The Dying of the Light Page 11

  “I’m here,” Skulduggery said. “I was beginning to think you were lost to us.”

  Finbar’s mouth twitched into a brief smile. “Sorry. You’re not going to get rid of me so easily.”

  Stephanie’s eyes widened. No way.

  “Valkyrie, what can you tell us about where you are?” Cassandra asked.

  “It … it’s dark here,” Finbar said. “Cold. Finbar is like … his mind is at the far end of a bridge, and you’re just beyond that. You’re this dim light …”

  “Do you know where you are physically?” Skulduggery asked. “Where is Darquesse right now? What’s she doing?”

  Finbar’s frown deepened. “Experimenting,” he said. “Experimenting with magic. Expanding her abilities. When she’s like this, I can … I can talk, and she won’t notice.”

  “Hold on there,” Stephanie said. “Wait a second. How can we be sure that you’re really Valkyrie?”

  “You don’t get to speak to me,” Finbar said, his voice sharpening. “Last time I saw you, you tried to kill me. Skulduggery, why is she here?”

  “Stephanie’s helping,” Skulduggery said.

  “You can’t trust her.”

  “He can’t trust you,” said Stephanie, the anger rising.

  Finbar pointed a finger straight into Stephanie’s face. “Shut. Up.” His arm collapsed back on to the table. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll deal with her when I’m back in control. So how do I do that?”

  Cassandra sat forward. “Valkyrie, we’re going to need you to focus.”

  “I’m focused.”

  “Not now. We need you to prepare yourself, psychically, for what we have to do.”

  “Uh,” said Finbar, “how do I do that?”

  “By listening, and understanding. I’ve been speaking to every Sensitive worth talking to and, while the chances are slim, we think there is a way to force Darquesse from your body, at least theoretically.”

  “Theoretically fails to fill me with hope,” Finbar said.

  Cassandra gave a soft smile. “Deacon Maybury has the ability to rewrite personalities. To do this, he builds up psychic walls, constructs corridors for thoughts, and shuts off aspects of the personality that need to be kept hidden. He fundamentally redesigns the architecture of the mind. Not even Argeddion, who also knows his own true name, has broken through these walls.”

  “But we don’t want to suppress Darquesse,” Finbar said. “We want to get rid of her. And the only reason Argeddion hasn’t broken through is because he’s unaware of his situation. Darquesse knows what Deacon Maybury can do.”

  Cassandra nodded. “Getting rid of her is still the goal, don’t worry. Essentially, what Deacon’s redesign does is to split the original personality in two, creating a pocket personality that is then sequestered off to one side. Working with some friends of mine, I believe I can isolate this part and remove it from your mind.”

  Stephanie frowned. “And put it where exactly?”

  Skulduggery set a glass orb on the table. “A Soul Catcher will trap Darquesse’s essence just as effectively as a Remnant. What we do with her after that is a conversation for another time. Valkyrie, the only thing you have to concern yourself with is preparing to hold on with everything you’ve got once the Sensitives start their work.”

  “I can do that,” said Finbar.

  “It won’t be easy,” said Cassandra.

  “Dammit,” said Finbar.

  “You’ll feel your thoughts splitting,” Cassandra said. “You’ll find it difficult to concentrate, difficult to remember. But you must. You have to focus on something, a word, a phrase, something to latch on to while we’re pulling Darquesse away from you.”

  “The sparrow flies south for winter,” Finbar said immediately.

  Stephanie heard the amusement in Skulduggery’s voice. He was talking a little faster now, with a little more life to his words. “Yes. Good. When Cassandra and the other Sensitives are doing their thing, I’ll be with you, and that phrase will bind us together. The moment you hear me say it, you focus on it, repeat it, pour everything you’ve got into those six words.”

  “I don’t know how long the process will take,” said Cassandra. “It might be minutes. It might be days. You have to be ready for anything.”

  “So when do we do it?” Finbar asked.

  “Soon,” said Skulduggery. “I don’t want to tell you exactly when. I don’t want Darquesse to pick up on anything unusual. But be ready.”

