The Dying of the Light (54 page)

Frustration biting into her words, Valkyrie said, “Mum, stay here. Dad, head over to that corner and see if we can get across the street from there. I’m going to check further up.”

She took off before either of her parents could object, the shock stick in her hand. Her leg was getting better the more she used it, but every step was causing her pain. She only had a few leaves left, though, so she withstood the discomfort. She reached the end of the alley, found herself at a wall she could easily have jumped over with the aid of her Elemental magic, but which now may as well have been a hundred metres high.

She cursed under her breath. Allowed herself a moment of pure anger and helplessness as she spun round, punching at nothing.

Then she got herself back under control, and retraced her steps. She saw her mother at the mouth of the alley, looking like she didn’t have a care in the world.

Valkyrie slowed.

Her mother’s anxiousness was gone. She was standing up straight, not looking scared any more.

A dread filled Valkyrie. Was she—

The twig. She needed to check the twig. Where was the twig? As she neared, she looked her mother up and down and—

There it was. Her mother still held the twig, and it was in one piece.

“Do I know you?” a man asked, just out of sight, and Valkyrie ducked back.

Valkyrie’s mum shook her head. “Nope. Don’t think so.”

The man sauntered into view. He was middle-aged, wearing slacks and a heavy jumper. “You look nervous.”

“Do I?” Valkyrie’s mum said. “I’m not feeling very well. Something I ate, probably.”

Valkyrie crept closer as the man nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Listen, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but … but you
are
one of us, right?”

“One of …? Oh, you mean, am I … do I … Am I possessed?”

The man laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

Valkyrie’s mum laughed along with him. “I don’t take any offence at that at all, don’t worry. In fact, I take it as a compliment.”

“Good!” the man chuckled.

“But the real question is, how do I know for sure that
you
are possessed?”

The man thought this was hilarious. “Oh, no, you got me! I’m faking it!”

“I knew it!” Valkyrie’s mum laughed.

“How will I prove it? How could I possibly prove it to you? Oh, I know …” His smiling lips turned black and the veins rose beneath his skin. “How’s that?”

Her mum paused a moment, then laughed again. “That’s pretty convincing!”

“I thought it might be! Now your turn!”

“Now my turn!”

“Exactly!”

“Now it’s my turn!”

“Let’s be having you!”

Valkyrie’s mum’s laugh was becoming strained. “Are you ready? I don’t think you’re ready!”

“I’m ready!”

“I don’t think you are!”

Her mum laughed and laughed, but the man’s laugh turned to a mere chuckle. “So let’s see,” he said.

Her mum doubled over with laughter. “OK then! Here it comes! Ready? I hope you’re ready! Three, two … one!”

Her mum straightened up. She blinked at the man.

“You’re not one of us,” he said, all laughter gone.

“No,” Valkyrie’s mum admitted.

“I’m … confused. What exactly did you think would happen when you counted down?”

“I’m not sure. I’m not very good at thinking on my feet.”

“Apparently not.” He looked around. “Are you Valkyrie Cain’s mother? We were told that you might be on your way. Where’s your daughter?”

“I don’t know.”

“You may as well tell me. She’ll come running anyway when you start screaming.”

“If you lay one finger on me …”

The man slowly pressed a finger into her chest. “Yes?”

Valkyrie’s mum hesitated.

“Sorry?” the man said, leaning in. “What was that?”

Valkyrie burst from cover, but the man heard her coming and smacked the shock stick from her grasp even as she swung. She cried out, pain shooting up her arm, and he hit her on the shoulder and she fell to her knees, fireworks going off behind her eyes. She heard a mad scramble, her dad charging into the man from behind, looked up in time to see her father get punched in the face. He stumbled back, sat down heavily with a dazed expression. Valkyrie grimaced, forced herself up as the man returned his attention to her mother.

“Now then,” he said, “what was that you were saying?”

