The Dying of the Light (59 page)

China scowled. “I have no idea.”

Skulduggery nodded, and looked at Tanith Low. “Tanith, you’ve just been assigned bodyguard duty.”

“Me?” said Tanith, appalled.

“Her?” said China, appalled.

“Deal with it and move on,” Skulduggery said. “How long do we have before Darquesse gets here?”

“We estimate no longer than half an hour,” Rue answered.

Skulduggery turned to Scapegrace. “Are you ready to go?”

“We are,” said Scapegrace. He found himself unbelievably thankful that Thrasher was coming with him. He didn’t want to embark on this alone, no matter how tough he talked. He looked at Thrasher, and said, “You’re an idiot.”

“Thank you, sir,” Thrasher replied.

“Fletcher will take you to the Necropolis now,” Skulduggery said. “If you run, you can make it to the Guardian in a little over twenty minutes. No matter what, he has to agree to fight you. And no matter what, Vaurien, you have to win. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“We’re going to be putting all our efforts into keeping Darquesse away from Valkyrie for approximately twenty-five minutes. If you take any longer than that, if you get lost or you take too long with the fight, or if you lose, then it’ll all be for nothing.”

“I won’t let you down.”

“We’re counting on you. The world is counting on you.”

Skulduggery held out his hand. Scapegrace shook it.

Clarabelle burst through the doors and ran up to him. “Scapey! Gerald! Take me with you! I can help!”

“Clarabelle, no,” said Scapegrace.

Skulduggery stepped away, gesturing to Fletcher.

“I can mend you if you get hurt,” Clarabelle said. “If bits fall off, I can stick them back on. I’ll be useful!”

“You’re alive,” Scapegrace said softly. “No one living can enter the Necropotus.”

“Necropolis,” Thrasher whispered.

“But you’re my only friends,” Clarabelle said. She was crying. Scapegrace’s heart was a rotten piece of meat in his chest, but even so it broke at the sight of her tears.

He hugged her. “We’re doing this to save you,” he said.

“Please don’t go.”

“You have other friends here.”

“They think I’m weird.”

“I think you’re weird.”

“But you’re weird, too, so that doesn’t matter. Gerald, please.”

“I’m sorry,” said Thrasher. “But if we can come back, we will. Because we’re a family, Clarabelle. We’ll always come back to family.”

Clarabelle hid her face in her hands. “Don’t leave me …”

Scapegrace stepped back. He took hold of Thrasher’s wrist and then Fletcher took hold of his.

“Goodbye,” Scapegrace said, and he didn’t even have time to blink and they were somewhere else, somewhere new. In a cavern, at the bottom of marble steps, facing a city.

“Enter there,” Fletcher said. “You have the map, right?”

Thrasher held it up. “Yes we do.”

Fletcher nodded. “If I survive this, and if you survive this, I’ll see you again. Good luck, the both of you.”

He disappeared.

Scapegrace and Thrasher. Alone, in the City of the Dead.

“I feel sad,” said Thrasher.

“Shut up,” Scapegrace growled. He started running.

They got lost four times, thanks to Thrasher’s inability to read the map. Even so, they made better time than expected, and reached the square in the middle of the Necropolis in nineteen minutes.

There was a tall man in a black robe waiting for them. His face looked like a living porcelain mask.

“You are not who I was expecting,” the Guardian said.

“Skulduggery couldn’t make it,” Scapegrace. “He sent me in his place.”

“And me,” said Thrasher.

“He didn’t send him,” Scapegrace clarified. “But I am here to face the final test. Will you battle me?”

“And me,” said Thrasher.

“I cannot,” said the Guardian. “You are brave, the both of you, for coming here. But he who begins the trials must end the trials.”

“He told me not to take no for an answer,” Scapegrace said.

The Guardian gave a little smile. “You must be a great hero for him to pass this responsibility on to you.”

“I’m no hero,” said Scapegrace. “I’m just a man, who used to be a woman, who used to be a man. My name is Vaurien Scapegrace, and I have come here to—”

“The Zombie King?”

Scapegrace froze. Finally, he said, “Uh … you’ve heard of me?”

“This is the Necropolis,” said the Guardian, “the City of the Dead. Of course I have heard of you. There hasn’t been a Zombie King in centuries. It is an honour to have you here.”

Scapegrace waited for the punchline.

Thrasher nudged him, and whispered, “I think he’s serious.”

