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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2020
Published in this ebook edition in 2020
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,
HarperCollins Publishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Text copyright © Derek Landy 2020
Skulduggery Pleasant™ Derek Landy
Skulduggery Pleasant logo™ HarperCollinsPublishers
Cover illustration copyright © Tom Percival 2020
Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
All rights reserved.
Derek Landy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008386238
Ebook Edition © April 2020 ISBN: 9780008386269
Version: 2020-05-01
This book is dedicated to the next lot of nieces and nephews.
Cameron and Samira, Elle and Evan –
you’re a strange bunch, and no mistake.
I’m sure you’ll turn out absolutely fine, but right now
you’re kind of odd, and funny-looking, and one of you
has the cold, dead eyes of a future serial killer.
I’m not saying which one, though.
Don’t want to jinx it.
And all was memory.
The memory of gods and people. The memory of monsters.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Spring
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Summer
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Autumn
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Winter
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Read on for an exclusive short story about Valkyrie Caine …
The Skulduggery Pleasant series
About the Publisher
“I don’t know who I am any more.”
“OK.”
“I thought I did. I was the good guy. I was descended from the Last of the Ancients. I saved the world.”
“And what’s changed?”
“You know what’s changed.”
“You think you’re not the good guy?”
“I’ve got the blood of the Faceless Ones in my veins. How can I be the good guy when everything I’ve come from is murder and death and torture and hatred? You know the worst thing? It’s how much sense it all makes now. Darquesse killing all those people? The reflection killing Crystal? Me killing Alice? Everyone I’ve hurt and all the terrible things I’ve done?”
“You’re blaming your heritage for all that?”
“Oh, no. No, no. I’m blaming me. But I’m the way I am because of my blood.”
“And what about Alice? Is she a bad guy, too?”
“She’s eight.”
“But you saw her in the future, about to face down her arch-enemy. Do you think she’s the hero in that story, or the villain?”
“It doesn’t matter. The future can be changed. I’m going to change it. Whatever road she’s going down, I can head her off.”
“How is she? Still crying herself to sleep?”
“Some nights. My folks took her to the child psychologist, who says it looks like repressed trauma. I should tell them. Right? I should. They need to know what’s happened in order to make her better.”
“If you tell them—”
“I know.”
“If you tell them, they might never speak to you again. They’ll definitely never let you see Alice.”
“But they’ll be able to help her.”
“How? How will that help her? What will they tell this psychologist? When our daughter was a baby, her big sister killed her and fractured her soul? How can any mortal psychologist make sense of that? How can … What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You have another headache?”
“It’s nothing. And I don’t know how it’d help, and I don’t know how they’d explain it without sounding nuts, but I’ve kept this from them for way too long and they need to know the truth.”
“No, they don’t. What would be the point in ruining your relationship with your parents? You love them, they love you, and they never have to know about Alice’s soul being broken. You fixed it, didn’t you? You went through hell to find the pieces and put it back together. Why would you tell them what happened? Alice isn’t going to. She barely understands what happened back then.”
“Maybe she should tell them. I’m making her keep a huge, traumatising secret from her own parents. I damaged her years ago, when she was a defenceless little baby, and, when I tried to fix her, I just damaged her some more. At least when her soul was fractured she didn’t feel any sadness. What have I done? What exactly have I done to make her life better? I’ve just given her back that sadness, all in one go. All the pain, all the sorrow, all the trauma, all the horror, all the—”
“Valkyrie. Stop. You’re doing it again.”
“I’ve ruined her.”
“Stop it. You’re spiralling.”
“So what? So what if I’m spiralling? I deserve to spiral. After everything I’ve done, I deserve to spiral and I deserve a lot worse. You don’t know what it’s like to have these thoughts in your head. You don’t. You don’t know what it’s like to have them constantly swirling and getting louder and louder. It’s deafening in here. I can’t hear anything else. All these voices, all these horrible, horrible voices, saying horrible, horrible things. The guilt … Jesus, the guilt. You don’t know. It’s everywhere. Every time I open my eyes. Every time I close my eyes. It’s always there. It’s underneath everything. Even when I’m with Militsa. Even when I’m with Skulduggery. I don’t know … I don’t know how much longer I can keep going.”
“Hey.”
“Oh, God.”
“Hey. Look at me. Listen to me. You’ll keep going because that’s what you do. I don’t know much about much, but I know you. I am you, although slightly smarter and significantly prettier.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“You doubt yourself. That’s fine. Everyone has doubts. You hate yourself, too. I get that. You’ve been put in impossible situations, forced to do unthinkable things. But this, how you’re feeling now, it won’t last forever. You think it will – it feels like it will – but it won’t. You’re in a pit, but you’ve climbed out of that pit before and you’ll climb out of it again.”
“I’m too tired.”
“I don’t think that matters. You’re not going to stop climbing. I know you’re not.”
“You don’t … you don’t know me like you think you do. You’re not me. You’re a piece of Darquesse that she left behind.”
“And Darquesse is a piece of you.”