  “OK,” said Finbar. “I can do this. OK. I mean, it’s risky, though. What if she figures out what I’m up to?”

  “You just have to hope she doesn’t,” said Skulduggery.

  “And we just have to hope that you’re really Valkyrie,” said Stephanie. “Otherwise we’re the ones who’ll be walking into a trap.”

  Finbar paused, then said, “I really don’t like you.” He frowned. “I have to go. I’ve talked to you for too long.”

  Skulduggery squeezed Finbar’s hand. “I’ll see you soon, Valkyrie.”

  Finbar managed a smile, and then his face went blank. A moment later, he snorted, raised his head and opened his eyes, looked around. “Well? Did it work?”

  Stephanie pulled her hands back, and folded her arms.

  “Oh, it worked,” said Skulduggery.

  He was insufferable. Stephanie walked beside him as they made their way through the Sanctuary’s corridors, and Skulduggery would not shut up. He cracked jokes, he told stories, he was by turns smug, arrogant and whimsical and, worst of all, he was paying attention to her.

  “I thought you wanted me to talk more,” he said when he noticed her silence. “Can’t have it both ways, Stephanie. I can’t be quiet when you want to sulk and chatty when you want to chat. That’s not how it works. That’s not how I work.”

  “I’m not sulking.”

  “Well, you’re doing something with your face that resembles sulking. Are you glowering? You might be glowering. Glowering is like sulking only scarier.”

  They stepped into the elevator, and Skulduggery thumbed the button for the top floor. The doors slid closed.

  “You’re definitely frowning, though,” he continued as they started to move. “Do you know how many muscles it takes to frown, as opposed to the muscles it takes to smile? I don’t. I doubt anyone does. What constitutes a smile anyway? Is it just the movement of the mouth, or are the eyes involved? And to what extent is each muscle utilised? The old homily about how frowning uses more muscles than smiling is entirely redundant unless, of course, you’re talking about the underlying message, and as a message, it’s a wonderful, life-affirming thing that bypasses anything so pedantic as actual, provable facts.”

  “Could we go back to the awkward silences, please?”

  “We’ve moved beyond the silences, Stephanie. We’re on new ground now.”

  “I hate new ground.”

  “Do you want a hug?” asked Skulduggery.

  “God, no.”

  “You’re probably right. I should probably save my hugs for later.”

  The elevator stopped and they got out. They approached a set of double doors guarded by the Black Cleaver.

  Skulduggery knocked, then nodded to the Cleaver. “Hi.”

  The Black Cleaver didn’t acknowledge him.

  “I meant to say, I like the new look,” Skulduggery continued. “It’s moody. It’s edgy. It doesn’t really leave a whole lot of scope for anything further down the line, though. That would be my only criticism. You’ve gone from grey to white and now to black and, really, what’s left? You could go multicoloured, I suppose. You could show your support for the gay, lesbian and transgender communities. The Rainbow Cleaver, perhaps? No? Too much? That’s not your thing? Ah, that’s a pity.”

  Skulduggery stopped talking. The Black Cleaver didn’t move a millimetre.

  Skulduggery resumed talking. “I don’t know if you know this, you probably do, but people here have been around for a few hundred years and, well, things happen. You stop
being so fixated on things that don’t matter. The pursuit of happiness, that’s what it’s all about. That’s all I’m saying on the subject. It’s OK to be different, because we’re all different in our own ways. There. Sermon over. Would you like a hug?”

  The doors opened. “Are you giving out hugs?” China asked.

  “Only to those who need them,” Skulduggery said, leading the way in.

  China raised an eyebrow. “Someone’s in a good mood.”

  “He won’t shut up,” Stephanie muttered.

  China’s apartment was on the top floor of the highest tower in the Sanctuary. White walls and high ceilings. It was a celebration of taste – of art, of culture, of history, of magic. Of power.

  China closed the doors behind them. “Should I take it that this good mood means you were successful in communicating with Valkyrie?”

  Skulduggery walked up to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked out over Roarhaven. “You should,” he said.

  “And she agreed to Cassandra’s plan?”

  “She did.”

