The Dying of the Light

by Derek Landy

  “Like a magic spell? To keep her safe?”

  Valkyrie nodded, not trusting her voice.

  Her mother passed Alice over. She felt incredibly heavy in her blanket.

  “I have to do this alone,” Valkyrie mumbled. “If you’re nearby, it won’t work.”

  Her dad wrapped his arm round her mum. “We’ll wait here. Don’t be long.”

  Valkyrie turned, hurried away as fast as she could so they wouldn’t see her face.

  She turned a corner, found a building still standing and went inside. The living-room table had a bowl of fruit on it. She swept it on to the ground, and put Alice lying in its place.

  She stared at her little sister.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

  Tears sprang and she sagged against the table. Great racking sobs sent new spirals of pain running through her. She barely noticed.

  “Please forgive me. I love you so much, Alice. I love you so much, sweetheart.”

  Her face was wet with tears. Her nose ran and spittle flew with every word. Her crying became a roar. She curled her right fist, slammed it against her own head. The edges of the gauntlet drew blood. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough pain. It wasn’t enough suffering. It wasn’t enough punishment. She put her injured left hand flat on the table and slammed her right fist down on to it. She screamed, fell back, curled up on the floor and screamed until her screams became long, anguished wails. A part of her was aware of how pathetic she sounded. This part of her was glad she sounded pathetic. She deserved to sound pathetic. For what she was about to do she deserved everything bad that was coming to her.

  It was only Alice’s crying that brought her back.

  She got up, her whole body trembling.

  “I’m sorry, honey, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, please don’t cry …”

  She didn’t mean to scare you, but hold on, because she’s about to do something much worse.

  “Shut up,” said Valkyrie.

  Arguing with yourself, eh? First sign of madness, that.

  “Shut up, I said.” She leaned over Alice, soothing her cries.

  Thought this whole thing was in the past, did you? This little voice in your head? You thought just because Darquesse was gone you were alone in here? Or maybe you thought she left and took all your badness with her.

  Seriously?

  That’s what you thought?

  If she did take all your badness with her, then why the hell are you doing what you’re about to do?

  Valkyrie stuffed some leaves in her mouth, chewing quickly, forcing herself to swallow. The pain in her hand lessened. She used her torn, dirty, bloody T-shirt to wipe her eyes and nose.

  filthy dirty filthy dirty filthy dirty filthy

  She took the Sunburst from her pocket, laid it carefully on the table. Then she took the Sceptre from the bag, and put it beside it.

  Tell her you love her. Go on. Tell her.

  “I love you,” Valkyrie said.

  Hypocrite.

  “I love you, Alice. I have never loved anyone as much as I love you. What I’m … what I’m about to do, it … it kills me.”

  Yeah?

  Not as much as it’s going to kill her.

  With her left forefinger – broken and crooked – she pressed down on the sigil on the back of the gauntlet. Gritting her teeth, she dragged her finger clockwise, and the sigil lit up.

  Then she held her right hand over Alice’s little body.

  She realised she was speaking, repeating I’m so sorry so fast it almost became one long word.

  She had to do it. She could not think of anything else to do. Darquesse needed to be stopped. Skulduggery’s plan was too uncertain. The Sceptre was the only thing that was guaranteed to work.

  So do it. Kill her. Kill your sister.

  Alice babbled away in her own private baby language, her bout of crying completely forgotten. She blinked up at Valkyrie and smiled, showing dimples. The most beautiful child in the world. She reached for the gauntlet and Valkyrie snatched her hand away instinctively.

  “No touch!” Valkyrie heard herself say.

  Somewhere in her mind, she heard mocking laughter.

  She lowered her hand again.

  “I love you,” she said, and pressed her finger to Alice’s forehead.

  91

  There was a crack, and her heart lurched as her baby sister went limp. Valkyrie’s mind turned to ice. She almost ripped the gauntlet off without deactivating it. She pressed her broken finger into the sigil until it stopped glowing, then dropped the gauntlet on to the table and grabbed the Sceptre.

