Death Bringer

“She looks tired,” said Wreath, nodding. “She looks drained. From what I’ve heard, it was an unusually long Surge. What do you think those scars are for?”

“Cleric Craven says they are protection sigils, to guard her from her own power.”

“Do you believe him?”

The ghost of a shrug was all Quiver offered. “Our tests have shown extreme spikes and drops in her power level,” he said. “It is quite conceivable that she could hurt herself if careless. You don’t believe him, I take it?”

“I don’t know, to be honest. I don’t even know if it matters. If she gets the job done, who am I to complain? Have your tests told you when she’ll be strong enough to initiate the Passage?”

“Every spike is stronger than the one preceding it. If she continues in this fashion, a few days. Maybe a week.”

“With our dear friend Cleric Craven holding her hand every step of the way,” Wreath said, allowing the distaste to creep into his voice. “Are you ready for the world to be a better place?”

“I never really liked this world all that much to begin with, so any change would be an improvement. And you? You’ve always seemed to like things the way they are.”

“I got used to it,” Wreath admitted. “But I’ve lived my entire life waiting for the Passage – I’m not going to bemoan the fact that we’re finally about to get it. You know, I think this is the most we’ve ever talked, you and I. Why is that, do you think?”

Quiver shrugged. “Until this point, I confess that I was never sure if I liked you. Now I just don’t care any more.”

Wreath smiled.

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oarhaven stood like a dirty inkblot on a nice clean page. A small town, barely even that, beside a dark and stagnant lake, it was hemmed in on two sides by steep banks of brown grasses. It had its main street and its offshoots, its houses and bars and grim-windowed shops. Sorcerers lived in this town, but only the truly bitter, the genuinely resentful. The outside world was a world gone wrong, a world of ignorant mortals with their squabbling ways. In the bars of Roarhaven, of which there were two, the citizens were known to whisper of some future time when the mortals would fall and the sorcerers rise. And when the drink gave them the courage, these whispers would grow louder, turn to muttered oaths punctuated by fists pounding on tabletops.

Change, they said, was coming.

Roarhaven, Valkyrie knew, was many things. One thing it was not, by any stretch of the imagination, was a tourist town. So when the Bentley passed a rental car stopped outside what passed for the town’s corner shop, Valkyrie frowned.

“Pull over,” she said.

Skulduggery looked at her as they slowed. “Here?”

“I’ve seen how this place treats strangers. I just want to make sure we’re not going to need Geoffrey Scrutinous to come in and smooth things over.”

The Bentley stopped and Valkyrie got out. Skulduggery continued on to the Sanctuary as she walked back to the rental car. A woman sat in the passenger seat. Three kids were squashed in behind. American accents.

She smiled at the woman, got a curt nod back, and then she entered the shop. A few newspapers on the racks. No magazines. Some food, confectioneries, stationery, a fridge with cartons of milk and ham slices, and a broad American man arguing over the counter with the tight-lipped shopkeeper.

Valkyrie smiled as she walked up. “Is there a problem?” she asked.

“This man won’t leave me alone,” said the shopkeeper.

The American frowned at him. “I’m trying to buy something.”

The shopkeeper ignored him. “He just won’t leave.”

The American turned to Valkyrie. “We came into this store—”

“It’s not a store,” interrupted the shopkeeper, “it’s a shop.”

“Fine,” the American growled. “We came into this shop ten minutes ago. My kids picked out what they wanted, brought them up to the counter to pay. This jerk stood there, right where he is now, looking up at the ceiling while we tried to get his attention.”

“I was ignoring them,” said the shopkeeper. “I had heard that if you ignore them, they go away. This one did not go away.”

“You’re damn right I’m not going away. I’m a customer and you will serve me.”

The shopkeeper sneered. “We don’t serve your kind here.”

“You don’t serve Americans?”

“I don’t serve mortals.”

The American raised his eyebrows at Valkyrie. “And then he starts with this nonsense.”

Valkyrie looked at the shopkeeper. “Wouldn’t it be easier at this stage to just let him buy the stuff and leave?”

The shopkeeper shook his head. “You do that for one of them, you’ll have to do it for all of them.”

“For all of who? There isn’t anyone else waiting out there.”

“They’ll hear about it, though.”

“Hear about it?” the American said. “Hear about this little shop in the middle of nowhere where I actually bought something? First of all, I don’t even know where we are! Far as I can tell, it’s not on any of our maps. I can find that dirty lake out there, but there’s not supposed to be any freaky little town beside it.”

“If you didn’t know there was anything here,” the shopkeeper said, “then how did you find us?”

“We’re sightseeing.”

“Sightseeing,” the shopkeeper said, “or spying?”

“Spying? On you? Why the hell would we spy on you? You’re a lunatic with a crummy little store who seems to have a pathological need to not sell anything to his customers.”

“I’m sorry,” said the shopkeeper, “I can’t understand your ridiculous accent.”

“My accent?”

“It is quite silly.”

“So you can’t understand me?”

“Not a word.”

“Then how did you understand that?”

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t understand what I just said?”