The Dying of the Light

“He won’t shut up,” Stephanie muttered.

China’s apartment was on the top floor of the highest tower in the Sanctuary. White walls and high ceilings. It was a celebration of taste – of art, of culture, of history, of magic. Of power.

China closed the doors behind them. “Should I take it that this good mood means you were successful in communicating with Valkyrie?”

Skulduggery walked up to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked out over Roarhaven. “You should,” he said.

“And she agreed to Cassandra’s plan?”

“She did.”

China smiled. “Well, that is good news.”

For some reason, seeing recent events brighten China’s mood was even more annoying than Skulduggery’s chirpiness. At least Stephanie had expected Skulduggery’s chirpiness. Some of it anyway.

“In order for the Sensitives to do their part,” Stephanie said, “we’ll need to hold Darquesse in one place for a period of time, right? Have we figured out just how we’re going to do this, or are we simply hoping she trips over and knocks herself out?”

“Such attitude,” said China. “I dare say this one is even more sarcastic than the original. She lacks a certain warmth, though, a quality that made Valkyrie so endearing.”

“I’m not here to be warm or to be liked,” said Stephanie. “I’m here to stop Darquesse and go home. Are you going to help us with that or aren’t you?”

The corner of China’s mouth curved slightly upwards. “But of course, my dear. I do apologise for wasting time with small talk. I believe I may be of some assistance, yes.”

She led them to a large table filled with open books. On a clear space by the edge was a journal, in which was drawn a circle of symbols. Notes were scrawled in different coloured inks, linked by arrows and underlined for effect. Measurements spilled out on to the adjoining page, like an idea that couldn’t be contained.

“For the last few weeks, I have been spending my precious time designing traps,” said China. “This design you see before you is the culmination of my work. It should take a sorcerer’s power and throw it back at her. Once Darquesse enters this circle, her own strength will loop back and stun her, incapacitating her for between five and ten seconds. Because Stephanie is the only one of us without magic, and so the only one who will not be affected by the trap, I suggest she act as bait. Fletcher Renn will be waiting with the Sensitives in a secure location, and when Darquesse is stunned Stephanie can deactivate the trap, the Sensitives can teleport in, and the day can be saved. Can we be certain that Darquesse won’t recover while they work?”

“Cassandra seems confident,” said Skulduggery.

“Splendid. Our entire existence rests on the assurances of a hippy.”

“She hasn’t let me down yet. My main concern is this trap of yours and whether or not it’ll work on someone of Darquesse’s power.”

China smiled. “Oh, my dear, you wound me. Have I ever let you down?”

“Numerous times.”

“I meant today.”

“Then, no. You haven’t. That I know of.”

“So we have our trap,” Stephanie said, cutting across them both, “but we don’t have any way of luring Darquesse into it. Creyfon Signate is still trying to find Mevolent’s alternate reality and until we have that, Ravel can’t be our bait.”

“We don’t need him to be,” Skulduggery said. “Darquesse is after the Hessian Grimoire. All we have to do is break into the Vault and get to it before she does.”

“The Vault?” said Stephanie. “Beneath the Dublin Art Gallery? The one with the vampire security guards?”

“The very same. Security has been tightened since Valkyrie and I broke in six years ago, but it’s nothing we won’t be able to handle.”

Stephanie frowned. “But why do we have to break in? We’re the Sanctuary now. Why don’t we just set up the trap in the gallery, Darquesse will walk in, and we’ll have her. What’s the problem?”

“The Sanctuary has no jurisdiction over the Vault,” said China. “They won’t let us set up the trap, and we can’t force anyone to open those doors for us. Also, the man who owns this particular grimoire is unlikely to loan it out.”

“We’ll just explain that we need it to save the world,” Stephanie said. “Who’s going to say no to that?”

China smiled. “I’ve been trying to get my hands on that book for centuries as a private collector. He may see this request as simply an attempt to use my newfound position of authority to snatch up all the little trinkets I’ve had my eye on – something I would never, ever admit to. So a little bit of crime is in order.”

