Skulduggery Pleasant: Mortal Cole
Page 15
Nye listened for another moment, then nodded gravely, and the Dullahan turned and strode out. The door closed behind him.
Nye returned its attention to the heart, and didn’t speak for fifteen minutes.
Finally, it straightened up again. “Done,” it said. “And a splendid piece of work it is too, if I do say so.”
It took the heart from the vice, and showed it to Valkyrie.
“You see the precision?” it said. “See the craftsmanship? China Sorrows herself could not have constructed these symbols any better. A work of art, don’t you agree?”
Nye pulled the surgical mask down off its face. “But I’m afraid I have a bit of bad news. The Dullahan has been called away. You may have heard me agreeing to look after you, to deliver you back to the living. But the bad news, the truly unfortunate and tragic news, is that I was lying the whole time.”
Nye dropped the heart on to the tray beside the table, disturbing the instruments, making them jangle.
“No one will know you never left. I can hide you among the corpses here. You’ll never be found. I’ll tell the Dullahan, and I’ll even tell the banshee if she comes to investigate, that I waved goodbye and watched you leave. Who knows what could have happened to you after that? You could be lying in a ditch for all we know.”
Nye leaned down over Valkyrie, its face centimetres from her own. “You’re mine now,” it said. “You’ve been delivered to me to help with my research. I know you have. All these corpses around you? All these dead people, and many more besides? They’ve all helped me. They’ve all tried, at least. But you… I have a good feeling about you.”
It stalked off, with great loping strides. Valkyrie turned her head to watch it.
“What do you know about the soul?” it asked from the other side of the room, as it pulled a sheet off a large instrument cart. “Not much, I’d wager, but you’ve undoubtedly seen it in different forms.”
Nye pushed the cart over. Its wheels creaked and the blades and saws and clips clattered. “Ghosts, Remnants, even gists, are forms the soul can take. But none of them are its pure form.”
The cart banged into the table. The blades were caked with old blood.
“The pure soul resides somewhere in the body, somewhere it can’t be disturbed. I’ve narrowed it down to the likeliest places, but as yet I haven’t found it. I do, however, feel like I am on the cusp of a breakthrough.” It picked up a long breadknife. “I’m going to do you a favour. I’m going to dissect your brain last. That way, if I find your soul among your innards or inside your organs, you can at least partially share in my moment of glory.”
Nye pulled the mask up over the scab of its nose. “This is going to get messy.”
23
THE GRAVE
The country roads started out plump and healthy, before narrowing as they came closer to Roarhaven, finally becoming little more than starving veins that twisted through a dead and frozen landscape. The town squatted between a stagnant lake of foul water, a few desiccated trees bordering its banks, and a hillside of frosted yellowed grasses and gorse brush. The main street, if that’s what it was, possessed a gnarled handful of shops and businesses necessary for survival, but this was not a town that attracted visitors. Roarhaven was the town where sorcerers lived.
Tesseract parked his truck and moved through into the trailer. His whole life was in this trailer, firmly secured against the rigours of the road. Everything was held down by straps and buckles and bolts. The wall above the desk was lined with his metal masks. He took one down, one that had a frown over the eyes and a snarl carved below the nose. Sometimes he preferred the blank ones, but today he was feeling like he wanted some expression.
He checked the needles around the edges, and when he was sure nothing was clogged, his hands went to the mask he was already wearing. There was a slight hiss as the needles retracted and the mask detached. He took it away and looked at his lumpy face in the small mirror. Every day, the lumps were different. Sometimes his cheeks would bulge, and his forehead swelled. Other times it would be his nose that would swell up and his chin that would jut out. Whatever way the lumps arranged themselves, he was always ugly. The masks made his skin pale and greasy, and the angry red wounds where the needles slid in, arranged in a border around his face, would weep with pus.
Even as he was looking at himself, he saw his flesh begin to rot. He quickly pressed the new mask to his face, hearing the needles hiss as they slid into the wounds. He felt the rot stop, and recede, as the liquid contained in those needles did its job. Saving his life for yet another day. He made slight adjustments to the straps, and left the trailer.
A woman was waiting for him outside – Ceryen. She led him up the hill on the east side of the town, to where the Torment was peering into a large hole that was being dug by a man named Graft.
Tesseract gave the Torment his report, keeping it short and succinct. The Torment nodded.
“If you want me to continue,” Tesseract said, once he’d finished, “I’m sure we could come to an arrangement. A group rate, perhaps. Skulduggery Pleasant, Valkyrie Cain, Erskine Ravel, Tanith Low, Ghastly Bespoke. And the Teleporter, if you wish.”
“We have plans to take care of them,” the Torment said with a wave of a hand. “Our contract with you is now complete.”
Tesseract was disappointed, but didn’t press the point. He was a professional after all. “In that case, all that remains is my fee.”
“Of course,” the Torment said, but he made no move to pay him.
Something pricked Tesseract’s skin, and he turned his hand as a tiny white spider scuttled into his sleeve. One of Madam Mist’s, if his files were correct. Tesseract felt hot, and his tongue felt heavy.
