The Dying of the Light (52 page)

She realised, then, that the person she needed to speak to wasn’t there any more, and she cried for Stephanie, and finally went to sleep.

The next morning started in silence. Valkyrie woke up early, nightmares driving her from slumber, but got up late, almost midday. She pulled on her dressing gown over a pair of light shorts and a T-shirt. She stood in her room and listened to her parents downstairs. She didn’t even know what day it was. Was it the weekend? Was it a Sunday? She didn’t want to go down. She didn’t want to find out that her parents hadn’t spoken to each other all night. Her folks never argued. There was never tension in the air.

She left her room. The door to Alice’s room was open, and Alice lay napping in her cot. Valkyrie couldn’t help it. She looked at her sister and smiled. Her baby sister always made her smile.

She went downstairs. Someone knocked on the door, and she went to answer it, tightening the sash round her waist as she did so. Her bare feet settled into the bristles of the welcome mat and her hand went to the latch, twisted it to the right. She pulled the door open, smiling politely in gentle anticipation. The smile didn’t leave her face, even as she saw Dai Maybury standing there.

It left her face when he hit her, though. As she stumbled back, blood spouting from her nose, sudden tears in her eyes, her mouth was opening to, what? Curse? Cry out? Threaten? She’d never know, because he was already in the hall with her and he grabbed her and hurled her into the living-room door. It burst open under the impact and she sprawled over the armchair. She heard her mother’s cry of alarm, and a rush of feet, and she raised her head in time to see Dai’s hand collide with her mother’s jaw. Her mum collapsed.

Valkyrie shoved the armchair out of her way and dived at Dai. He batted down her arms, keeping her fingers from his eyes, and she followed up with a headbutt that she realised, too late, he was expecting. His elbow cracked into her cheek and lights flashed behind her eyes, and he pivoted out of the way and let her own momentum take her into the wall. Her shoulder dislodged some family photographs. One of them, in a heavy frame, fell right on her foot. She didn’t notice.

Her father came running in, charging straight at Dai, who watched him come and moved only at the last moment, hip-throwing Desmond Edgley to the carpet. Dai leaned over, hit him three times, and Valkyrie’s dad stayed down.

The room spun and Valkyrie lurched upright. She went to run at Dai, but her knees bent without warning and she stumbled sideways, falling on to the coffee table. Dai walked by her. She watched him go, her eyes unfocused. He went upstairs.

She needed to get her head straight. She was stunned. Her equilibrium was shot. Blood ran from her nose. She was close to passing out. Concussion? Maybe. If she was concussed, then passing out would be the worst thing she could possibly do. She took a moment, breathed in through her mouth, working to sharpen her thoughts. Upstairs she heard movement. Dai was searching for something. What was he searching for?

The Sceptre.

Valkyrie stood. The sounds of the search upstairs had ceased. He’d found it. Her vision no longer swam. She was back in control.

She grabbed the poker from the fireplace as Dai came down the stairs. She ran into the hall, about to swing it at his head. Dai was calm. Why was he calm? She saw the backpack over his shoulder, the backpack containing the Sceptre. In his arms, he carried the sleeping beauty, little baby Alice.

Valkyrie froze, horrified beyond measure.

Dai drove a kick into her stomach so hard it launched her back off her feet. She hit the wall and bounced off, falling to her hands and knees and then curling into a ball. That dreadful panic seized her, the terror that comes with not being able to draw breath.

She forced open her eyes, manoeuvred her seized-up body around enough to see out of the front door, to where Dai was opening her mother’s car. Moving with a calmness born of unnerving, unnatural confidence, Dai put Alice in the baby seat, and set about strapping her in.

Gritting her teeth, Valkyrie made her body straighten. Her muscles screamed at her, begging to contract, but she straightened her spine, arched her back, managed to suck in a sliver of air. Feeling sick, feeling weak, winded, terrified and desperate, she rolled over, pushed herself up, the poker still in her hand.