“We break in and steal the grimoire before Darquesse has a chance to,” said Skulduggery. “We set up the trap nearby. When Darquesse arrives, Stephanie takes the grimoire and leads her into the circle. The Sensitives separate Valkyrie from Darquesse and Darquesse is pulled into the Soul Catcher. No one gets hurt, no one gets killed, and Darquesse is locked away forever. Questions?”

Stephanie raised her hand. “How do I deactivate the trap?”

“It’s easy,” said China. “NJ will show you.”

“NJ? Not you?”

“Unfortunately, I will not be attending,” China said. “But I am sending NJ and another two of my best students and, believe me, they will have detailed instructions on what to do. I would go myself, but I haven’t had a chance to test the trap yet, so I don’t know if it’ll work, and I don’t want to be killed if it doesn’t. Any more questions? No? Wonderful. I have a good feeling about tonight. This is a good plan. Nothing can possibly, possibly go wrong.” She smiled again. “At all.”

inter’s come, and it’s a slow day, and cold, and Danny is in the backroom strumming on his guitar, a battered old six-string he’s had since he was fourteen. Inspired by Stephanie, he’s singing ‘Spancil Hill’ by the Dubliners.

He’s playing softly enough to listen out for the bell over the door, and when it tinkles he puts down the guitar and walks out to greet his prospective customer. Two of them, actually. There’s a tall old man over by the magazine rack, his back to Danny, and a younger, shorter, fatter man waiting at the counter. He has a black goatee beard that is failing in its attempt to hide twin moles, one on his upper lip, one on his chin. His thinning hair is long, pulled tight into a ponytail. He looks like he’d be more comfortable in a grubby Black Sabbath T-shirt, but here he is, stuffed into his shirt and tie like a sulky schoolboy forced to dress up for church.

“Do you sell rat poison?” is the first thing he says.

“Afraid not,” says Danny, “but we do have some rat repellers that work on an ultrasonic frequency if you have a rodent problem.”

The fat man considers this by chewing his lip. “You sell knives?”

“Penknives, yes.”

“Hunting knives?”

“No.”

“OK. You sell hammers?”

“We have a few,” says Danny. “Other side of the shelf behind you.”

The fat man doesn’t even glance over his shoulder. Usually this kind of time-wasting is done by kids to distract Danny from shoplifting going on elsewhere, but the only other person in the store is the old man, and he stays in plain sight.

“You sell guns?” the fat man asks.

“No,” says Danny, the hairs on the back of his neck starting to prickle.

“Pity,” says the fat man. “I like guns.”

He doesn’t say it in a threatening manner – in fact, he says it wistfully, almost like a sigh – but a feeling starts to grow in the hinterland of Danny’s mind, and it grows fast and it grows big.

The fat man has a Boston accent. A long way to travel for a hammer and some rat poison. With just the counter between them, Danny can examine the unhealthy pallor of the man’s skin and pick out the different stains on the badly-knotted tie, fixed so tight it makes thick rolls of flesh bulge out at his shirt collar.

“Anything else I can help you with?” Danny asks, meaning you can leave my store any time now, thank you very much, but the fat man doesn’t take the hint, and he stays where he is, eyes moving sluggishly over the racks of stuff on the wall before he comes to something that snags his interest.

“You sell padlocks.”

“Yes we do,” says Danny. “You want one?”

The fat man shakes his head. “We have all we need. Chains, too. I was just remarking on the fact that you have them, that’s all. Doesn’t mean I intend to buy any.”

“Right.”

For the first time, the fat man’s eyes meet Danny’s. It isn’t a pleasant experience. “You shouldn’t be so quick to try to sell me things. That’s the problem with this country, you know. That’s the problem with America. Everyone is out for number one. Everyone’s out for themselves. So eager to part me from my money. If I keeled over of a heart attack this very moment, you probably wouldn’t think twice about rifling through my wallet before calling for an ambulance, would you?”

“I’m sorry,” Danny says. “You pointed out the padlocks. I took that to mean you were interested in buying one.”

“Didn’t I just say I have enough padlocks? What are you, stupid?”

The last of Danny’s politeness washes away. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave my store.”

The fat man’s eyes bug. “What? You’re the one started this! You’re the one trying to take my money! Customer’s always right, you ever heard that? The customer is always right. You were being stupid and dumb and selfish, and what, I’m not allowed to call you on it? I’m not allowed to stand up for ordinary, decent values?”