  China smiled. “Well, that is good news.”

  For some reason, seeing recent events brighten China’s mood was even more annoying than Skulduggery’s chirpiness. At least Stephanie had expected Skulduggery’s chirpiness. Some of it anyway.

  “In order for the Sensitives to do their part,” Stephanie said, “we’ll need to hold Darquesse in one place for a period of time, right? Have we figured out just how we’re going to do this, or are we simply hoping she trips over and knocks herself out?”

  “Such attitude,” said China. “I dare say this one is even more sarcastic than the original. She lacks a certain warmth, though, a quality that made Valkyrie so endearing.”

  “I’m not here to be warm or to be liked,” said Stephanie. “I’m here to stop Darquesse and go home. Are you going to help us with that or aren’t you?”

  The corner of China’s mouth curved slightly upwards. “But of course, my dear. I do apologise for wasting time with small talk. I believe I may be of some assistance, yes.”

  She led them to a large table filled with open books. On a clear space by the edge was a journal, in which was drawn a circle of symbols. Notes were scrawled in different coloured inks, linked by arrows and underlined for effect. Measurements spilled out on to the adjoining page, like an idea that couldn’t be contained.

  “For the last few weeks, I have been spending my precious time designing traps,” said China. “This design you see before you is the culmination of my work. It should take a sorcerer’s power and throw it back at her. Once Darquesse enters this circle, her own strength will loop back and stun her, incapacitating her for between five and ten seconds. Because Stephanie is the only one of us without magic, and so the only one who will not be affected by the trap, I suggest she act as bait. Fletcher Renn will be waiting with the Sensitives in a secure location, and when Darquesse is stunned Stephanie can deactivate the trap, the Sensitives can teleport in, and the day can be saved. Can we be certain that Darquesse won’t recover while they work?”

  “Cassandra seems confident,” said Skulduggery.

  “Splendid. Our entire existence rests on the assurances of a hippy.”

  “She hasn’t let me down yet. My main concern is this trap of yours and whether or not it’ll work on someone of Darquesse’s power.”

  China smiled. “Oh, my dear, you wound me. Have I ever let you down?”

  “Numerous times.”

  “I meant today.”

  “Then, no. You haven’t. That I know of.”

  “So we have our trap,” Stephanie said, cutting across them both, “but we don’t have any way of luring Darquesse into it. Creyfon Signate is still trying to find Mevolent’s alternate reality and until we have that, Ravel can’t be our bait.”

  “We don’t need him to be,” Skulduggery said. “Darquesse is after the Hessian Grimoire. All we have to do is break into the Vault and get to it before she does.”

  “The Vault?” said Stephanie. “Beneath the Dublin Art Gallery? The one with the vampire security guards?”

  “The very same. Security has been tightened since Valkyrie and I broke in six years ago, but it’s nothing we won’t be able to handle.”

  Stephanie frowned. “But why do we have to break in? We’re the Sanctuary now. Why don’t we just set up the trap in the gallery, Darquesse will walk in, and we’ll have her. What’s the problem?”

  “The Sanctuary has no jurisdiction over the Vault,” said China. “They won’t let us set up the trap, and we can’t force anyone to open those doors for us. Also, the man who owns this particular grimoire is unlikely to loan it out.”

  “We’ll just explain that we need it to save the world,” Stephanie said. “Who’s going to say no to that?”

  China smiled. “I’ve been trying to get my hands on that book for centuries as a private collector. He may see this request as simply an attempt to use my newfound position of authority to snatch up all the little trinkets I’ve had my eye on – something I would never, ever admit to. So a little bit of crime is in order.”

  “We break in and steal the grimoire before Darquesse has a chance to,” said Skulduggery. “We set up the trap nearby. When Darquesse arrives, Stephanie takes the grimoire and leads her into the circle. The Sensitives separate Valkyrie from Darquesse and Darquesse is pulled into the Soul Catcher. No one gets hurt, no one gets killed, and Darquesse is locked away forever. Questions?”

  Stephanie raised her hand. “How do I deactivate the trap?”

  “It’s easy,” said China. “NJ will show you.”