“You were in a bar fight,” the Torment said. “There is nothing wrong with this, and you got the information you needed to complete your assignment. Unfortunately, the men you killed were citizens of Roarhaven.”
Tesseract tried to reach for him, but his arm wouldn’t move. He swayed on his feet, unsteady.
“I personally did not care for these men. They were irritants and braggards. But if we are to control this town, we need to follow its rules. You took the lives of Roarhaven mages. So we take yours.”
The Torment walked away. Tesseract saw Ceryen out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t even move his head any more. He felt her hand on his shoulder, and she gave a push. He toppled forward, into the hole, into the grave, landing in a twisted position with his right ear pressed into the cold, wet earth.
“OK,” Ceryen’s voice came from above him, “fill it in.”
“There are two shovels,” he heard Graft mutter. A rain of dirt pattered across Tesseract’s back.
“I’m the brains,” Ceryen responded. “You’re the brawn.”
“The brains of what, exactly? Digging a hole? They really entrusted you with a lot of responsibility, didn’t they?”
Another shovelful of dirt came down, heavier than the last.
“They did, actually,” Ceryen said. “You think this is just digging a hole? Filling it in? It’s not. This is disposing of evidence. If it was a simple hole-digging job, you’d have been able to take care of that yourself now, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t need supervision.”
“I don’t need supervision,” Graft said. “I need someone using that second shovel.”
Every last ounce of feeling was leaving Tesseract’s body. It took all of his remaining strength to turn his head even the slightest fraction, but turn it he did, until he was looking straight down, his chin tucked into his chest. Then he could move no more.
“You know your problem?” Ceryen was saying. “You complain too much.”
The dirt came tumbling down on the back of Tesseract’s head.
“No, I don’t,” said Graft.
“You do. You think you should be leading. You think the direct way is the only way. You have no idea about tactics, or strategy.”
“It’s a hole, Ceryen. What strategy is th
ere, other than dig it?”
Ceryen’s voice turned smug. “Get someone else to dig it.”
A few moments passed, and Graft said, “I hate you.”
Another shovelful of earth came down, and another, and their voices grew dull as they buried Tesseract alive.
24
THE DEAD GIRL
Valkyrie lay in the semi-darkness.
Nye wasn’t there. Nye had left to go to bed. Valkyrie didn’t care. She lay there in the semi-darkness with her heart outside her body.
Her gaze drifted from the ceiling. The main lights were out, and only patches of the room were visible. The bodies on the walls were nothing but shapes. Her eyes took in their forms, took in the geometry of the room, took in the tables and carts. Then she closed her eyes, and when she opened them, Skulduggery was standing over her.
“I’m here to rescue you,” he said. He was dressed all in black. Even his shirt was black. “Can you understand me?”
Valkyrie nodded. Hope blossomed, flowered.
“Good,” he said. “Remember when you rescued me from the Faceless Ones? You came in and dragged me out? I’m returning the favour, because that’s what partners do.” She waited for him to start unbuckling the straps holding her down. Instead, his head tilted. “Why are you here, by the way? This is an odd place to be.”
They didn’t have time for this. Nye would be back soon.
“Are you here for an operation?” Skulduggery asked. “Why would you need an operation? What’s wrong with you? Why are you folded open like this? Why is your heart over there?”
“Please…” she whispered.
“Please? Please what? Please help you? Why would I help you? You’re going to kill me.”
Valkyrie shook her head. This wasn’t right. “No…”
“Yes, you are. You’re going to kill me, Valkyrie. You’re going to kill everyone. Why should I help you? Can either of you give me a reason?”
Her parents were standing on the other side of the bed. She didn’t know how they’d got there.
“My Stephanie wouldn’t kill anyone,” her mum told Skulduggery.
“My Stephanie would,” her dad said sadly.
Valkyrie’s mouth was dry. “I’m stopping that from happening.”
“Can we take that chance?” her mum said. She patted her belly, which was huge. “I’ve got another child on the way. A better child. Better than you. We can’t risk you hurting it.”
“I think we should shoot her,” Valkyrie heard her own voice say. Her reflection was standing beside Skulduggery, dressed in the clothes Ghastly had made for Valkyrie, but they were all in pink. “Why do we need her? I can take her place.”
This was wrong. This wasn’t real. This didn’t make sense.
“But you can’t do magic,” Valkyrie’s dad said.
“I think that’s a good thing,” her reflection responded. “Valkyrie can do magic, and she’s going to kill the world if Skulduggery doesn’t shoot her.”
“Who’s Valkyrie?” asked her dad.
“Stephanie,” said the reflection.
“Oh,” said her dad.
“She’s right,” Skulduggery said, and took out his gun. “I’m going to have to shoot you, Valkyrie.”
“Not real,” Valkyrie mumbled.
“I’m sorry?”
Valkyrie focused on a single spot on the ceiling above her. The harder she stared, the less defined the figures around her became. Her mother and father faded away. Her reflection slowly disappeared. Only Skulduggery remained.
This was all in her head.
“You’re right,” Skulduggery nodded.
She ignored him, and the gun he was holding.
