by Derek Landy
Strength tingled through Valkyrie’s veins. She waited until Darquesse was a little closer, then punched her hands through the car beside her and stepped back to fling it. But the doors tore off and she ended up throwing them instead. And they missed.
Darquesse laughed. “Super strength isn’t as easy as it looks, is it? See, you’ve got to think about these things. If you want to throw a car, you’ve got to grab the body.”
She darted to a little Volvo, got one hand on its underside while the other gripped the frame, and then flung it like a discus at the Olympics. Valkyrie tried to get out of the way, but it clipped her shoulder and spun her round. She stumbled, tripping over the pavement, and Darquesse flew at her. They collided, hit the wall and lurched away, hands clutching at each other’s throats. The little Volvo had just come to a rocking stop beside them and Valkyrie slammed her forehead into Darquesse’s face, and the back of Darquesse’s head hit the Volvo. Valkyrie did it again, and again, doing her best to turn Darquesse’s head to pulp, but it was the Volvo that gave way first.
Darquesse fell sideways, and she grabbed Valkyrie’s hair, pulling her head down into a knee that would have caved in her face were it not for the sigil on her arm. Before she could recover, Darquesse’s eyes lit up and twin streams of energy exploded against Valkyrie’s chest, sending her crashing through a window. There were people in here, a family, and they screamed and ran out of the back as Valkyrie struggled to get up.
The front door burst into a million splinters and Darquesse came at her like a bullet train, driving her through the wall and into the kitchen in a shower of plaster. They rolled across the floor, punching and biting and scratching and gouging. Valkyrie scrambled up and heaved, swinging Darquesse into the fridge by her hair. She moved back quickly, dragging Darquesse the length of the room, then let go and kicked her head so hard she heard the spine snap. But even as Darquesse rolled away, Valkyrie heard the clicks as the vertebrae repaired themselves.
Darquesse got up and Valkyrie hit her with a chair that smashed on impact. She grabbed one of the legs as they fell and plunged it through Darquesse’s throat, then punched her as she gagged. Darquesse spun, staggered, but spun again with a back fist that sent Valkyrie crashing into the hall. Darquesse pulled the chair leg out and dropped it, healed herself and spat blood. She was grinning. Valkyrie ran at her, but Darquesse flew upwards through the ceiling.
Valkyrie hurried out into the street, looking up.
She saw Darquesse as a speck in the sky, swooping around, coming back down at an alarming speed. Power crackled in Valkyrie’s hands while she waited for her to get near, and then she let loose, and the lightning hit Darquesse, making her veer off course and crash into the ground.
Valkyrie sprinted over just as Darquesse was getting to her hands and knees. She lashed a kick into her side, kicked her again while she rolled. Darquesse caught the third kick, tried to twist Valkyrie’s leg off, but Valkyrie just blasted her at close range.
They clung to each other, and there were hair pulls and eye gouges and headbutts and bites, and then they were lifting off the ground, rising high above the city, still scrapping, still fighting, still snarling. And then Darquesse let go, and Valkyrie fell.
And oh, how she fell.
Straight down, with the wind rushing in her ears and her hair whipping about her face. She was glad she didn’t have her stick with her. It probably wouldn’t have survived what came next.
She hit the ground.
It was painful.
Valkyrie rolled on to her back and lay there, panting.
Darquesse flew down to the ornate concrete fountain beside her and stood on the edge. “Is that it? Is this the full extent of your plan? Please, Valkyrie, tell me you have something more up your sleeve. It was a good tussle, it was, but let’s face it – all I have to do is keep hitting you until whatever is boosting your power wears off. I can’t imagine that’ll be very much longer.”
Something moved in the shadows behind Darquesse. Valkyrie said nothing.
“If you were as smart as you like to think you are,” Darquesse continued, “you’d be trying to hide from me right now. I mean, it’s you I’m after. You get that, right? I came here so that we can be whole again.”
“Is that your way of surrendering?” Valkyrie asked.
