Seasons of War Read online

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2020

  First published in this edition in the United States of America by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2020

  Published in this ebook edition in 2020

  HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

  HarperCollins Publishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Skulduggery Pleasant rests his weary bones on the web at:

  www.skulduggerypleasant.com

  Derek Landy blogs under duress at

  www.dereklandy.blogspot.com

  Text copyright © Derek Landy 2020

  Skulduggery Pleasant™ Derek Landy

  Skulduggery Pleasant logo™ HarperCollinsPublishers

  Cover illustration copyright © Neil Swaab

  Cover design by Katie Everson

  All rights reserved.

  Derek Landy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008386238

  Ebook Edition © April 2020 ISBN: 9780008386177

  Version: 2020-02-25

  This book is dedicated to the next lot of nieces and nephews.

  Cameron and Samira, Elle and Evan –

  you’re a strange bunch, and no mistake.

  I’m sure you’ll turn out absolutely fine, but right now

  you’re kind of odd, and funny-looking, and one of you

  has the cold, dead eyes of a future serial killer.

  I’m not saying which one, though.

  Don’t want to jinx it.

  And all was memory.

  The memory of gods and people. The memory of monsters.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Spring

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Summer

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Autumn

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Winter

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  Chapter 122

  Chapter 123

  Chapter 124

  Chapter 125

  Chapter 126

  Chapter 127

  Chapter 128

  Chapter 129

  Chapter 130

  Chapter 131

  Chapter 132

  Chapter 133

  Chapter 134

  Chapter 135

  Chapter 136

  Chapter 137

  Chapter 138

  Chapter 139

  Chapter 140

  Chapter 141

  Chapter 142

  Chapter 143

  Chapter 144

  The Skulduggery Pleasant series

  About the Publisher

  “I don’t know who I am any more.”

  “OK.”

  “I thought I did. I was the good guy. I was descended from the Last of the Ancients. I saved the world.”

  “And what’s changed?”

  “You know what’s changed.”

  “You think you’re not the good guy?”

  “I’ve got the blood of the Faceless Ones in my veins. How can I be the good guy when everything I’ve come from is murder and death and torture and hatred? You know the worst thing? It’s how much sense it all makes now. Darquesse killing all those people? The reflection killing Crystal? Me killing Alice? Everyone I’ve hurt and all the terrible things I’ve done?”

  “You’re blaming your heritage for all that?”

  “Oh, no. No, no. I’m blaming me. But I’m the way I am because of my blood.”

  “And what about Alice? Is she a bad guy, too?”

  “She’s eight.”

  “But you saw her in the future, about to face down her arch-enemy. Do you think she’s the hero in that story, or the villain?”

  “It doesn’t matter. The future can be changed. I’m going to change it. Whatever road she’s going down, I can head her off.”

  “How is she? Still crying herself to sleep?”

  “Some nights. My folks took her to the child psychologist, who says it looks like repressed trauma. I should tell them. Right? I should. They need to know what’s happened in order to make her better.”

  “If you tell them—”

  “I know.”

  “If you tell them, they might never speak to you again. They’ll definitely never let you see Alice.”

  “But they’ll be able to help her.”

  “How? How will that help her? What will they tell this psychologist? When our daughter was a baby, her big sister killed her and fractured her soul? How can any mortal psychologist make sense of that? How can … What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You have another headache?”

  “It’s nothing. And I don’t know how it’d help, and I don’t know how they’d explain it without sounding nuts, but I’ve kept this from them for way too long and they need to know the truth.”

  “No, they don’t. What would be the point in ruining your relationship with your parents? You love them, they love you, and they never have to know about Alice’s soul being broken. You fixed it, didn’t you? You went through hell to find the pieces and put it back together. Why would you tell them what happened? Alice isn’t going to. She barely understands what happened back then.”