Valkyrie’s mum jabbed her fingers into his eyes and he howled in pain and staggered away. He tripped over his own feet, fell to his hands and knees, and Valkyrie ran up and kicked him in the chin. His hands lifted off the ground for an instant and folded beneath him when he collapsed.

Ignoring the pain in her arm, Valkyrie turned to her mother. “Are you OK? Mum?”

“I’m … I …”

“Mum, are you OK?”

Her mother looked at her. “Everyone has eyes,” she mumbled.

letcher watched Skulduggery move through the dead city. The glass on the balcony, whatever it was, was better than any computer screen Fletcher had ever seen. At a gesture, Wreath could change their viewpoint whenever Skulduggery disappeared behind a building. He could zoom in close, swivel round to the side, tilt up and down – it was a fully controllable camera with perfect resolution. Something like this could change the face of movie-making forever.

“Has any sorcerer ever tried selling magic as technology?” Fletcher asked.

Wreath shrugged. “Sure. The Sanctuaries are usually very good at preventing it, but now and then they miss something, and some little slice of magic slips through.”

“Like what? Smartphones? Bluetooth?”

“Glow-in-the-dark fridge magnets.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh, yes. How do you think they stick to the fridge?”

“Magnetism.”

“Magic.”

“And what about the glow-in-the-dark bit?”

“Also magic.”

“That’s amazing.”

Wreath nodded. “Practically unbelievable.” His eyes narrowed. “Did you see that? Something—”

In the Necropolis, another porcelain-faced man stepped out into the middle of the street.

“And who might you be?” Skulduggery asked.

Wreath repositioned their viewpoint.

“I have many names,” said the man, “and none. I am who I am. As are we all. You may call me the Validator, since that would appear to be my purpose.” His accent was French.

“Right. Can we skip the talking in riddles part and go straight to the bit where you tell me what this test is?”

“This test is about you,” the Validator said. “This is a test only you can take, only you can pass … and only you can fail.”

“Is it maths?”

“You use humour to avoid taking your situation seriously.”

“On the contrary, I use humour because it’s really, really funny. I’m curious, though – do you live here? Do you ever leave? If you never leave and all you do is hang out with the last guy I was talking to, I can see why you’re so ponderous.”

“The City Below is my home. Why would I ever want to leave?”

“You make an excellent point. It’s calm, it’s peaceful, it’s charming in a disquieting sort of way … Lonely, though.”

“Oh, no,” said the Validator. “It is anything but lonely. Sometimes, though, its citizens need some coaxing to emerge. The dead are such shy creatures.”

“I’ve not found that to be the case.”

A woman’s voice spoke up. “Then you need to surround yourself with a better class of dead.”

Wreath frowned, pulled the viewing angle back as a shape, a ghost, drifted from one of the darkened doorways. It was female, Fletcher could see that much. There was a face, hazy though it may have been. He saw eyes, and a mouth.

“Hello, my love,” the woman said.

Skulduggery watched the ghost without speaking.

“I have missed you.”

Skulduggery turned to the Validator. “How are you doing this?”

“This is not trickery, I assure you.”

“It is really me,” said the ghost.

“You’re not allowed to talk,” Skulduggery said, anger snapping at his voice. “However you’re doing this, I’m going to give you one warning. Stop it before I lose my temper.”

The Validator took a single step back, allowing the ghost to drift closer to Skulduggery.

“I have been waiting for you,” she said.

“You are not my wife.”

“And you are not my husband,” said the ghost. “He was kind, and gentle, and loving, and he did all he could to avoid violence and bloodshed. But you … you are dark and twisted, and your soul is tormented by the things you have done. You have lost who you once were.”

“That man is dead. I’m the man who’s taken his place.”

“You should be here, with me,” said the ghost. “With us.”

Fletcher saw another smaller blur, the size of a child. It ran, in that indistinct way, in and out of doorways, like it was playing.

Skulduggery stepped back suddenly, as if he’d been struck. His shoulders sagged.