Darquesse smiled. “I’m not the one who’ll surrender. And it won’t be like it was, either. There’ll be no more of your annoying little voice in my head. But when you’re gone, what you are – behind all the thoughts and the snarky comments – will remain. That’s what I want, Valkyrie. You’re a part of me. We belong together. You feel it, too, right? You feel that a part of you is missing?”
She did. She couldn’t deny it. There was an emptiness to her now, a loneliness she hadn’t felt before. Not even the new magic, whatever it was, could fill that gap.
“Come on,” Darquesse said, holding out her hand. “Why are you fighting? All you ever do is fight. Why? Who says you have to? There are other ways, Valkyrie. Try acceptance. Accept that we belong together, that we’re stronger when we are one. That we’re better. Stop fighting. Stop hurting. I don’t want to hurt anyone any more. Not even Ravel. I’m tired of that. I’m tired of this. Come on. Take my hand. You never have to be lonely again.”
“Well, maybe that’s the difference between us,” Valkyrie said, getting to her feet. “I don’t mind the loneliness. Not really. You know why? Because I know I have friends. And they’re standing right behind you.”
Skulduggery and Melancholia emerged from an archway. Shadows writhed round Melancholia’s body like angry snakes, and more shadows seeped from beneath Skulduggery’s shirt as he walked. They covered his body, forming armour, and when he rose up on a tide of darkness it was not Skulduggery Pleasant who crested that wave, but Lord Vile, in all his terrible glory.
77
Lord Vile and Melancholia attacked.
They were relentless. Two of the most powerful Necromancers of the last thousand years, and they drove Darquesse back between them.
Shadows were knives and whips and hammers and chains. They cut, tore, ripped and bludgeoned. Darquesse was given not one moment to recover, not one second to heal. Valkyrie watched in numb astonishment as her adversary, as the adversary, was sent to the ground again and again.
She watched as Darquesse got up, for maybe the tenth time, took a step and faltered.
Frowning, Darquesse looked down at her left foot. It was badly broken, twisted at an unnatural angle. She glared at it, and finally the foot moved, mending itself. But the frown on her face remained.
Vile and Melancholia closed in.
Twin beams of sizzling energy burst from Darquesse’s eyes, but Vile was already shadow-walking away. Melancholia seized her chance, leaped high into the air and sent down a thousand thorns of darkness. They ripped through Darquesse, tearing through her armored clothes and shredding her flesh, and Valkyrie caught an unmistakable grimace of pain.
Darquesse was hurt.
The shadows coiled and Vile emerged, taking Darquesse’s head in his hands and wrenching it to one side. Her neck broke and immediately mended, but the cry of pain that accompanied her wild swing was enough to spur Melancholia on even while Vile fell back. The shadows lashed again and again, cutting through Darquesse’s defences. She was spending so much power healing her body that she could no longer dampen her pain. She was feeling every strike now, and her wounds were taking longer to repair.
She darted suddenly, closing the gap between herself and Melancholia. Caught off guard, Melancholia tripped and Darquesse landed on top of her. She rained down punches. Melancholia’s shadow armour convulsed in panicked response. She wasn’t used to physical confrontations.
Valkyrie ran in, slipped her arm round Darquesse’s throat, hauled her off. Melancholia rolled over on to her hands and knees, regaining her bearings. Darquesse twisted, managed to hook a foot between Valkyrie’s. They fell, Valkyrie on the bottom. Darquesse turned into her, hit her wi
th everything she had, but Valkyrie grabbed her wrist, threw her left leg over Darquesse’s head and straightened. Darquesse fell on to her back and Valkyrie yanked down on her arm as she raised her hips, and she heard the elbow break.
Darquesse screamed.
Valkyrie lost her grip and Darquesse rolled away, still screaming as she got up, clutching her dangling arm. Before she could heal, Vile sent a shard of darkness right through her torso.
Darquesse dangled there, off her feet, her eyes wide and blood running from her open mouth. The shard retracted and Darquesse stood, swaying. She was in shock.
