Death Bringer

Valkyrie blinked. “The what?”

“The Requiem Ball, dear.”

“Oh. Um, I don’t know. Am I even going? Skulduggery didn’t say anything.”

“Of course you’re going. You’ve saved the world, haven’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but the Requiem Ball is to commemorate the end of the war with Mevolent, and I had nothing to do with that.”

“Do you really think you’d be allowed to miss it because of a trifling matter of details? If you don’t go this year, you’ll have to wait another ten years for it to come around again, and that would never do. Oh, you’ll love it. The women dress in the most beautiful gowns, the men wear tuxedos and we dance the night away. It is quite the social highlight of the decade.”

“When you say ‘dance’,” Valkyrie said, “you don’t mean the way you’d dance at a nightclub, do you? Because that’s the only kind of dancing I know how to do.”

“It’s nothing extravagant,” China assured her. “A waltz or two. A tango. A minuet. Even a quadrille, if we’re feeling debauched. We’re going to have to get you into a gloriously decadent dress, I think, with gloriously decadent shoes that will make you even taller than you are now.”

Skulduggery knocked on the door, and China let him in. He was, as ever, impeccably dressed. “We were just talking about the Requiem Ball,” she said. “I assume the two of you are going?”

“Naturally,” Skulduggery replied, removing his hat.

“We are?” Valkyrie asked, clearly surprised. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Did I not? How unlike me. Still, I simply couldn’t deprive you of your chance to see me in a tuxedo. I wear it well, as you can imagine. Besides, it would be rude not to invite you. Technically, you own the venue where it’s being held.”

“I what?”

“It used to be held in a mansion owned by the late Corrival Deuce,” China said, “but your dear uncle Gordon has offered us the use of his house instead. Or your house. Whichever it is.”

“Ah,” said Valkyrie. “Well, it’s certainly big enough. I mean, it’s got rooms I never go into. Will I have to do anything? Like stand at the door and welcome people, or …?”

“Nothing like that,” Skulduggery said, sounding amused. “You’ll be treated as just another very important guest. There’ll be nothing for you to worry about. And if all the smiling and small talk proves too much for you, you can always disappear into Gordon’s study and read one of his books until everyone leaves.”

Finally, Valkyrie smiled. “OK. OK, yeah, I can do that.”

Skulduggery turned to China. “Back to business, though. Has Valkyrie spoken to you about what we’re after?”

“You mean the person who set the Jitter Girls on you? I’m afraid I was of no assistance in the matter. I do, however, have other news you may not have heard. I was waiting for you to join us before I divulged.”

“Please,” Skulduggery said, “divulge.”

China gave the information a respectable pause. “The Necromancers have their Death Bringer.”

Valkyrie looked up sharply. “They what?”

“Who?” asked Skulduggery.

“Nothing has been announced yet,” China said, holding up her hands, “so nothing has been confirmed, but apparently one of the fledgling Necromancers has recently experienced the Surge. It must have unlocked some hitherto unknown reserves of power, because every Temple around the world is celebrating in typical Necromancer fashion. Very quietly, of course, with barely any smiles.”

Skulduggery looked at Valkyrie. “Do you have any idea who the Death Bringer could be?”

“Well, the only one I know of who was waiting for the Surge was Melancholia, but—”

“That’s her,” China said. “That’s her name. Melancholia St Clair.”

Valkyrie shook her head. “She’s the Death Bringer? Wow. I mean … wow. Didn’t see that coming. It’s nice to be let off the hook and all, but … You’re sure?”

“That’s the rumour going around.”

“When did you hear?” Skulduggery asked.

“This morning. I was going to call to let you know, but I was a little … preoccupied.”

“We should go,” Skulduggery said. “We need to report this to the Elders.”

China smiled. “It must be such a relief, after all this time, to have two of your best friends on the Council.”

“It’s a nice change,” Skulduggery admitted, “but really, I mostly go to mock the robes they wear. China, thank you very much. Valkyrie?”

Valkyrie nodded, Skulduggery put his hat back on and they left, shutting the door behind them.

Silence settled in the apartment once again, and China frowned. She usually liked silence, liked the solitude that accompanied it. But not recently. Recently, the solitude was starting to feel rather like loneliness, and that was not a feeling she was accustomed to.

She stood by the window until she saw Skulduggery and Valkyrie walk to the Bentley. She felt an irrational urge to rush after them, to continue their conversation, to help them formulate plans and strategies. But she didn’t. That wasn’t who she was. China didn’t join people. People joined her. That was the simple, inalienable fact of her existence, and she’d been around for too long to change it now. How much of this sudden fear of being alone was due to the threat posed by Eliza Scorn, China didn’t know. But the fact was, if she allowed the situation to worsen, she could very well lose the friendship of the two most important people in her life.

And then those same two people could very well come after her with murder on their minds.

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reath watched her, while the others fawned. She sat like she was delicate, as if a sudden move might snap her in two. She was pale, sickly. Her blond hair was limp, her face a network of small, raised scars. She was still the tall, skinny girl she’d always been, but there was something different about her, even Wreath had to admit that. There was something in the way she looked at the people around her. No longer the student, no longer the girl who opened doors and fetched the High Priest’s meals. She was special. She was important. She was the most important person who would ever live.

Craven was loving it, of course. Over the past few months he had taken a personal interest in Melancholia’s studies, which was distinctly unusual for a man who despised helping anyone other than himself. But here he was, shaking his head in an attempt to appear modest, the man who had recognised the potential and nursed the Death Bringer through her Surge. Wreath had hoped that he would have been the one to do that, to guide Valkyrie when she needed guidance the most. It was not to be, however. The honour had never been meant for him. But why, oh why, had it gone to someone like Craven?

“Here sits our saviour,” Cleric Quiver said from Wreath’s elbow. Wreath hadn’t even heard him approach.

“I suppose she does,” Wreath said. “I have to hand it to Craven, though – he saw something in Melancholia that I completely missed. I had always viewed her as somewhat … unexceptional.”

“As had I,” Quiver responded. “I fully expected young Valkyrie to be the one.”

Wreath raised an eyebrow. “You never told me that.”

“It’s not my job to tell you things, Cleric Wreath.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a hard man to like?”

“My mother may have said something along those lines.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.”

“Not to put a dampener on the occasion, but does the Death Bringer appear … weak to you?”