  Her powers were acting up again. She saw the Sceptre anew. She saw the magic inside it suddenly churn as it recognised its new mistress.

  Then she dropped it, grabbed the Sunburst star and pressed it to Alice’s chest.

  “Please work please work please work please—”

  The star gave a little beep as a pulse went through Alice’s body.

  And nothing happened.

  “NO!” Valkyrie screamed. “NO! PLEASE!”

  She reset it, her hands shaking, the world moving much too fast and much too slow. Reset it and the sigils started lighting up.

  Come on. Come on.

  You’ve killed her.

  Come on. Work. Please.

  You’ve killed her.

  The star pulsed.

  And those beautiful eyes snapped open and Alice let out a wail.

  Valkyrie grabbed her, hugging her so, so tight. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, baby, please forgive me, please.”

  Alice just cried and cried, scared and hurt, and Valkyrie cried with her, relieved but distraught. She’d killed her sister. No matter what else she did with her life from this moment on, she could never escape the fact that she had knowingly and voluntarily killed her own sister. And she didn’t even have Darquesse to blame it on.

  92

  Fighting naked was an extremely liberating experience.

  Tanith dodged back, deep into the Combat Circle, her bare feet sure on the ground, and the Black Cleaver came at her again. She blocked his slash and kicked at his leg for the fourth time. He lurched left, kept her at bay with his scythe. She glanced down, saw his swollen knee repair itself. It was still an uneven battle, but it was no longer so weighted against her. One good swipe was all Tanith needed to separate his head from his body, and with this renewed optimism, fresh strength poured into her arms.

  She pressed the attack. Now that she could see his face she was no longer in any danger of being gripped by the same kind of fear that had turned her into a clumsy, awkward fighter. His face was unremarkable. His head was shaved, as all Cleavers were. His eyes were dull. His skin was pale. His head, like his body, was an intricate jigsaw of scarring. Tanith had heard that Doctor Nye had put him back together, piece by tiny piece, and it hadn’t been overly concerned about the aesthetic quality of what it was doing.

  Tanith’s sword drew a line of black blood across the Cleaver’s chest, adding a new scar to his collection. She hoped he liked it. She batted his blade to one side and slashed again, caught his leg, then went up high, angling for his neck. At the last moment, he snapped his head away and she found herself overextended. He whirled, the snaith taking her feet from under her.

  Tanith hit the ground, tried to roll to absorb the impact, but she wasn’t quick enough. He stabbed downwards and she turned over, tried to get up, got a knee in the face. She landed on her ass, stunned, the sword almost slipping from her hand. The Black Cleaver brought the scythe down and she tumbled backwards and immediately cartwheeled to her left. But she was still dizzy, and she wobbled. He could have ended the fight there and then, could have got behind her and killed her before she had a chance to get her bearings, but he kicked out, and instead of getting a blade in the back she got a foot in the ribs.

  Breath heaved from her, and something sharp and nasty dug into her side, but at least she wa
sn’t dead. Not like Sanguine.

  Billy-Ray’s face swam into her mind.

  What the hell?

  She blocked the scythe and tried to reply, but her strength was leaving her again. The Cleaver was relentless, and he drove her back. He broke through her defence, cut her. It was a shallow wound across her arm and she barely felt it, but it was there. And blood called to blood, and one wound led to another, and within moments her right leg was bleeding.

  She limped sideways, holding her sword in one hand. The Black Cleaver moved parallel with her, then came forward. At first, Tanith didn’t think anything of it – she was getting too tired to think at all – but then she noticed that he had come up against the edge of the Combat Circle. That’s why he hadn’t gone for the killing blow. The first rule of the Combat Circle was no clothes, no armour. The second rule was that nobody leaves until the victor stands over the vanquished.

  The Black Cleaver’s training had allowed her the chance to even the playing field. Now it seemed like it would allow her the chance to win – providing she was willing to cheat.

  Which, of course, she was.

  She got both hands back on the sword, and met his attack with a parry and a thrust and she moved right, as quick as her injured legs would let her. She started to follow the curve of the circle, and he anticipated the move and went to close off her retreat.