They were going to win.
Darkness reared up around her, forming a Venus flytrap of shadows. It sprang closed, two dozen razored barbs skewering her body. The shadows started to melt and Darquesse stumbled through them, falling to her knees. She started to flicker. She was trying to shunt.
Valkyrie raised both her hands, white lightning flowing from her fingertips. The lightning hit Darquesse and she cried out and fell sideways. She stopped flickering.
Melancholia and Vile walked up behind her as she tried to crawl away.
Say this for her – she’s not going down without a fight.
Melancholia reached down, grabbed a fistful of hair, and she pulled Darquesse back up to her knees. Darquesse gasped, her face splattered with her own blood. Melancholia allowed her shadow armour to retract, and it lashed at the ground wildly, like a petulant child denied its plaything.
“This has been invigorating,” Melancholia said. “Truly invigorating. Finally, I’m realising my own potential. I can … I can sense life and death. I can see it. I can see it all around us. I see it in you, Darquesse. I see your life. I see how easy it would be to just … pluck it out.”
Darquesse reached up, tried to free herself, but the effort was feeble, and Melancholia slapped the hand down.
“I am the Death Bringer,” Melancholia continued. “I am the ultimate Necromancer. Who are you? You’re Valkyrie Cain’s dark side in the body of her reflection. You’re nothing but a collection of spare parts. And they were all scared of you? Really?” Melancholia laughed. Her eyes were black, and black steam rose off her. “It’s me they should have been afraid of. You thought you were a god? Maybe you are. But even gods can die. And I? I am death.”
“Melancholia,” Valkyrie said.
Melancholia looked up, blinking those black eyes. “Valkyrie,” she said, sounding dazed. She sharpened. “Yes. Sorry. Getting carried away with the whole power thing. Are my eyes black? They feel black.”
“They’re black.”
“Cool.” Melancholia glanced at Vile. “Let’s do what we came here to do.”
Their shadows moved like a thousand tiny snakes, burrowing slowly into Darquesse’s body. Darquesse screamed as blood ran. This time there would be no healing. This time there would be no surviving. They were going to kill her slowly, and make sure there was not even a sliver of life left behind.
Valkyrie’s hands started to tingle. She unzipped her jacket, pulled it halfway down her arm. The tattoo was pulsing. Not long now. She could almost feel her invulnerability about to slip away. It didn’t matter. Darquesse was done. Defeated. All they needed was another few seconds and then those shadows would split her apart, and it’d all be over.
Darquesse clasped her hands before her. Vile and Melancholia didn’t notice. Darquesse’s arms started to tremble. Silver light spilled from between her fingers.
Very, very bright light.
Valkyrie ran forward. “Stop her!” she screamed. “Don’t let her—”
But it was too late.
Darquesse opened her hands.
78
The silver light exploded outwards and consumed the world.
79
It swallowed Vile and Melancholia.
80
a deafening rush of air
the world filled with fragments
bricks and masonry
and glass and
wood and metal
Valkyrie thrown
tossed
and
spun
buildings torn down.
folded
like
paper.
streets cr d.
um e
pl
lamp posts snap
p
e
d
81
And then everything was silent.
82
There was a wind.
Valkyrie didn’t know where it had come from. Just a moment ago it had been a still day.
A moment?
A minute?
An hour?
But now there was a wind, a strong wind, catching the clouds of dust and spinning them into little tornadoes.
She turned over
83
on to her back. Dust in her eyes. Dust in her mouth.
She was cold. She’d lost her jacket. The shockwave had yanked it away from her. Was she hurt? She wriggled her toes. Wriggled her fingers. No broken bones. Was she bleeding? She didn’t think so. She was OK. She was unhurt. Invulnerable? No, not any more. The tattoo had dulled. It had probably used up the last of its strength keeping her alive during the … what? What was that? That was more than an explosion. It had been like a small nuclear bomb going off.
Groaning, Valkyrie sat up.
84
Roarhaven was in ruins.