Satisfied that Alice was secure, Dai closed the door gently so as not to wake her, and put the bag containing the Sceptre on the passenger seat. He walked round the car, and when he was at the closest point to the house, Valkyrie ran at him. He saw her at the last moment, ducked the poker, but she kept coming, ramming her shoulder into his sternum. He fell back on to the bonnet and Valkyrie swung back towards his head. He rolled off the car, the poker striking the windscreen, cracking it, and he grabbed her wrist. Valkyrie let go of the weapon, jabbed her free hand at his eyes. Dai cursed, released her, stumbled away, trying to clear his vision.

She tore the sash from her dressing gown, looped it over his head from behind, and tightened. Dai gagged, fingers digging into his own neck as he tried to loosen the stranglehold. Valkyrie pulled him backwards, tightening the loop with vicious tugs. His heels kicked, pulverising the flower bed. Then he got his legs beneath him and he powered backwards, the back of his head crashing into Valkyrie’s face.

They both went down, the sash lost amid the mad scramble. Her face stung with that numb feeling just before the pain kicks in. She felt his hands on her, pulling her up. She slipped out of her sleeves, leaving him holding her dressing gown. She spun, her hands latching on to the back of his neck, and she jumped, driving a knee into his solar plexus. She held on, kept throwing knees, just like Tanith had taught her, never letting up, never giving him a moment to counter.

She touched down with her right foot and her ankle gave, and in that moment Dai moved. His left arm snaked over her shoulder, his hand clutching her back, and his right shot down and under her legs, all the way under, his hand grabbing the back of her shorts. Suddenly Valkyrie was being lifted and turned, and she clutched at him, but there was nothing she could do to stop him from tipping forward.

They hit the driveway, Dai on top, and for the second time in less than a minute, her breath left her. She lay there, groaning, eyes open and blinking. Dai looked at her, the black veins running beneath his skin.

“Nice try,” he said, and stood, brushed himself down. Valkyrie grabbed weakly at his ankle. He looked down at her hand, and slowly raised his foot. She lost her grip and her hand fell to the ground. He gave her a little smile, and stomped.

Valkyrie sat up, screaming, clutching her broken fingers to her chest, and Dai walked back to the car, got in behind the wheel, and reversed out of the driveway. Her screams had turned to sobs by the time he drove away.

he search for the Necropolis took them to Scotland.

Fletcher’s feet were sore. The night had been cold and he’d lagged behind Skulduggery and Wreath, finally giving up altogether and sitting down. He left the searching to the experts, and as long as he could keep them in sight, he could teleport to their side whenever they needed him.

Because of this he only heard snippets of the conversation. At first, silence had reigned. He knew the two men had never liked each other, and so he’d expected this. But gradually a conversation had sparked up, and he caught a few barbed comments every time he was close enough to listen in. They mentioned Wyoming once or twice, and the war – the old war, with Mevolent.

Fletcher left them to their argument. When he was hungry, he teleported off to grab something nice to eat. When he needed a warmer jacket, he teleported away to get it. When he needed to use the bathroom, he teleported to an annoying celebrity’s house, and didn’t bother flushing. But he spent most of his time not thinking about Stephanie.

When the sun came up all Fletcher wanted to do was sleep. He sat with his back against a tree and dozed until his phone rang.

“We’ve found it,” Skulduggery said.

Fletcher stood. It was a cold day and the seat of his jeans was damp. He looked around, saw nothing but trees and rocks and sky.

“Turn south,” said Skulduggery. Fletcher turned. “That’s east. OK, that’s north. There you go. See us?”

In the distance, Fletcher saw a burst of fire. He put away his phone and teleported over to Skulduggery’s side. Wreath was standing at a doorway cut into a rock wall. Skulduggery still had his phone in his hand, and when he moved closer to the doorway, the screen blanked.

Skulduggery examined it. “A dead zone,” he murmured. “Fletcher, stay close. We won’t be able to use these.”