  And then she cheated.

  She stepped sideways, out of the circle, went low and spun, her sword slicing through the Cleaver’s knee.

  He fell awkwardly and she slashed upwards, taking the fingers from his right hand. She didn’t stop there, though. She took his left hand off at the wrist, noting the black blood that leaked from the stump as his scythe fell. He rolled backwards, giving himself space. She was fairly sure he wasn’t going to be able to kick her to death, but she didn’t intend to put that theory to the test. She closed in, cutting off his avenues of escape, and he backed up, his bare feet on the edge of the circle.

  She smiled at him. “I like your shoes.”

  He looked at her strangely.

  Then he launched himself at her and she swung. She was aiming for his neck, but her foot slipped in all that blood and so her blade carved his skull in two instead. His body fell to the ground, suddenly graceless.

  She took off the rest of his head, and then went to gather up her clothes.

  If the world was about to end, she might as well be dressed for the occasion.

  93

  Alice finally stopped crying, and Valkyrie carried her back to her parents. But as she neared, there was a deep, low rumble and the building beside them, weakened by the explosion, started to lean sideways. Valkyrie yelled out a warning that was swallowed by the noise, but saw her dad grab her mum’s hand and break into a sprint as the building fell around them.

  Clouds of dust rolled up the street and Valkyrie ducked into a doorway, covering Alice’s head with her blanket. The dust followed them and Valkyrie kept moving, running through two connecting rooms and out through a ruined wall into the next street over.

  She bent double, coughing, and made sure Alice was OK before straightening up.

  “Stephanie!” she heard her father shout from somewhere nearby. “We’re here! Steph!”

  She climbed another pile of debris, saw her folks dusting themselves off. She went to wave, to shout back, when Darquesse landed behind them.

  Valkyrie ducked down. This was it. This was the moment in the vision. She placed Alice between two pieces of rubble and took the bag off her back – an empty bag with a jagged hole in the bottom.

  Her eyes widened.

  She stumbled, retracing her steps. The Sceptre had fallen out when she was running. She would have noticed otherwise.

  And there it was, lying on the floor in the building she’d just come through.

  She ran to it and grabbed it, sprinted back, passed Alice and got to the top of the pile of rubble just as Darquesse waved her hand and Valkyrie’s parents exploded into nothing.

  “No!” she screamed.

  Darquesse looked at her, the surprise on her face quickly replaced by a smile, and the smile quickly replaced by a frown when she saw the Sceptre being raised as Valkyrie ran at her.

  Black lightning flashed, turning the wall behind Darquesse to dust.

  Darquesse darted sideways, but Valkyrie fired again, sending her reeling. Everywhere she moved, every direction, Valkyrie cut off with a streak of lightning, until Darquesse was scrambling backwards and Valkyrie was standing over her, breathing hard, the black crystal pointed right into her face.

  The Sceptre trembled. Inconsolable, unknowable rage scraped its fingers through Valkyrie’s mind.

  “Bring them back,” she said.

  Darquesse looked up at her, licking her lips to wet them. Valkyrie recognised the mannerism. She did that sometimes. When she was nervous. Even Darquesse was scared of the Sceptre.

  “Bring them back.”

  “They’re energy,” said Darquesse. “Don’t think of them as dead, think of them—”

  “I will kill you,” Valkyrie told her, “if you do not bring them back to me right now. I know you can do it.”

  Darquesse shook her head. “Before, maybe. When I was whole. When we were together. But I’m not as strong as I was. If you join with me, if you let me absorb your energy, I’ll be able—”

  “I will kill you,” Valkyrie said dully. “Bring them back. You have three seconds.”

  “Valkyrie, come on.”

  “Three.”

  “I’m not strong enough any more!”

  “Two.”

  “Please! I’ll bring them back when I have more—”

  “One.”

  “OK!” Darquesse said. “OK! I’ll do it.”

  Valkyrie didn’t lower the Sceptre.

  Darquesse raised her hand, very slowly, to the space where Valkyrie’s mum and dad had been standing. She narrowed her eyes, bit her lip …

  … and then, with a soft whump, Valkyrie’s parents were standing there, blinking.