“You can’t ignore me forever,” he pointed out. “And I’m not going to shoot you. Imaginary bullets are surprisingly ineffective against… everything, really. I’m not going to come for you, you know. There is no one coming to rescue you. You got yourself into this mess, and it’s up to you to get yourself out.”
Skulduggery holstered the gun, and faded away, leaving Valkyrie alone again.
No.
She held on to it, that momentary hope that had spread through her. She caught it before it flitted away and her mind returned to the dull state of non-being. How long had she lain here like this, without a thought entering her head? Even now it was a struggle to keep her mind remotely sharp. She needed to get free. She needed to escape.
Her body was numb. She couldn’t feel the air around her, or how the spaces connected. She clicked her fingers and couldn’t feel the spark – couldn’t focus enough to turn it into a flame. The Necromancer ring was in her jacket, in the pile of clothes on the next table over. Magic wasn’t going to save her. Not here.
Nye had left its serrated breadknife on the table beside Valkyrie’s knee, but it was too far to reach. The cart, on the other hand, was still in place beside her, and on it were all the instruments that had been used to cut her open and poke about inside.
She strained against the strap that secured her left wrist, and her fingers stretched for the tip of the scalpel. She tapped it, lightly, and it moved, and she tapped it again and suddenly it was within reach. She closed two fingertips around it, and slowly pulled it off the cart. But her numb fingers didn’t have a good enough grip, and the scalpel fell to the floor.
Anger flashed into her mind and she kept it there, refusing to let it go, to allow the apathy to return.
She reached for the cart itself and shook it as best she could, trying to move some other blade closer. But the instruments only rattled and moved further away. She got a good grip on the edge of the cart and pulled it, in an effort to tip it over. The cart tilted for a moment, then slipped from her grasp, clattering back to its four wheels and knocking against the big lamp Nye had been using as an overhead light. The lamp toppled, hitting the table and sliding along it on its way to the floor. Valkyrie made a grab for it. The lamp hit the ground, and Valkyrie looked down and realised she was holding the lamp’s electrical cord.
She had something. Now she needed to think clearly enough to figure out if it could be of any use.
She pulled on the cord, then carefully inched her fingers back along it, and pulled again. She repeated the exercise slowly, until there was a loop of cord moving across her belly. The loop found her other hand, and her movements became more confident. She pulled on that cord until it became taut, and then she pulled harder.
She heard the plug being yanked from its socket, then she pulled it across the floor. It got caught twice, probably on the legs of tables, but Valkyrie managed to loosen it, and kept pulling. She didn’t know how long it took, how many seconds or minutes – all she concentrated on was the task. And then the plug was in her hand. She let it go, let it hang on a long piece of cord, down by the table. She started to rotate her wrist.
The plug swung in a wide circle. Before she released it, she made sure that the slack was wrapped around her other hand. Then she let go, and the plug rose through the air and hit her leg. She pulled it back. It touched against the breadknife, then fell off the edge of the table.
Valkyrie gathered it back in her hand, swung it again, and released it a second time. The plug landed behind the breadknife, and when she pulled it, the breadknife moved a little before the plug slipped over it.
She tried a third time, and missed completely.
The fourth time, the breadknife moved closer to her hand.
It took eight swings until the breadknife was in her hand. She held the handle so that the blade was pressing into the strap on her wrist. She started sawing. At first, the serrated edge caught on the strap and every movement was an uncoordinated jerk. But then the blade found purchase, and Valkyrie found her rhythm, and she started to cut through the strap.
Her eyes wandered as she cut, her gaze drifting from the walls to the ceiling, becoming transfixed by a low-wattage bulb at the far end of the room. In the gloom, it was as bright as the sun.
She looked at the bulb.
She snarled, the anger flaring and driving back the dullness. She focused on the blade and the strap. Nothing else mattered. There was nothing else in the world, only this blade and this strap.
And then the blade cut through the strap, and her hand was free.
Valkyrie dropped the breadknife and reached across to undo the strap on her right hand. Both hands loose, she pushed herself into a sitting position, and reached down to undo the ankle restraints. And then she was free.
Moving slowly, she swung her legs off the table, and stood. There was a table nearby, stacked full of bandages. She took a roll and wrapped it around her torso, around and around, then walked unsteadily to her pile of clothes. She dressed slowly, feeling no sense of comfort or relief. She took out her phone but could get no signal.
Valkyrie went to the door and opened it, moving into the corridor beyond. This wasn’t how she had come in, but she walked on nonetheless. All she wanted was to get out. She didn’t care how.
She passed a room where every blade ever forged hung on rusty nails, and another room containing nothing but heads in jars that gaped at her as she passed. A third room was empty, the walls splashed with blood.
She got to a large hall, reached the door on the other side, then stopped. Her heart. She’d forgotten her heart, and all the other things Nye had removed from her. Valkyrie turned, and something caught her eye and she looked up. Nye lay sleeping in a hammock high above her, its arms and legs dangling down. She looked at all the pulleys and ropes and levers, but didn’t wonder about the process Nye went through to raise itself off the ground every night. She heard the surgeon snore.