“Leave or I’ll call the police.”

“Police?” the fat man screeches, his face going a deep red. “You’re the one in the wrong! I’m the victim here! Call the police! Go on, do it! We’ll let them decide who here is the aggrieved party! Oh, not so cocksure now, are you, now that I’ve called your bluff?”

“Are you going to leave, or not?”

The fat man’s lip curls unattractively. “What’s wrong – you don’t want me to make a scene in front of all these customers?”

“What are you talking about? The only other person in here is your friend.”

“Who, him?” says the fat man. “I’ve never seen that gentleman before in my life.”

On cue, the old man turns, smiling. His face is a fascinating map of lines and wrinkles clustered round the landmarks of his features. A large nose, small, bright eyes, a thin, wide mouth. His hair is white and trails from his mottled scalp in wisps. There is something of the vulture about him.

He marches forward, moving surprisingly smoothly for someone so elderly, his gnarled hands held at his sides. “Pardon me ever so,” he says, “but I couldn’t help but overhear this lively debate from where I stood, perusing the magazine stall. If I may interject, in the spirit of an impartial observer and a stranger to you both, I would offer the opinion that a simple misunderstanding is at the root of this current discord. May I enquire as to your names, kind sirs, so as to better sow the seeds of calmness and brotherhood?”

“My name is Jeremiah Wallow,” says the fat man, standing a little straighter. “I hail from Boston, in Massachusetts, which is in the region known as New England.”

“It is a singular pleasure to meet you, Jeremiah Wallow,” says the old man. “And may I say what an unusual last name you have. My last name, Gant, is somewhat of a rarity also. Originally I came from a small town in a small country in Europe, but as you can probably tell by my accent I have long since made my home in the Midwest, specifically in St Louis, and that is in Missouri. And you, young man? May I inquire as to your details?”

Danny looks at them both. “I’m Danny,” he says.

They wait, but he offers nothing more. The old man, Gant, widens his smile. “And where do you hail from, Danny? Are you a native of Meek Ridge?”

“I am.”

“That must have been marvellous, to have been raised in such beauteous surroundings. I myself cannot remember a town with such natural charm. Can you, Mr Wallow?”

“I cannot,” says Jeremiah.

“You have lived here all your life, then?” Gant asks Danny. “You have watched the comings and goings of your friends and neighbours? And this being, in fact, the General Store, situated as it is on the main thoroughfare, I doubt there is anything, or indeed anyone, that escapes your notice for very long, now is there?”

Danny waits for him to get to the point.

“I dare say you hear an awful lot of accents, do you not?” Gant says. “Accents and dialects and brogues and burrs. What’s your favourite? Do you have one? I personally have always been partial to the Scots accent. It’s the way they roll their r’s. Do you have a preference, Danny my boy?”

“Not really.”

“No? No favourite? What about you, Mr Wallow? Or may I call you Jeremiah?”

“I insist on it,” says Jeremiah. “And I would say, if asked, which you have, that out of all the accents in all the world, Irish is my favourite, what with me being a Boston boy.”

Gant claps his hands. “Irish! Yes! Oh, those beautiful lilts and those soft t’s, every word an event unto itself. I knew an Irishman once – he could charm the birds out of a bush, as the saying goes, and it was all down to that accent. What do you think of the Irish accent, Danny?”

Danny works very hard to keep his expression neutral. “Don’t have much of an opinion on it.”

“You don’t?” says Gant. “Well, my boy, in that case, you need to listen to an Irish person speak in order to form one. What are we without our opinions, after all? When was the last time you heard an Irish person speak?”

Gant looks at him, all smiles, while Jeremiah’s eyebrows are raised in a gently quizzical manner.

“Guess it was the last time I saw a Liam Neeson movie,” Danny says.

Gant waves his hand dismissively. “Movies hardly count. Real life, now that is the only experience worth having. When was the last time you heard an Irish person speak in real life?”

“Years ago,” Danny says. “Probably when I was in LA. Don’t really remember.”

Gant’s smile fades a little. “I see.”

“No Irish around here?” Jeremiah asks.

Danny shakes his head.