  “What the hell just happened?” her dad said.

  Valkyrie looked round, made sure they were all in one piece, and a vice closed round her throat and the Sceptre was ripped from her grasp.

  “You stupid girl,” Darquesse said, lifting her off her feet. She kicked uselessly as her parents ran to help. “You had a chance to kill me. You had the only chance to kill me. And you wasted it.”

  With a flick of the wrist, Darquesse threw Valkyrie into her parents. They went down in a heap.

  Darquesse examined the Sceptre. “This was your one remaining weapon. I am disappointed. I thought you were smarter than that. You take your chance when you can, Valkyrie. Haven’t you learned anything from Skulduggery? You have to be ruthless. You just have to be. Because what have you achieved here? You made me return your parents to you at the expense of controlling the situation.”

  She cocked her hand back and hurled the Sceptre into the air. In an instant, it was a speck in the distance. Then it was gone. “And I’m just going to kill them again. Along with you. And everyone else. So congratulations, Valkyrie. You’ve doomed the world.”

  Valkyrie got up slowly, painfully, and her dad tried to pull her back down. No, not pull. He was tugging at her shirt. She glanced at him, saw he was looking behind Darquesse. She followed his gaze, saw Fletcher standing in a doorway across the street. He was holding up his hand, five fingers splayed. He started counting down.

  Four fingers.

  Three fingers.

  He vanished, and Valkyrie turned her attention back to Darquesse, continuing the countdown in her own head—

  Two.

  One.

  She lunged, energy erupting from her hand, blasting Darquesse right in the face. Darquesse screeched, staggered, managed to grab Valkyrie as she went and she twisted, hurling Valkyrie off her feet. Before she hit the wall, the impact snapping her bones like they were dry twigs, Valkyrie glimpsed Fletcher again, teleporting in righ
t behind Darquesse. And he wasn’t alone.

  94

  They were all around Darquesse before she knew what was happening. Fletcher’s work. So that’s why they’d been keeping him out of the fight until now. Sneaky. She saw hazy outlines, heard voices, felt hands on her. Valkyrie’s blast – whatever it had been – had disorientated her for a moment.

  But just for a moment.

  Darquesse healed her eyes first so she could see what the hell was happening. She was on her knees. Four people formed a circle around her. Cassandra Pharos stood in front with her eyes closed, one hand on Darquesse’s head. Finbar Wrong and Geoffrey Scrutinous were on either side, a hand each on Cassandra’s shoulders. They held hands with Philomena Random, standing behind Darquesse and closing off the circle.

  Darquesse didn’t know what the hell these crazy old hippies were trying to do. Probably kill her with love, or something.

  As the rest of her face healed, she reached up, wrapping her fingers round Cassandra’s wrist. That hand on her head was annoying her. She crushed the wrist as she stood and Cassandra’s eyes popped open in astonishment, like she hadn’t expected something so pedestrian as pain to interrupt her meditations. Darquesse’s own eyes lit up and she let Cassandra have it full blast. The old woman’s head blew apart.

  Geoffrey tried to run, but Darquesse grabbed him, twisted his head round, let his lifeless body crumple. Finbar, fair play to him, at least tried to attack. In his last few moments, he realised that a pacifist’s life was not for him, and he launched himself at Darquesse with a war cry. She killed him easily, of course, and wondered if Sharon would mourn the loss.

  Philomena shot her point blank in the head. Darquesse gave her a smile, took the gun from her trembling hand and used it to cave in her skull.

  Fletcher was kneeling by Valkyrie’s side, next to Desmond and Melissa. They hadn’t even noticed that the circle of love had spectacularly failed. Melissa was sobbing. Valkyrie wasn’t moving.

  “Fletcher,” Darquesse said.

  Teleporters were the most dangerous of sorcerers, she had decided. Fletcher’s was not a power designed to hurt or kill, but all it would take was one sinister motivation and no one could stand against him. She had figured that out a while ago, and she’d made a decision to kill Fletcher without warning the first chance she got.