The Dying of the Light. Derek Landy
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her.”
“You mean Tanith Low.”
Skulduggery nodded. “Yes I do. Tanith Low and Billy-Ray Sanguine.”
Sanguine took off his coat, dumped it on a straight-backed chair, the only piece of furniture in the room. It was cold outside, but hot in here, all that heat generated from the eighteen-year-old girl slowing rotating in mid-air. What was going on inside her mind, he had no idea. Were they human thoughts she was thinking, or something else? Something beyond human?
Someone that powerful, he reckoned, would only take a short while to start thinking thoughts that had no place in a human head.
A whisper of leather behind him, but he didn’t turn. Tanith Low was quiet when she did her patrol of this little house in this little ghost estate. Were he to glance out of that window, he’d see a dozen identical houses to this one, but all hollow and empty. Years back, they were set to be sold to the affluent Irish and the lucky immigrants who came here for a better life. Then the money went away and immigrants sought better lives elsewhere, took a good chunk of the Irish with them.
Sanguine was tired of Ireland. It was coming to the tail end of winter, but the winds were still bitter and the rain was still mean. He wanted to go home, back to the heat of East Texas. He was sick of living the life of an outlaw. He wanted to sit on the porch in the evenings and not have to worry about the world ending, or how to play his part in it.
He watched Tanith slip out of the window and walk up the outside wall towards the roof. She had binoculars up there she could use to sweep the full 360. She hadn’t said much since they’d arrived here, and she barely slept. The Remnant inside her kept her going, kept her strong and alert. Sometimes he’d catch her looking at him and wonder if today was the day she’d kill him.
Because she had to kill him. He knew that much.
Darquesse, that god-in-a-girl’s-body that had once been known as Valkyrie Cain, was the Remnant’s messiah, destined to decimate the earth and reduce civilisation to cinders for some reason yet to be discovered. When Darquesse had asked Tanith to look after her while she “hibernated” – her words – Tanith had been overjoyed. Sanguine had tagged along, of course he had. Tanith was his fiancée, after all. He loved her. But no matter how much he loved Tanith, Darquesse had never been his messiah, and he had no wish to see the world burn.
Tanith knew that, given enough time, he’d go on to do something drastic to avert that apocalypse, and the only reason she hadn’t killed him yet was because she obviously didn’t think he’d be up to it. But even now there was a dagger tucked into his belt, one of four God-Killer weapons he’d hidden away from her that were more than capable of ending this god-girl’s life. He’d heard what Darquesse could do. He’d heard her head had once been pulled off, and she’d put herself back together in those last few moments before brain death.
Yet Darquesse was killable. Darquesse was very killable. But in order to kill her, he needed to plunge this dagger into her before she had a chance to formulate any thoughts on the matter. He could do it now. Tanith was on the roof, Darquesse had her eyes closed, and here he was, standing with one hand already sneaking round behind his back to the dagger. He lifted it from his belt with great care, and when he held it he pointed it down and away from his body. These weapons killed whatever they nicked, and if they could kill a god they could certainly kill Momma Sanguine’s favourite son.
The dagger felt good in his hand. Well-balanced. Three steps and he’d be next to her, then all he’d have to do would be to reach up, drive the blade through her skull. It’d be the easiest kill of his life, and the most important. Hell, he’d be saving the damn world. How many other hitmen could say that? Course, by killing Darquesse he’d be destroying the dreams of Tanith Low, the only woman he’d ever loved, and in doing that he’d be inciting her rage to the point where he’d have to kill her before she killed him.
Darquesse hovered there, head down and eyes closed, turning ever so slowly, and Sanguine put the dagger back in his belt. He reckoned he could allow his warm and fuzzy feelings to stay alive a little longer.
It always made her smile to go home. Those awkward days filled with awkward silences and occasional, maddening bursts of friendship were made bearable by the fact that Stephanie had a home to go to at the end of it all. The smile began when she got out of the Bentley, and it broadened to a grin when she pushed open the front door.
Comfort.
No, more than comfort. Belonging.
Her dad was in the living room, her mum moving round the house, and at this time of night Alice was already in bed. Her whole family, alive and safe. Shoving the knowledge of their possible fates into a dark corner of her mind, Stephanie went up to her room, changed into jeans and a hoody, and stowed the Sceptre and the stick under her bed. In her bare feet, she crept into Alice’s room, looked down at her as she slept.
“Hey there,” she whispered. “Sorry I didn’t get to play with you today. Doing important stuff. When it’s all done, I’ll be able to play with you every single day, I promise.”
Alice lay there, eyes closed and mouth open, looking beautiful. Stephanie felt such an overwhelming sense of love and, not for the first time, sheer thrilling excitement that this was her life now. She had a family. Parents and a sister. She was a normal girl living a normal life. Or it would be a normal life, just as soon as she escaped all the weirdness.
She crept back out and went downstairs. Her first stop was the kitchen. She’d been starving for hours, but hadn’t bothered to tell Skulduggery. She’d started to feel that these biological needs of hers – to eat, to pee – were complications he could do without knowing about. Things were fraught enough between them as it was – she didn’t want to annoy him any further.
She heated some leftovers in the microwave and washed them down with a glass of cold milk. Her belly no longer rumbling, she cleaned the plate and took her glass into the living room. Her dad didn’t even glance up from the TV.
“Muh,” he said, waving a hand.
“Hi, Dad. Whatcha watching?”
“TV.”
“What’s on?”
“Film.”
“What’s it called?”
He didn’t answer.
“Dad? What’s it called?”
“Three Days of the Condor.”
“Is it good?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Is it complicated?”
“Very.”
“What’s it about?”
“Not sure,” he said. “I think it’s about a