“No Irish girls?” Jeremiah says. “Irish women? You sure?”

“Meek Ridge doesn’t have a whole lot to offer,” says Danny. “We don’t get many people moving in. We usually get people moving out.”

“And you say,” presses Gant, “no Irish?”

“Nope.”

“Well … that is odd.”

“You were expecting some?” asks Danny.

“Expecting one,” says Gant. “Friend of mine. Niece, actually. Dark hair. Tall. Pretty. Kind of girl you’d remember.”

“What’s her name?”

Gant smiles again. “Thank you for your time, Danny, but I must be going. Jeremiah, might I offer you a lift?”

“That would be most kind,” says Jeremiah, trailing after the old man as he walks from the store.

They leave, and the bell tinkles, and silence rushes in.

tephanie dripped ice cream on to her T-shirt and made a face. “Aww.”

“Should have got you a bib,” Skulduggery muttered, leaning out past her to take another look through the café window at the Dublin Art Gallery. The face he wore was good-looking and clean shaven. Out there, through the window, Dublin City was in full night-time mode, with people spilling out of one bar and piling into the next. Nobody was paying attention to the sleek, gleaming art gallery and its tastefully minimalist garden protected by a high wrought-iron fence. The fence was new.

“I probably shouldn’t have got an ice cream,” Stephanie said after a moment. “Technically, it’s still winter. Why is this place even selling ice-cream cones in winter?”

“Because there are people like you who will buy them presumably.”

The café was warm and quiet. A bored girl sat behind the till, reading a magazine. It was nearly closing time. Stephanie got up, dumped the ice cream in the bin, and used a napkin to dab her T-shirt. She’d also got some on her jacket, but she didn’t mind that. One wipe and it came right off.

She headed back to the table, but stopped, looking out through the glass partition in the door. “You’re about to get a ticket,” she said.

Immediately, Skulduggery was on his feet, putting his hat on and stalking outside. Grinning, Stephanie followed him over to the man standing by the Bentley.

The traffic warden looked up. “This your car?”

“It is,” said Skulduggery.

The traffic warden nodded. “Very nice, very nice. But you can’t park here, day or night.”

“I wasn’t aware of that.”

“There’s a sign right over there.”

“I didn’t think it applied to me.”

“Why wouldn’t it have applied to you?”

Skulduggery tilted his head. “Because I’m special.”

“Don’t care how special you think you are, you’re parked in a no parking area and as such you’re—”

“We’re here on official police business.”

The traffic warden narrowed his eyes. “You’re Garda? I’m going to need to see some identification.”

“We’re undercover,” said Skulduggery. “This is a very important undercover operation which you are endangering just by talking to us.” He opened his jacket. “Look, I have a gun. I am Detective Inspector Me. This is my partner, Detective Her.”

The traffic warden frowned. “Her?”

“Me,” said Stephanie.

“Him?”

“Not me,” said Skulduggery. “Her.”

“Me,” said Stephanie.

“You?” said the traffic warden.

“Yes,” said Stephanie.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

Stephanie looked at him. “I’m Her, he’s Me. Got it? Good. You better get out of here before you blow our cover. They’ve got snipers.”

The traffic warden swung round, scanning rooftops. “Snipers?”

“Don’t look!” Stephanie whispered. “You want to get us killed? Get out of here! Run, but don’t make it look like you’re running!”

Eyes bulging, the traffic warden hurried away, alternating between speed-walking and panicked jogging.

“Nicely done,” said Skulduggery.

“Thank you,” said Stephanie. “So can we break in yet?”

Skulduggery checked the time on his pocket watch. “Since you’re so eager … I don’t see why not. Come along.”

They walked to the iron fence and looked around, made sure no one was looking.

“Keep watch,” Skulduggery said, and lifted off the ground.

Stephanie stuffed her hands in her pockets, tried her best to look casual. She had the reassuring weight of the Sceptre in her backpack to ease her anxiety about what they were about to do. It helped. A lot.

A minute later, a gust of wind took her off her feet. She passed over the fence, landed on the grass beside Skulduggery.

“I’ve disabled the cameras and the external motion sensors,” Skulduggery said as she followed him across the garden area to the gallery wall, where the shadows merged.