  “Maybe she should tell them. I’m making her keep a huge, traumatising secret from her own parents. I damaged her years ago, when she was a defenceless little baby, and, when I tried to fix her, I just damaged her some more. At least when her soul was fractured she didn’t feel any sadness. What have I done? What exactly have I done to make her life better? I’ve just given her back that sadness, all in one go. All the pain, all the sorrow, all the trauma, all the horror, all the—”

  “Valkyrie. Stop. You’re doing it again.”

  “I’ve ruined her.”

  “Stop it. You’re spiralling.”

  “So what? So what if I’m spiralling? I deserve to spiral. After everything I’ve done, I deserve to spiral and I deserve a lot worse. You don’t know what it’s like to have these thoughts in your head. You don’t. You don’t know what it’s like to have them constantly swirling and getting louder and louder. It’s deafening in here. I can’t hear anything else. All these voices, all these horrible, horrible voices, saying horrible, horrible things. The guilt … Jesus, the guilt. You don’t know. It’s everywhere. Every time I open my eyes. Every time I close my eyes. It’s always there. It’s underneath everything. Even when I’m with Militsa. Even when I’m with Skulduggery. I don’t know … I don’t know how much longer I can keep going.”

  “Hey.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Hey. Look at me. Listen to me. You’ll keep going because that’s what you do. I don’t know much about much, but I know you. I am you, although slightly smarter and significantly prettier.”

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “You doubt yourself. That’s fine. Everyone has doubts. You hate yourself, too. I get that. You’ve been put in impossible situations, forced to do unthinkable things. But this, how you’re feeling now, it won’t last forever. You think it will – it feels like it will – but it won’t. You’re in a pit, but you’ve climbed out of that pit before and you’ll climb out of it again.”

  “I’m too tired.”

  “I don’t think that matters. You’re not going to stop climbing. I know you’re not.”

  “You don’t … you don’t know me like you think you do. You’re not me. You’re a piece of Darquesse that she left behind.”

  “And Darquesse is a piece of you.”

  “So you’re a piece of a piece of me, from back when I was eighteen. I’ve changed since then.”

  “I know you have. Look at all the muscle you’ve put on. Why couldn’t you have had abs seven years ago, eh? Then I’d have them, too.”

  “That’s not really what I mean.”

  “You talk like you’re about to give up, but you’re down at that gym how many times a week? And what food do you eat? When was the last time you had a pizza?”

  “I don’t …”

  “If you’d given up, you wouldn’t be working out. If you’d given up, you wouldn’t be calculating when you’re getting your next dose of protein. You’d have stopped caring about any of that stuff.”

  “But that’s habit. That’s … I dunno. That’s something I do to take my mind off things. If I focus on the next rep, if I focus on lifting more than I did last week, then I have a few moments where I don’t have to listen to all the horrible things going on in my head.”

  “You’ve still got a hell of a lot of fight in you, Valkyrie. I know you do. I can see it.”

  “I don’t think you’re right. I’m not a robot. I don’t just keep marching on. There’s only, like, so much someone can take, isn’t there? There’s only so many times you can fall into a pit before you think to yourself, what’s the point in climbing out if I’m just going to fall back in tomorrow?”

  “I … You need help. And not from me. And not from that bloody music box. You need professional help. Maybe some decent medication. You definitely need someone to talk to who knows what they’re doing.”

  “The music box helps.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed in the morning if I didn’t have it.”

  “It’s not healthy.”

  “It calms me down.”

  “It turns you into a zombie. I’ve watched you when you’re listening to it. You just sit there, staring at the wall. I’ve actually called your name, actually shouted in your ear, and you haven’t noticed I’m even there.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “I wish I were. It’s not good for you.”

  “It helps.”

  “And what about those little Splashes of magic? Did you really think I didn’t know about them?”

  “I just use them when I have to.”

  “You realise it’s a drug, right? What, nothing to say to that?”

