”
“Sorry, Master,” Scapegrace said, sitting up. Why was he calling Scarab Master? He didn’t know, but it seemed so right, so he just continued. “Master, what’s happened to me?”
“You’re dead,” Master Scarab said. “You lied to us, Scapegrace. You’re not a killer. Knew it from the moment I saw you.”
“Was it because I fell off the chair?”
“It doesn’t matter what it was. But because you lied to us, wasted our time, made us rethink some of our plans, we decided to put your death to good use. We killed you and brought you back. Do you know what you are?”
“Very lucky?”
“You’re a zombie.”
Scapegrace laughed. “No, Master. Not me.”
Scarab took a knife from his pocket and stabbed it through Scapegrace’s arm. Scapegrace stared.
“You feel no pain,” Scarab continued.
“Oh.”
“Your corpse is being sustained by magic.”
“I’m a…I’m a zombie.”
“Yes.”
“Am…am I like that White Cleaver person?”
“I’ve been in prison for 200 years. I have no idea what you’re talking about. You are, to be blunt, a fairly basic zombie. You’re not one of those fully reanimated, self-healing zombies. You’re a lower class. Best I could do with the stuff I know.”
“Oh, I do appreciate it, Master.”
“Shut up. Do you know anything about zombies?”
“Not really…”
“You have no
magic. The magic you did have is being used to keep your body moving and your brain thinking – I wouldn’t imagine much magic is required for that particular feat.”
“I wouldn’t say so, sir.”
“The advantage of being such a basic zombie, however, is that you can pass on your condition with simply a bite. See, I want you to go out there and recruit.”
“Recruit?”
“One bite’ll do it. These people you recruit do not need to be sorcerers – in fact, it would be best if they weren’t. The thing is, you’re the only one who can bite, you get me? None of the others, and I mean none, can even taste human flesh.”
“Why can’t they?”
“Because I’m telling you they can’t. You are the only one who’ll be immune to its effects. They’ll be sustained by trace amounts of magic, though they’ll decompose faster than you will. The thing is they’ll want human flesh. They’ll need human flesh. You’ve got to make sure they don’t get any.”
“You can count on me, Master!”
Scarab sighed then looked at him. “You’re going to be killing folk, Mr Scapegrace. You’re finally going to be the killer you always dreamed of being. Do not mess this up.”
18
DARQUESSE
They drove away from the graveyard.
“Have you heard anything about Sanguine?”
Skulduggery asked. “Has he been spotted at all since I’ve been away?”
“He vanished,” Valkyrie said. “We didn’t know if he was dead or alive. I got him pretty good with Tanith’s sword, right across the belly. I suppose a bit of me actually thought I’d killed him.”
“Well, you didn’t.”
“I don’t know whether to be disappointed or glad.”
“Pick glad. You’ve got plenty of time to regret the things you haven’t done yet.”
“I’m…not sure what that means.”
“Take it home with you and think about it.”
“I will, thanks. So, anyway, we have no way of knowing when Sanguine stole the Soul Catcher.”
“That is annoying,” Skulduggery murmured. “Still, it’s not our concern.”
She frowned. “What?”
“It’s not our case. Why should we worry about what someone like Sanguine does? I’m bored with all of them. I need something new. I need a new mystery, with new people.”
“And so where are we going?”
“That snivelling boy said the Sanctuary Detectives are worried about a vision one of their Sensitives had. That sounds intriguing, doesn’t it?”
“Does it?”
“It does. It sounds new and exciting. I wonder if they’ve seen the end of the world. I love end-of-the-world visions. They’re always so graphic.”
“I don’t like visions at all.”
“Really?”
“I don’t like things being inevitable.”
“Ah, but visions of the future are not inevitable. The very fact that someone sees a vision of what will happen automatically changes what will happen. Granted, sometimes these changes are too infinitesimal to notice, but they are still changes. I find the whole thing quite fascinating to be honest. After all, you’re working against the natural course of events. You are working against your own destiny every time.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“That’s my way of looking at it,” Skulduggery said happily. “Give me a few minutes and that way will change.”
Even at this time in the morning the tattoo parlour was open. The low buzz of the tattooist’s needle greeted them the moment they stepped through the door. They climbed the narrow steps, passing all the photos of tattooed body parts.
The parlour’s only customer was a fat man lying face down on a tilted table. The skinny tattooist with the shaved head and the Dublin football jersey looked up from his work and a grin broke across his face.
“Skul-man!” he exclaimed as he rushed forward to shake his hand. “How is this possible? Last I heard you were trapped on a dead world overrun by evil trans-dimensional superfiends!”
Skulduggery nodded. “Just got back.”
“That’s awesome, man. That’s really great. So did you get me anything?”
“Like…a souvenir?” Skulduggery asked doubtfully.
“Doesn’t have to be anything big. A rock, maybe, or a twig. Just something from an alternate universe, you know? It’d be something to show the kid when he’s older, tell him it was an early birthday present from his Uncle Skulduggery.”
“I’m sorry, Finbar, I don’t have anything.”