“So you’re a piece of a piece of me, from back when I was eighteen. I’ve changed since then.”
“I know you have. Look at all the muscle you’ve put on. Why couldn’t you have had abs seven years ago, eh? Then I’d have them, too.”
“That’s not really what I mean.”
“You talk like you’re about to give up, but you’re down at that gym how many times a week? And what food do you eat? When was the last time you had a pizza?”
“I don’t …”
“If you’d given up, you wouldn’t be working out. If you’d given up, you wouldn’t be calculating when you’re getting your next dose of protein. You’d have stopped caring about any of that stuff.”
“But that’s habit. That’s … I dunno. That’s something I do to take my mind off things. If I focus on the next rep, if I focus on lifting more than I did last week, then I have a few moments where I don’t have to listen to all the horrible things going on in my head.”
“You’ve still got a hell of a lot of fight in you, Valkyrie. I know you do. I can see it.”
“I don’t think you’re right. I’m not a robot. I don’t just keep marching on. There’s only, like, so much someone can take, isn’t there? There’s only so many times you can fall into a pit before you think to yourself, what’s the point in climbing out if I’m just going to fall back in tomorrow?”
“I … You need help. And not from me. And not from that bloody music box. You need professional help. Maybe some decent medication. You definitely need someone to talk to who knows what they’re doing.”
“The music box helps.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed in the morning if I didn’t have it.”
“It’s not healthy.”
“It calms me down.”
“It turns you into a zombie. I’ve watched you when you’re listening to it. You just sit there, staring at the wall. I’ve actually called your name, actually shouted in your ear, and you haven’t noticed I’m even there.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I wish I were. It’s not good for you.”
“It helps.”
“And what about those little Splashes of magic? Did you really think I didn’t know about them?”
“I just use them when I have to.”
“You realise it’s a drug, right? What, nothing to say to that?”
“I don’t talk to you to be judged. I talk to you because there’s no one else I can talk to about this stuff. And I talk to you because, if I didn’t, you know what? You’d float around, you’d walk through walls, you’d do whatever it is you do when I’m not there, and no one would see you or hear you or even know you exist. So do me one small favour, OK? Do not judge me. You’re a piece of a piece of me that’s a frickin’ murderer. You’re a piece of a piece of me that’s an inhuman psychopath who was intent on killing the whole goddamn world.”
“You’re in a bad mood. I can tell.”
“Just leave me alone, Kes. I need to be by myself.”
“You’ll never be left alone, you silly thing. This is the life you chose, a life of adventure. And the next one, as always, is just around the corner.”
Red candles, maybe a dozen of them. Brick walls. Lot of rafters, lot of shadows, lots of big, empty patches of darkness. Wooden floor. She was in a cellar, a big one, upright against something metal. She could feel the struts digging into her back. Her arms were over her head, wrists bound with rope. Ankles tied, too.
Her tongue tasted sour. They’d drugged her. Her mouth was dry. She licked her lips. Her head was dull. She shot a little magic through her system and her mind cleared instantly.
She wondered if her make-up had been smudged. She hoped it hadn’t. It had taken ages to put on. Her shoes were gone. Good. They were awful. She was still in the dress, though, the one that was too small and too tight and not very practical. It did have one thing going for it, however – the amulet of dark metal, in the shape of a skull, that fitted against her hip like some cool-looking clasp.
She raised her head slightly, gave her surroundings a closer inspection through the hair that hung over her face. Pedestals displayed occult paraphernalia in glass cases like this was someone’s idea of a black magic museum, and good quality – though obviously plastic – skeletons, dressed in rags, hung from shackles along the walls. The ground was sticky against her bare feet. She was positioned in the exact centre of a pentagram painted on the floorboards. She was pretty sure the dark stains had been made by copious splashes of blood.
“She’s awake,” someone said in the darkness ahead of her. “Hey, she’s awake. Get the others.”
The sound of feet on wooden steps, and then yellow light flooded in from above. A large shadow flowed across the light and then the cellar door closed and she was left with the flickering red candles and whoever had spoken.
He came forward, out of the darkness. Dressed in a red robe with the hood up.
“What’s your name?” he asked. His voice was gentle. American. Warm.
“Valkyrie,” she said.
“Valerie?”
“Valkyrie. With a K.”
“That’s a nice name. Unusual. Is it Irish?”
“Norwegian.”
“Oh. My friend said you were from Ireland.”
“I am. My name isn’t.”
“Ah.” He stepped a bit closer. She could see the lower half of his face, his square jaw and his even white teeth.
“You’re probably freaking out right now. I get that. I do. You wake up, you’re in a dark cellar, you see satanic stuff all around, you probably think you’re going to be horribly butchered in some ridiculous human-sacrifice ritual, yeah?” He pulled his hood down and his smile broadened. “Well, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”
“I know you,” said Valkyrie.
“Do you?”
“You’re that actor,” she said. “From that movie. You’re Jason Randal.”
“You want an autograph?”