  “I don’t talk to you to be judged. I talk to you because there’s no one else I can talk to about this stuff. And I talk to you because, if I didn’t, you know what? You’d float around, you’d walk through walls, you’d do whatever it is you do when I’m not there, and no one would see you or hear you or even know you exist. So do me one small favour, OK? Do not judge me. You’re a piece of a piece of me that’s a frickin’ murderer. You’re a piece of a piece of me that’s an inhuman psychopath who was intent on killing the whole goddamn world.”

  “You’re in a bad mood. I can tell.”

  “Just leave me alone, Kes. I need to be by myself.”

  “You’ll never be left alone, you silly thing. This is the life you chose, a life of adventure. And the next one, as always, is just around the corner.”

  Red candles, maybe a dozen of them. Brick walls. Lot of rafters, lot of shadows, lots of big, empty patches of darkness. Wooden floor. She was in a cellar, a big one, upright against something metal. She could feel the struts digging into her back. Her arms were over her head, wrists bound with rope. Ankles tied, too.

  Her tongue tasted sour. They’d drugged her. Her mouth was dry. She licked her lips. Her head was dull. She shot a little magic through her system and her mind cleared instantly.

  She wondered if her make-up had been smudged. She hoped it hadn’t. It had taken ages to put on. Her shoes were gone. Good. They were awful. She was still in the dress, though, the one that was too small and too tight and not very practical. It did have one thing going for it, however – the amulet of dark metal, in the shape of a skull, that fitted against her hip like some cool-looking clasp.

  She raised her head slightly, gave her surroundings a closer inspection through the hair that hung over her face. Pedestals displayed occult paraphernalia in glass cases like this was someone’s idea of a black magic museum, and good quality – though obviously plastic – skeletons, dressed in rags, hung from shackles along the walls. The ground was sticky against her bare feet. She was positioned in the exact centre of a pentagram painted on the floorboards. She was pretty sure the dark stains had been made by copious splashes of blood.

  “She’s awake,” someone said in the darkness ahead of her. “Hey, she’s awake. Get the others.”

  The sound of feet on wooden steps, and then yellow light flooded in from above. A large shadow flowed across the light and then the cellar door closed and she was left with the flickering red candles and whoever had spoken.

  He came forward, out of the darkness. Dressed in a red robe with the hood up.

  “What’s your name?” he asked. His voice was gentle. American. Warm.

  “Valkyrie,” she said.

  “Valerie?”

  “Valkyrie. With a K.”

  “That’s a nice name. Unusual. Is it Irish?”

  “Norwegian.”

  “Oh. My friend said you were from Ireland.”

  “I am. My name isn’t.”

  “Ah.” He stepped a bit closer. She could see the lower half of his face, his square jaw and his even white teeth.

  “You’re probably freaking out right now. I get that. I do. You wake up, you’re in a dark cellar, you see satanic stuff all around, you probably think you’re going to be horribly butchered in some ridiculous human-sacrifice ritual, yeah?” He pulled his hood down and his smile broadened. “Well, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

  “I know you,” said Valkyrie.

  “Do you?”

  “You’re that actor,” she said. “From that movie. You’re Jason Randal.”

  “You want an autograph?”

  “How about a selfie? If you could just hand me my phone …”

  He laughed. “Oh, I like you. Usually the girls we sacrifice are full of panicked questions at this stage, like they think they can make sense of what’s happening, like they can’t bring themselves to believe that they’re about to be murdered.”

  “What was that movie you were in, with the guy from The Big Lebowski?”

  Jason tilted his head slightly. “I haven’t been in a film with—”

  “No, you know the one. You both play dead cops who are still, like, solving crimes and stuff? You’re not zombie cops, or ghost cops, but … what’s it called? I want to say RIP, but …”

  Jason’s smile faded. “RIPD,” he said.

  “Yes,” Valkyrie said. “That was a terrible movie. Why did you make that?”

  He scratched his jaw. “That was Ryan Reynolds. You’re thinking of Ryan Reynolds.”