“That’s OK, that’s OK. I suppose I could just give him any old rock, couldn’t I? He’d never know that it wasn’t from an alternate universe. He’d be so happy. I can just see him, bringing the rock into school, showing his little friends, carrying it around with him everywhere. I used to have a pet rock when I was a kid, but it ran away. At least, my mother said it ran away, but I think my dad just picked it up one afternoon and threw it out the window. I went looking for it, but…” Finbar’s voice cracked. “They all looked the same, you know? They all looked the same…” He narrowed his eyes. “Hey, Skul-man – you wearing a new head?”
“Yes, actually,” Skulduggery said, sounding very pleased. “What do you think?”
“Oh, man, I like it. Don’t get me wrong, I liked the other one, but this is just…better looking, y’know? The cheekbones are higher.”
Skulduggery looked at Valkyrie, his better-looking head tilted at quite a smug angle. She sighed then gestured to the fat man on the table. “Is it OK to be talking about, um, business stuff with…?”
“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Finbar said. “He came in as soon as we opened, asked for a growling panther on his shoulder blade. He fainted the moment I started.”
“A growling panther?”
“Yep.”
“Then why are you giving him a tattoo of a kitten?”
Finbar shrugged. “I’m just in a kitten kind of mood, y’know? So if you’re not here to give me a present, why are you here?”
“Have you had any particularly weird or unsettling visions lately?” Skulduggery asked. “We’ve been hearing about—”
“Darquesse,” Finbar said immediately.
Valkyrie frowned. “Darkness?”
“Darquesse, with a q and a u pronounced like a k. It’s causing a stir in the Sensitive community, let me tell you. And if that many psychics are having the same dream, you know it’s got to be trouble. I’ve been having these really freaked-out visions. They come to me day and night, and they’re so…disturbing. It’s like watching a horror movie without eyelids. Can’t even blink.”
“Who or what is Darquesse?” Skulduggery asked.
“Darquesse is the sorcerer who destroys the world,” Finbar said. “And I mean she levels it. I’ve seen cities flattened, like a nuke had gone off. Everything’s burning. I see little snippets as it happens. This woman in black…Mevolent was nothing compared to this kind of evil.”
“Do you know when this will happen?” Valkyrie asked.
“I don’t, but I think Cassandra Pharos may have some idea. The visions are coming to her pretty vividly for some reason. I can take you there if you’d like. Sharon and my kid are at her cult meeting, so I’m not doing anything for the next few hours.”
“Sharon’s in a cult?”
“Yeah, it’s one of those funny ones that try to get the women members to sacrifice their husbands at every full moon or something. I don’t know if that’s an appropriate atmosphere to bring a kid into, but everyone needs a hobby, am I right?”
Valkyrie didn’t quite know what to say to that, so she nodded to the unconscious fat man. “And it’s OK to leave him here?”
“He’ll be fine,” Finbar said, grabbing his jacket. “Will we take your car or mine?”
Skulduggery tilted his head. “Do you have a car?”
“Nope.”
“Then we’ll take mine.”
“Probably wise. I
think I’ve forgoten how to drive.”
They left the city and for most of the journey Finbar lamented the fact that his psychic powers could not ascertain who would win the All-Ireland Championship. What good were psychic powers, he asked, if they couldn’t tell you who was going to win the Gaelic football?
They drove on until they came to a cottage, surrounded by nothing but fields and meadows and hills, rolling back as far as they could see. A light headache pressed against Valkyrie’s temples, but she did her best to ignore it.
“Cassandra’s one of the best Sensitives around,” Finbar said as they got out of the Bentley. “Skul-man knows her, am I right?”
“You are,” Skulduggery confirmed.
“Cassandra’s a nice old bird,” Finbar continued, leading them to the cottage, “and she has all these fancy little doodads that help her with her psychic mojo stuff. Wait till you see the dream whisperers, Val. They’re like something out of Blair Witch.”
Valkyrie didn’t know what a Blair Witch was, but before she could ask the cottage door opened and a woman appeared. She looked to be in her fifties, and her long hair was grey and hung loosely around her shoulders. She wore a faded dress and a light cardigan.
“Cassandra,” Skulduggery said, a smile in his voice. “You’re looking well.”
“You’re a liar,” Cassandra Pharos said, “but I don’t care. It’s good to see you again.”
“Cassie,” Finbar said, “this is Valkyrie Cain.”
“I’ve seen you in my dreams, Valkyrie,” Cassandra said. “But in my dreams you’re older than you are now. That’s a good thing.”
“Oh,” Valkyrie said. “Right.”
Cassandra ushered them into the cottage and closed the door behind them. It was an almost perfectly ordinary cottage. It had rugs, it had a sofa, a TV, a bookshelf, a guitar in the corner and doors leading off into the other rooms. But what set it apart from any other cottage Valkyrie had been in were the dozens of little wooden figures hanging from the rafters.
Each one was about the size of her outstretched hand and was made up of bundles of twigs, bound with strips of black ribbon. Two arms, two legs, a torso and a head. Cassandra saw her looking.