Last Stand of Dead Men

“I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t catch your name …?”

“Misery,” the girl answered, suspicious.

“Misery, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My friend here has many problems; he’s quite bright in his own way, but likes taking guns to inappropriate places. Let me assure you that we mean your grandmother no harm. We just want to talk to her.”

“Why?”

Valkyrie stepped forward before either of the Monster Hunters could make the situation worse. “We’re looking for a friend of ours. Maybe you’ve seen him? Tall? Skinny? Wears nice suits? Also he’s a skeleton? His name’s Skulduggery Pleasant and he’s wandered off on his own and we think your gran might know where he is.”

“Why would my grandmother know that?”

“Because he came to see her, and that’s the last we heard of him.”

“We don’t have much to do with sorcerers,” Misery said. “They don’t like us and we don’t like them. I don’t recall seeing your friend, either. What did you say he was? A zombie? A mummy?”

“A skeleton.”

“A skeleton, yeah. No, haven’t seen one of those in ages.”

“I think you’re lying,” Valkyrie said.

Misery smiled coldly. “What if I am? What are you going to do about it?”

“Whatever I have to.”

“Ah, there it is, the arrogance that my grandmother is always talking about. And what kind of sorcerer are you, then? Let me guess. Standing here, dressed all in black … Are they armoured clothes you’re wearing? They are, aren’t they? And that big ugly ring on your finger – that’s from that death magic thing, isn’t it? Necromancy? But you … you’re my age. You’re too young to have had the Surge. You’re probably still experimenting with your little sorcerer disciplines, like a good little girl. So I’d say you’re an Elemental. I’m right, amn’t I? See, witches don’t have disciplines. Real magic isn’t about choosing one thing over the other. Real magic is about opening yourself up to everything.”

“Yeah,” said Valkyrie. “That’s really interesting. Is your granny home? Could we talk to her?”

“She’s home,” said Misery. “She’s busy, though.”

“Doing what?”

“Witchy things.”

“Could we come in?”

“Nope.”

“We’re coming in, with or without your permission.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“No, you really wouldn’t.”

“I think,” Gracious said quickly, “that the wrong foot has been gotten off of. Misery, you seem to me to be a lovely girl, and I sense a sort of kindness in your eyes which reminds me of a newborn fawn, or the noble hedgehog. We’ve been looking for your grandmother for days now, and yesterday our dear friend Skulduggery went missing. We’re very worried, as you can imagine, and some of us, without naming any names, might be a little more short-tempered than usual.”

“I’m not short-tempered,” said Valkyrie.

“Then how did you know I was referring to you?”

“Because you pointed.”

“Getting back to the subject at hand, Misery, we would really appreciate it if you’d let us in. Please?”

Misery looked at him, but didn’t respond.

“Um,” said Gracious, “hello?”

“Quiet,” she said, “I’m thinking.” She chewed a plump lip, then sighed. “I don’t really get along with my grandmother. She’s stuck in her ways and … I look at her and she’s all withered and stuff and I don’t want to end up like that, you know? I don’t want to live in a cottage in the middle of nowhere for the rest of my life. I want to live in the city. I want to wear high-heeled shoes every once in a while and do things that don’t all revolve around being a witch.”

Gracious nodded. “I understand and sympathise with everything you’ve just said, apart from the bit about the high-heeled shoes, which I wouldn’t know about.”

“Can you promise me you’re not going to hurt her?” Misery asked.

Valkyrie frowned. “Why would we hurt her?”

“Because she has your friend trapped in the cellar.”

Valkyrie stepped through the doorway. “He’d better be OK.”

Misery held up her hands. “He’s fine, he’s fine. From what I can hear they’re just talking. If you can promise me you won’t hurt her, I’ll show you how to get down there. Deal?”

“I’ll defend myself,” Valkyrie said. “If she attacks me, I’ll defend myself. But … we promise to go easy on her if it’s at all possible.”

“That’s really the best deal you’re going to get,” Gracious added, a little apologetically.

“Fine,” said Misery, after a moment’s consideration. “Come on in. Wipe your feet.”

The cottage was dark and weird and smelled funny, like boiled cabbage and wet dog. Valkyrie could see why Misery didn’t like living here. She couldn’t see a TV or even a radio. It was lit by oil lamps, and there was a brazier in the corner. In the winter, she imagined this place would get very cold.

Misery pulled back a rug and lifted a heavy trapdoor. She put her finger to her lips, and Valkyrie nodded.

The cellar was bigger than she’d expected, but about as gloomy. Valkyrie and the Monster Hunters walked down the stone steps, then crept through the tunnel towards a flickering light, following the sound of Skulduggery’s voice and another, a woman’s. The nearer they got, the more distinct the words became.

“—see what this has got to do with me,” said the woman. “I’m just an old witch living out her life with an ungrateful granddaughter. What would I know about the affairs of Warlocks?”

Valkyrie peered round the corner. Dubhóg Ni Broin looked remarkably like the witches in fairy tales. She was old and small and stooped, with tangled grey hair and a long chin with a wart on it – an actual wart. She was wearing a black shawl over a shapeless black dress but, disappointingly, no pointy hat. Still, Valkyrie wouldn’t have wanted her to slip fully into caricature. That would have been silly.

Facing Dubhóg, his back to Valkyrie, Skulduggery Pleasant stood in a chalk circle. She knew enough about symbols and sigil magic by now to know that the circle was binding his powers, but there were other symbols there she didn’t recognise. Seeing as how he didn’t just step out of the circle, though, she guessed they were there to keep him in place.

“Witches and Warlocks get along like a house on fire,” he said. He was wearing the grey suit he’d been in the last time she’d seen him. His hat was on the table in the corner, and the lamplight flickered off his skull. “You shop at the same stores, use the same recipes … If anyone would have heard what the Warlocks are up to, it’d be a witch.”

“Maybe those other witches,” Dubhóg said, somewhat resentfully. “Maybe the Maidens or those Brides of Blood Tears with their exposed bellies and their veils and their long legs … Is my belly exposed, Mr Skeleton? Am I wearing a veil? Are my legs long and shapely?”

“Uh,” said Skulduggery.

“There are different sorts of witches and Warlocks,” Dubhóg continued, “just like there are different sorts of sorcerers. There are male witches and female witches, just as there are male Warlocks and female Warlocks. There are all kinds. But we keep to ourselves. The business of others does not interest us.”