“How about a selfie? If you could just hand me my phone …”
He laughed. “Oh, I like you. Usually the girls we sacrifice are full of panicked questions at this stage, like they think they can make sense of what’s happening, like they can’t bring themselves to believe that they’re about to be murdered.”
“What was that movie you were in, with the guy from The Big Lebowski?”
Jason tilted his head slightly. “I haven’t been in a film with—”
“No, you know the one. You both play dead cops who are still, like, solving crimes and stuff? You’re not zombie cops, or ghost cops, but … what’s it called? I want to say RIP, but …”
Jason’s smile faded. “RIPD,” he said.
“Yes,” Valkyrie said. “That was a terrible movie. Why did you make that?”
He scratched his jaw. “That was Ryan Reynolds. You’re thinking of Ryan Reynolds.”
“That wasn’t you?”
“No.”
Valkyrie frowned. “Are you sure?”
“I think I know what films I’ve been in.”
“I could have sworn it was you.”
“Well, it wasn’t.”
“It’s a terrible movie.”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen it and I wasn’t in it.”
“It’s bad.”
“Then how about we stop talking about it?”
“Are you ashamed of it because it’s so bad?”
“I wasn’t in it.”
Valkyrie looked at him. “Maybe if you had a better agent you’d get better movies.”
Yellow light flooded the cellar and shadows moved, cast by the three people coming down the steps, all dressed in red robes.
“Is the Master here?” Jason Randal asked them, annoyance pinching his words.
“He’s on his way,” the woman in front said. Her name escaped Valkyrie, but these days she was always being cast as the girlfriend or the wife of the hero. A few years ago, however, she’d headlined a few movies herself. Not bad movies, either. The guy behind her, one of the stars of a dreadful sitcom Valkyrie had pretended to like, was the one who’d bought her the spiked drink in the crowded bar. She recognised the last person – an actor in a TV show she’d never watched who had a ridiculous name that she couldn’t remember.
The woman had an amazing smile and incredible bone structure and wonderful hair. It shone in the candlelight. “I take it Jason has explained what’s going to happen,” she said.
“Don’t bother with this one,” Jason said, somewhat grumpily. “She’s not that bright.”
Valkyrie ignored him. “I’m a huge fan,” she said to the woman. Victoria, that was her name. Victoria Leigh.
“Aw, thank you.”
“That film, where you were out for revenge on the men who’d killed your husband? That was brilliant.”
“That’s really sweet of you. I did a lot of my own stunts for that one.”
“The fight scenes were excellent.”
Victoria smiled at the others. “Do we have to kill her? She has such great taste!”
The others chuckled – all except Jason. He didn’t chuckle even a little bit.
“We should do it now,” he said.
Victoria frowned at him. “Before the Master gets here?”
“It’s almost midnight. We’ll have to do it anyway, with or without him.”
“The Master will not be pleased,” said the sitcom star.
“Then the Master should be on time for the human sacrifice,” Jason snapped back. “The rest of us are all here, aren’t we? And we have careers. I have to be on set in two hours, and don’t you have an early call tomorrow?”
“I do have an early call,” murmured the sitcom star.
Victoria checked the slender gold watch on her slender pale wrist. “OK, fine, get everything ready to go. We’ll wait till the last second. If the Master arrives in time, excellent. If he doesn’t, we’ll do it ourselves on the stroke of midnight.”
The others nodded and went off to fetch whatever they needed to fetch. Victoria stepped closer, though, brushing Valkyrie’s hair back off her face.
“You’re a pretty one,” she said. “Not leading-lady beautiful, perhaps, but definitely girl-next-door pretty. And those shoulders! Good lord! Linebacker shoulders, that’s what we call them. I can see why Tadd picked you.” Her voice softened. “Was he respectful? I’ve warned him about this in the past.”
“Pretty sure he was.”
“Good. I’ve seen far too many girls being disrespected in my business and I’d hate to be a part of something that perpetuates this behaviour.”
“Aren’t you lot going to murder me in a few minutes?”
A little laugh. “I am aware of the contradiction.”
“Good,” said Valkyrie. “Because I was worrying.”
“I have to say … What’s your name?”
“Valkyrie.”
“Ah, from Norse mythology. Very nice. I have to say, Valkyrie, you’re surprisingly calm about this whole thing.”
Valkyrie shrugged as much as she was able. “I don’t want to brag or anything, but I’ve been in worse situations.”
“You have?”
“It’s all worked out in the end.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I don’t think that’s going to happen tonight.”
“We’ll see.”
“Indeed we will, Valkyrie. That’s a great attitude to have. We will indeed see. So tell me, what brings you out to LA? Aspiring actress?”
“Actually, I’m thinking of getting into stuntwork. I like being physical, you know? Throwing people around, crashing through windows, falling off rooftops … That’s my kind of thing.”
“Oh, I admire stunt people so much, I really do. I know this great little team down in Glendale. Such a shame you’re dying tonight – someone as athletic as you, you’d have fit in perfectly.”
“Can I ask you something? This Master guy you’re waiting on – who is he?”