“If the skeleton has asked you to come here in his place,” the Guardian said, “then it would be a privilege to engage you in combat.”

Scapegrace blinked. “So … so we can fight?”

“The both of us?” Thrasher asked. “Against you?”

The Guardian bowed. “If that is what you wish. Please, choose your weapons.”

A pillar rose up, rumbling, from the ground. Hanging from it were swords and knives and maces and spears. Scapegrace looked at the Guardian, standing there with a peaceful expression on his porcelain face, unarmed and courteous, and he chose a curved, gleaming sword. Thrasher chose two smaller swords. The pillar rumbled again, and sank into the ground.

Brandishing his weapon, Scapegrace stepped towards the Guardian. “Shall we begin?”

“By all means,” the Guardian said, and the biggest sword Scapegrace had ever seen materialised in his hands.

“Oh,” Thrasher muttered. “Oh, dear.”

The radio has been on for the last hour. Eighties pop. Gant has probably had enough of listening to Jeremiah. Now ‘Don’t You Want Me’ by the Human League plays. Danny listens to it in the darkness over the Cadillac’s engine. His mom loved eighties pop. The Human League, Duran Duran, Erasure. His dad preferred seventies rock. Led Zeppelin, Rush, Sabbath. They both had an appreciation for music, though, which is probably where Danny gets it from.

The Cadillac stops. The engine cuts off, taking the music with it. Car doors open. Danny waits. There’s some muffled talking, then footsteps. A rattle and click and the trunk opens. Danny curls up tighter, like a flower shrinking from sudden cold, hands over his eyes to shield them from the light. Metal tightens over his wrists. Handcuffs.

“Out,” says Jeremiah.

Blinking madly, Danny moves his aching bones. He’s sore and tired and cold and he reeks. His left shoulder is throbbing and his right ankle is swollen. He’s thirsty and his stomach is empty. He manages to get one leg out and clambers awkwardly from the trunk. They’re on a residential street. It’s the middle of the day, but it’s quiet. No one around to see him. He could shout for help, but he doesn’t bother. Gant would have thought of that. Jeremiah would be ready for it.

One side of the street is practically identical to the other. All big colonial houses, with lots of space in between. Jeremiah marches Danny ahead of him, and they follow Gant up the steps to number 4. Gant twists a key in the lock and walks through, then Jeremiah pushes Danny so that he stumbles in after him, and Danny pitches straight into hell.

The heat is the first thing to hit – so powerful it makes Danny close his eyes and turn his head. He tries to back out, but Jeremiah is behind him, already shutting the door. He can hear water, flowing and boiling, and behind that he hears screams. People are screaming. He cracks his eyes open, and fright tears through him.

He’s on a metal walkway, a bridge suspended by chains above a lake of liquid fire. His surroundings are impossible. The inside of this colonial house is a church so vast he can’t see the top. There are bridges above him, and ceilings and walkways, but they are impossibly high, and the twisted architecture vanishes into darkness, punctuated only by small patches of distant light.

Gant is halfway across the bridge. Jeremiah gives Danny a shove. Danny reaches out for the thin railing to stop himself from going over, but it burns his fingers and he hisses, clutching his hands close to his chest. He limps quickly after Gant, away from Jeremiah. The heat is oppressive. His shirt is already drenched with sweat. The screaming continues.

They get to a platform that sways under their weight. Danny walks with his knees bent, waves of dizziness roiling around his head. The heat doesn’t affect Gant, but Danny can still find it within himself to be pleased that Jeremiah is finding this as uncomfortable as he is. Large patches of sweat have already soaked through the big man’s jacket. His fat cheeks are red and he’s puffing like it’s hard to breathe. Jeremiah doesn’t complain, though, and he doesn’t walk like he’s scared of falling.

They climb iron stairs. Danny keeps his hands to himself. He can feel the heat through his shoes. The stairs are steep, and there are a lot of them, and Danny’s legs are trembling by the time they reach the top. He glances down at Jeremiah, who is finding the climb tough going. Good.

There’s a hut ahead. Gant walks in. With no other route open to him, Danny follows.

This hut, at least, has a solid floor. Nothing to lurch beneath him, and no grille to allow the steam from the liquid fire to billow and scald his skin. Solid walls, too. Chains hang from the high ceiling. Gant turns to him.

“What did you give me?” Danny asks.