“When that madman killed us,” the ghost continued, “we stood on the other side of life and we watched. We watched you fall. We watched what he did to you, in the days after. We saw you scream and weep and beg. We prayed for you to die, for your suffering to come to an end. When he finally released you from your agony, we reached out, tried to pull you to us. To be together in peace. But you resisted. You fled back to the living world. Now the time has come again for you to join us.”

The child ran to its mother, and Skulduggery took another step back. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You have taken your vengeance,” the ghost said. “You have killed the man who murdered us. What else is keeping you here?”

“I have debts that need repaying.”

He was speaking to the woman, but his head was down, looking directly at the child. As Fletcher watched, Skulduggery took one step forward. He started to reach down to the child, then stopped himself, and stepped back. He stood there, trembling.

Suddenly Fletcher didn’t want to be seeing this. He didn’t want to be seeing this at all.

“My love,” said the woman’s ghost, “my sweet, you have done terrible things, things that have marked your soul. You carry that mark with you wherever you go, and because of it you have worked so hard to redeem yourself. You have saved the world. You have done so much. Surely it is time for you to be at peace?”

“Maybe some day. But not today.”

“My darling, you belong dead.”

And then another voice, as a third blurred figure stepped into view. A familiar voice.

“You belong dead,” said Ghastly Bespoke.

Skulduggery jerked away, raising a hand as if to ward him off. “Ghastly?”

“We’re waiting for you,” Ghastly said. “In the cold and the dark. We’re waiting. We’re watching. We see … everything.”

“What are you?” Skulduggery asked. “Who are you?”

“You killed my mother,” Ghastly said, and Skulduggery went quiet. “We see the past and the present and the future. I know the things you’ve done. I know the lies you’ve told. To me. To your oldest friend.”

“If you truly see into my past,” Skulduggery said, “then you know what happened. You know I wasn’t myself.”

“I don’t care,” Ghastly said. “Being dead means you don’t care. You don’t hold grudges. You only need. We need you, my friend. Your time is up.”

“No,” said Skulduggery.

“We never got to say goodbye. We never got to shake each other’s hand. I’m offering it now. Join us.”

Ghastly held out his hand. Skulduggery observed it for a moment, then shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”

Another figure emerged from a side street.

“Told you,” said Anton Shudder.

More blurred shapes stepped into view.

“You belong dead,” said Shudder. “You deserve to rest. While I was living, I was never at peace. Now? Now I’m content. Now I can smile.”

Skulduggery took another step back. “What is this?”

“We are the people you have left behind,” his wife said. “We are the people you have let die. We are the people who have died around you. We are the people you have killed.”

More figures, thickening the crowd. Fletcher saw Mr Bliss, and Kenspeckle Grouse, and the assassin Tesseract, and the Necromancer Craven. He searched the faces, eyes flickering from one blurred visage to the next, until he found her. She turned in that instant, as if looking back at him. Stephanie.

Fletcher grabbed Wreath’s arm. “Is it real? Is it really them?”

“I don’t know,” Wreath said, disentangling himself without taking his eyes off the scene below. “I don’t know how the Necropolis operates. I don’t know what they’re capable of.”

“But it’s a trick,” said Fletcher. “They’re drawing all these memories from Skulduggery’s mind or something, right?”

“Skulduggery Pleasant does not have a mind that can be read,” said Wreath. “But it may still be a trick. Some kind of subterfuge. Or …”

“Or what?”

“Or it could really be them, plucked from the Great Stream of life and death. Like fish.”

One of the figures, the ghosts, reached for Skulduggery, snagging his sleeve.

He yanked his arm back. “What do you want?”

“You belong here,” said Ghastly.

“Stay with us,” said Skulduggery’s wife.

A hole was opening in the ground, widening till it filled the narrow street. Some of the figures slipped down into it without alarm. Others saw it, and willingly let themselves fall.