The eastern quarter had been obliterated. It was a flat, smoking landscape of rubble and wreckage. Fires raged in the southern districts. Some of the northern section still stood, from what she could see. Car alarms travelled to her on the wind. They sounded like people dying.
Valkyrie started walking. When she was sure her legs weren’t going to fail her, she ran.
Finding her way around Roarhaven when it stood tall and proud had been hard enough, but now the landmarks she’d used were flattened or gone altogether. She took a few wrong turns, had to double back, often climbing through demolished buildings to save time. She passed bodies and ignored them.
And then a rock flew at her, struck her across the temple, and she went tumbling down a small hill of debris.
She sprawled in a heap at the bottom, her elbows cut and bleeding, blood running from her forehead into her eye. There were footsteps, slipping and sliding through the broken mess in their eagerness to get to her. Valkyrie managed to get to her knees, her vision blurry. Figures approached. She saw hate in their faces.
“We hurt her,” one of them said.
“We can finish her,” said another.
Valkyrie raised her hands. “I’m not her,” she said. Her voice sounded weird. She sounded drunk. “I’m not Darquesse.”
She didn’t even see what struck her, but she felt the pain across her ribs and she cried out, fell on to her side. The figures crowded round, their boots seeking her, finding her, crunching against her. She covered up, yelled at them to stop. A rib broke jaggedly. A kick to her kidney sent new flashes of pain arcing through her. Someone tried kicking her skull and broke the fingers of her left hand. Again. They screamed and cursed and she heard their words. They knew who she was and they didn’t care. In their eyes, Valkyrie Cain was as much to blame for all this as Darquesse.
A kick found the side of her head and rolled her over, her body limp. Funny how this seemed to clear her eyesight.
She saw in perfect clarity the foot coming for her face. It was clad in a heavy, steel-capped work boot. Good, she decided. She would have hated to be killed by a soft little running shoe.
But the work boot never reached her. At the last moment, it vanished. There was another pair of boots there now. Brown boots. Well-made. Familiar. They stepped and pivoted and spun, and then all the other feet ran away. The brown boots bent, and a leather-clad knee came down, and gentle hands touched her face.
“Val,” Tanith said. “Val, can you hear me?”
Valkyrie felt her head being moved, and she tried focusing on Tanith’s worried face,
but she couldn’t. Then she was being lifted, hoisted up over Tanith’s shoulder. A fireman’s lift, it was called.
Tanith started running.
She crossed the rubble smoothly, like she was skating on ice. She ran up the sides of broken buildings so that Valkyrie was looking straight down at the far-below ground. Tanith’s balance was impeccable. She crossed narrow beams in ruined houses, leaped from rooftop to rooftop, landing so gracefully Valkyrie could have been floating on a cloud. She blacked out a few times, but that wasn’t Tanith’s fault. That was just her approaching death.
And then they were inside, in the Sanctuary, and she was being laid out on a bed in the Medical Wing and a light was being shone in her eyes.
“Multiple fractures,” Synecdoche was saying. “Concussion. Valkyrie, can you hear me?”
There were people screaming. The Medical Wing was full of injured people. On the bed beside her, Valkyrie saw Saracen Rue hooked up to a respirator. She tried to sit up, but a pair of strong hands held her down. Tanith’s face swam into view.
“Steady on, OK? They’re helping you. Just stay there. Val, that explosion. Were you there? What was it? Is Darquesse dead?”
Synecdoche came back, shouldered Tanith out of the way and jabbed a needle into Valkyrie’s arm. Warmth flooded her body so suddenly it made her gasp, and the pain fell away.
“I need an X-ray,” Synecdoche shouted to one of her assistants as she lifted Valkyrie’s shirt. “We’ve got internal bleeding here.”
There was movement all around and someone was holding a scanner and there was a bright blue light, and Valkyrie lay there and looked up at the ceiling. She coughed suddenly, but it didn’t hurt. It didn’t even alarm her when she tasted blood. It should have, though. Coughing blood should have alarmed her.