Fletcher nodded.

The steps were black marble. Wreath led the way down, and Fletcher stayed beside Skulduggery. It was cold, and getting colder. Dark, and getting darker. Flames sputtered in the iron brackets that were hammered into the walls. The space was tight, and the ceiling sloped with them. Nobody spoke. Their feet echoed.

They kept going down. Once more, the cold got colder. Once more, the dark got darker.

And then the ceiling came to a sudden end and their surroundings opened to a vast city of concrete with a rock sky and a thousand glowing orbs of light. Fletcher stopped, frozen in an unexpected moment of awe. The buildings, featureless save for the narrow rectangular windows, formed a maze of right angles. The streets were narrow – made for people, not carriages. To set foot in this city was to be lost – Fletcher somehow knew this.

“We can go no further,” said Wreath. “The living cannot cross into the Necropolis. Only the dead may go.”

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a map handy?” Skulduggery asked.

Wreath smiled. “Sadly, I do not. We’ll be watching, though. There’s a balcony in the rock wall that gives us a panoramic view of the place. We can shout out directions from there, if you’d like.”

“Wonderful. So what can I expect?”

“In order to activate the sigil, you’ll need to get to the square in the exact centre of the city. On your way you’ll be faced with two challenges. I don’t know what they are and I don’t know how to beat them. Once you get past them, you’ll face the Guardian in the final challenge. I’m assuming that one’s a brawl, which should make you happy. I know how you like to hit things.”

“One of my hobbies,” Skulduggery murmured.

Skulduggery continued on, while Fletcher followed Wreath to a hidden staircase that led up to a long room with an open balcony. Fletcher hurried over, stood with his hands on the cold stone, looking down at the city. He saw Skulduggery almost immediately, a lone figure moving in the stillness. More than that, though, he
heard
him. He heard every footstep. Somehow the acoustics of this huge chamber fed the sounds from the city up into the balcony.

Wreath reached out, and Fletcher realised there was glass in front of him. At least, he thought it was glass. A few swipes of Wreath’s hand and their view of Skulduggery was magnified.

“That’s pretty cool,” Fletcher said.

“Indeed it is,” said Wreath.

They followed Skulduggery’s progress for ten minutes. Shouted directions were not needed, as it turned out. Skulduggery was reading the air, somehow divining what path came to a dead end and what led on.

Then there was movement, and a shape emerged from the shadows.

“Who goes there?” the shape asked. The voice was male. Scottish. The viewing window showed a person in a black robe, wearing a porcelain mask.

Skulduggery stopped and observed the shape. “My name is Skulduggery Pleasant. I’m here to activate the Meryyn sigil. Do you mean to stop me?”

“No,” said the shape, and Fletcher realised that it wasn’t a mask he wore, but his actual face – porcelain and delicate and astonishingly creepy. “I am the Inquisitor. I mean only to test you. Whether or not I have to stop you will depend on the outcome.”

“What’s the test?”

“A simple one. A test of purity. You have no skin, I see. Nor blood nor organ.”

“Correct.”

“A curious creature. I know of some who would very much like to examine one such as you. Would you be willing to be examined?”

“Probably not.”

“A pity,” said the Inquisitor. “If you agreed to be examined, I could let you pass. I would deem that a worthy enough compromise.”

“I’m not here to compromise,” said Skulduggery. “I’m here to take the test and activate the sigil.”

“But the route I offer you is easier. All it would require is your consent to be examined. I assure you, it would take no longer than the life of a day.”

“I said no.”

The Inquisitor was silent for a moment. “I know of some who know you, skeleton. They whisper in my ear even now. They know the things you have done. They know of the things done to you. They know of your wife and child.”

Now it was Skulduggery’s turn to pause. “What does any of this have to do with the test?”

“Your wife and child,” said the Inquisitor, “murdered in front of you by a man whom you later turned to dust. They died screaming. They died begging you to save them. Your existence from that point on has been defined by that moment.”