Last Stand of Dead Men. Derek Landy
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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.”
“But the business of others does interest me,” Skulduggery said. “I’ve been hearing rumours, Dubhóg. Disquieting rumours. I just thought you might be able to allay my fears.”
“And that is why you attacked me?”
“I merely knocked on your front door.”
“Then you attacked my door.” Dubhóg squinted at him. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? With your Sanctuaries and your rules. You think everyone should be like you. Well, I’m not like you. Witches aren’t like you. Warlocks aren’t like you. Why would we want to be? You live your lives restricted by rules. Even your magic is restricted. Sorcerers treat magic like science. It’s disgusting and unnatural. It twists what true magic is all about.”
“Control is important.”
“Why? Why is it important? Magic should be allowed to flourish in whichever form it takes.”
“That way madness lies.”
“For the weak-minded, perhaps.”
“Tell me what Charivari is up to.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Dubhóg. “I’ve never met the man. Why would you think I know anything about any of this?”
“A little over a year ago, you were seen talking to a Warlock who went on to try to kill me and my associate.”
“A year? How can I be expected to remember that far back? I’m eight hundred years old. I get confused about the little things – who said what, who did what, who tried to kill who … My days are devoted to my granddaughter and my nights are spent making multiple trips to the toilet. I don’t have time for anyone’s grand schemes.”
“So Charivari has a grand scheme?”
Dubhóg frowned. “I didn’t say that.”
“Actually, you sort of did.”
“Oh, I see,” said Dubhóg. “You’re one of those, are you? You like to play around with words to try and get the better of me. Well, it’s not going to work. With age comes wisdom, you ever hear that?”
“I did, but I’ve found that wisdom has a cut-off point of around one hundred and twenty years. Once you reach that, you’re really as wise as you’re going to get.”
“Well, I’m wise enough to say nothing more on the subject.”
“So you know more on the subject.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Again, you implied that you did. The Warlock you spoke to had been hired by the Necromancers to kill us – he said he owed them a special favour. Why?”
Dubhóg shrugged. “Why does anyone do anything?”
“What did the Necromancers do for the Warlocks? Did they give them something? They did? What was it – an item, an object, a person? Was it a thing, was it information, was it—? It was information? OK.”
Dubhóg stepped back, horrified. “What are you doing? Are you reading my mind? No one can read my mind. Witches’ minds cannot be read.”
“I’m not reading your mind,” Skulduggery said. “I’m reading your face. What information did the Necromancers give them? A strategy? A place? A name?”
Dubhóg screamed and covered her face with her hands.
“A name, then,” Skulduggery said.
“You don’t know that!” Dubhóg cried. “I have my face covered!”
“So that’s what the Warlock wanted from the Necromancers, but what did he want from you? This will go easier for you if you just tell me what I want to know.”
“Never!”
While Dubhóg reeled dramatically with her face covered, Valkyrie stepped out from hiding and approached the circle. Skulduggery gave her a little wave. She could have wet her finger and smudged the chalk, but instead she decided to put all those hours of practice to good use. Crouching by the edge of the circle, she put her hand flat on the ground and pushed her magic into the concrete until she was almost part of it, until she was cold and hard just like it was. And then she wrenched her hand to the side and the ground cracked,