  “NJ? Not you?”

  “Unfortunately, I will not be attending,” China said. “But I am sending NJ and another two of my best students and, believe me, they will have detailed instructions on what to do. I would go myself, but I haven’t had a chance to test the trap yet, so I don’t know if it’ll work, and I don’t want to be killed if it doesn’t. Any more questions? No? Wonderful. I have a good feeling about tonight. This is a good plan. Nothing can possibly, possibly go wrong.” She smiled again. “At all.”

  18

  BROGUES AND BURRS

  inter’s come, and it’s a slow day, and cold, and Danny is in the backroom strumming on his guitar, a battered old six-string he’s had since he was fourteen. Inspired by Stephanie, he’s singing ‘Spancil Hill’ by the Dubliners.

  He’s playing softly enough to listen out for the bell over the door, and when it tinkles he puts down the guitar and walks out to greet his prospective customer. Two of them, actually. There’s a tall old man over by the magazine rack, his back to Danny, and a younger, shorter, fatter man waiting at the counter. He has a black goatee beard that is failing in its attempt to hide twin moles, one on his upper lip, one on his chin. His thinning hair is long, pulled tight into a ponytail. He looks like he’d be more comfortable in a grubby Black Sabbath T-shirt, but here he is, stuffed into his shirt and tie like a sulky schoolboy forced to dress up for church.

  “Do you sell rat poison?” is the first thing he says.

  “Afraid not,” says Danny, “but we do have some rat repellers that work on an ultrasonic frequency if you have a rodent problem.”

  The fat man considers this by chewing his lip. “You sell knives?”

  “Penknives, yes.”

  “Hunting knives?”

  “No.”

  “OK. You sell hammers?”

  “We have a few,” says Danny. “Other side of the shelf behind you.”

  The fat man doesn’t even glance over his shoulder. Usually this kind of time-wasting is done by kids to distract Danny from shoplifting going on elsewhere, but the only other person in the store is the old man, and he stays in plain sight.

  “You sell guns?” the fat man asks.

  “No,” says Danny, the hairs on the back of his neck starting to prickle.

  “Pity,” says the fat man. “I like guns.”

  He doesn’t say it in a threatening manner –
in fact, he says it wistfully, almost like a sigh – but a feeling starts to grow in the hinterland of Danny’s mind, and it grows fast and it grows big.

  The fat man has a Boston accent. A long way to travel for a hammer and some rat poison. With just the counter between them, Danny can examine the unhealthy pallor of the man’s skin and pick out the different stains on the badly-knotted tie, fixed so tight it makes thick rolls of flesh bulge out at his shirt collar.

  “Anything else I can help you with?” Danny asks, meaning you can leave my store any time now, thank you very much, but the fat man doesn’t take the hint, and he stays where he is, eyes moving sluggishly over the racks of stuff on the wall before he comes to something that snags his interest.

  “You sell padlocks.”

  “Yes we do,” says Danny. “You want one?”

  The fat man shakes his head. “We have all we need. Chains, too. I was just remarking on the fact that you have them, that’s all. Doesn’t mean I intend to buy any.”

  “Right.”

  For the first time, the fat man’s eyes meet Danny’s. It isn’t a pleasant experience. “You shouldn’t be so quick to try to sell me things. That’s the problem with this country, you know. That’s the problem with America. Everyone is out for number one. Everyone’s out for themselves. So eager to part me from my money. If I keeled over of a heart attack this very moment, you probably wouldn’t think twice about rifling through my wallet before calling for an ambulance, would you?”

  “I’m sorry,” Danny says. “You pointed out the padlocks. I took that to mean you were interested in buying one.”

  “Didn’t I just say I have enough padlocks? What are you, stupid?”

  The last of Danny’s politeness washes away. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave my store.”

  The fat man’s eyes bug. “What? You’re the one started this! You’re the one trying to take my money! Customer’s always right, you ever heard that? The customer is always right. You were being stupid and dumb and selfish, and what, I’m not allowed to call you on it? I’m not allowed to stand up for ordinary, decent values?”