“So how are we getting in?” Stephanie asked. Last time it had been through a skylight.

“We’re taking a leaf out of Billy-Ray Sanguine’s book,” Skulduggery said as he placed both hands flat against the wall.

Stephanie frowned. “Seriously? You’re going to try to—”

The wall cracked, a thousand little fissures opening up and spreading downwards.

“Now then,” Skulduggery muttered, “this is either going to be very cool or very stupid …” He pushed one hand into the wall, and kept going until he was in up to his elbow.

“Well?” Stephanie asked.

He looked back at her. “I’m still in one piece. Grab on.”

Stephanie’s left eyebrow arched all on its own. “Uh, no, I don’t think so.”

“We don’t have time to argue.”

“Who’s arguing? I’m asking relevant questions. Is this your first time doing this?”

“I’ve actually been developing this aspect of the Elemental discipline for a while now. Sanguine’s ability is merely a focus on earth magic, after all, so I thought to myself, why couldn’t I achieve the same results with a little bit of work?”

“Yeah, that’s all very interesting, but is this the first time you’ve tried to move through a wall?”

He hesitated. “No, actually.”

“You’ve tried it before?”

“Yes.”

“Did you succeed?”

“Strictly speaking?” Another hesitation. “No. I kind of got stuck.”

“You got stuck in a wall?” she said. “For how long?”

“A few minutes. Half an hour. An hour at the most. Maybe two. Or a day. Remember that day I called Valkyrie and told her to take the afternoon off? Yeah, I was stuck in a wall. But I got out of it, and I’ve been working on it ever since. So grab on, Stephanie.”

“I’ll wait out here, thank you very much.”

“He who dares wins.”

“Fools rush in.”

“Valkyrie would trust me.”

She glared as he held out his free hand, then sighed. “If you get me stuck in a wall, I will be seriously annoyed with you.”

“Duly noted.”

She took his hand and he pulled her close. She screwed her eyes shut and then she was passing through something cold, something jagged. Sharp corners prodded her all over at once. The pain was bearable. The rumbling was loud, like great slabs of rock scraping against each other.

And then she was out, stumbling into empty space. Her eyes opened to the dim surroundings of the gallery after closing time.

“There,” Skulduggery whispered, “told you I could do it.”

“You sound surprised,” she whispered back.

“Actually, I’m astonished,” he said, and moved on.

They passed through a room of paintings, Skulduggery manipulating the air so as to mute their footsteps. When they got to the corner, he peeked out first, then turned to her and raised a finger to his lips. She nodded.

He peeked again, and motioned her to join him. She inched forward. There was movement in the darkness at the far end of the wide room that adjoined this one. She glimpsed alabaster skin. A person, a thing, almost on all fours. Bald. Naked. Big black eyes. A mouth that couldn’t close properly due to the mass of jutting, irregular fangs contained within.

Skulduggery’s hand closed round Stephanie’s wrist, and she saw another vampire, and another. The place was crawling with them. She and Skulduggery backed away, out of earshot.

“Looks like they’ve hired more security since we were here last,” he said softly. “This might be a tad trickier than I’d anticipated.”

They chose another route and moved up a set of stairs silently, Skulduggery taking the lead, reading the air around them. They got to the dark café, passed chairs stacked upon tables in the gloom. To the left of the tables was the balcony overlooking the exhibits in the room below.

They looked over. The Vault was down a narrow corridor marked Staff Only. Stephanie could see the sign from where they stood. Skulduggery nodded to her and she threw one leg over the balcony, then the other, and perched there, ready to jump. Skulduggery merely rose into the air, floated over the balcony, and descended until Stephanie could wrap her arms round his neck. Then they drifted low, skimming over the exhibits, and landed gently by the Staff Only sign.

Down this corridor was a wooden door criss-crossed by metal. Skulduggery picked the lock while Stephanie kept watch. No vampires passed. She sneaked back to Skulduggery when the last tumbler fell, and they passed through. Skulduggery closed the door behind them, as gently as he could, and clicked his fingers. Guided by his light, she followed him down the steps. It was cold down here. Cold and creepy. They passed half a dozen doors, each etched with a unique shield.