Gant smiles. “You think you’ve been drugged. You think this place is some ghastly hallucination. You think it couldn’t possibly exist.”

“I know it can’t.”

“And yet it does,” says Gant, “so what does that say about the things you know? Does it, perhaps, say that there’s a lot more to this world than you’ve seen so far in your limited little life?
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
Do you know where that is from?”

“
Hamlet
,” says Danny. “Everyone knows that line.”

Gant chuckles. “Not so. There are still those to whom Shakespeare is a mystery they have no interest in solving.”

Jeremiah joins them, sucking in mouthfuls of hot air like he’s going to have a heart attack at any moment. Gant observes him with a look of distaste.

“Where are we?” Danny asks.

“My home,” answers Gant. “A man’s home is his castle, is it not? And a man must be master of his domain. This is my domain, Danny my boy, and I am master over it.”

“But how can it exist? It’s not right. It’s not possible.”

Gant pulls on one of the chains, one with a hook on the end. “There are many names for it,” he says. “The easiest for you to understand would be, simply, magic.” He attaches the hook to Danny’s handcuffs, looks over to Jeremiah, who is still trying to get his breath back.

“Jeremiah,” Gant says sharply.

Jeremiah nods and staggers over to a wheel on the wall. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket, wipes it uselessly across his forehead, then wraps it round his hand. He takes hold of the wheel, and, with every turn, the chain draws towards the ceiling, dragging Danny’s arms up over his head. Jeremiah puffs and grunts and Gant waits, but finally Danny’s feet leave the floor and he dangles there, the handcuffs cutting into his skin. Jeremiah locks off the wheel and comes to stand beside his master.

“Are you the devil?” Danny asks.

Gant laughs. “No, my boy, no I am not. Though you wouldn’t be the first to make that mistake.”

“And you think Stephanie’s just going to come rushing in here to save me? She barely knows me.”

“She’s coming,” Gant says, and gives another smile. “And when she gets here we’ll be ready for her, won’t we, Jeremiah?”

“Oh, yes,” says Jeremiah. “We’ll be ready, all right.”

“Then we’ll see,” Gant continues. “We’ll see who she is and what she is. Is she noble, like we’ve heard? Or is she evil incarnate, like others have said? Which do you think, Danny my boy? Which one do you think is coming to your rescue right at this moment? The angel … or the demon?”

Valkyrie and Skulduggery were on a rooftop when Darquesse drifted into view.

They watched her float down, a vision in burnished red, until she was standing on the shield that enveloped the city. She put her hand to it, and bright colours began to ripple outwards from that point. The shield darkened, and an overcast greyness fell upon Roarhaven.

“It won’t hold her for much longer,” Valkyrie said, and Skulduggery jabbed a button on his phone and spoke into it.

“Now,” he said.

Valkyrie realised that, despite everything, she was actually looking forward to what happened next.

The shield faltered and sputtered and failed, and Darquesse hovered there, watching it retract, unaware that a helicopter gunship – recently liberated from an unscrupulous private army operating out of the Middle East – had just appeared behind her.

A
helicopter gunship
. This was
awesome.

There was a streak of light and a sudden plume of smoke and before Darquesse even had a chance to turn the rocket hit her.

The explosion sent her spinning out of the sky, trailing smoke and fire, and she vanished behind a building. Skulduggery wrapped his arm round Valkyrie’s waist and they flew to a roof that overlooked the square. Darquesse was on her hands and knees, trying to rise. The helicopter – an AH-64 Apache, according to the pilot Fletcher had been partnered with – opened up with its minigun. Bullets chewed up the ground around Darquesse, pummelling her and driving her back to her knees. The pilot, a sorcerer who could fly anything but preferred aircraft with fun weapons, let loose another rocket, and the explosion lifted Darquesse up and threw her like a rag doll. She rolled, her body limp. She’d been hurt, but there was no blood. No burns.

Darquesse rose suddenly, stumbling away from the minigun’s angry bullets, raising her hand towards the Apache. The minigun altered its aim and loosed another barrage that thundered into her chest. She fell to a sitting position, but Valkyrie glanced up in time to see the helicopter’s rotor blades disintegrating. The Apache whined and dropped, and she saw Fletcher grab the pilot and they jumped, disappearing the instant they cleared the stricken aircraft. The Apache had time to flip halfway over before it hit the ground – right on top of Darquesse.