Last Stand of Dead Men

“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, splitting one of the lines of chalk.

Dubhóg whirled at the noise, and stared at Valkyrie as Skulduggery stepped out of the circle. “How did you get in? Did you harm my granddaughter?”

“She’s fine,” Valkyrie said, straightening up.

“If you hurt her …”

“We didn’t.”

Dubhóg’s face contorted in fury. “You will pay!”

“I told you,” Valkyrie said, frowning, “we didn’t hurt—”

But it was too late.

Dubhóg flew into the air, the space around her crackling with an energy that made her long hair stand on end. She hovered there, looking like an electrocuted cartoon character, her face twisted in anger. Gracious leaped at her, and a stream of sizzling light caught him in the chest and sent him hurtling backwards. Donegan rushed in, his hands lighting up, but Dubhóg caught the energy stream he sent her way and responded with another one of her own. The air rushed in around Valkyrie and she shot towards Dubhóg, the shadows bunching round her fist. Dubhóg grabbed her by the throat, her grip strong, and Valkyrie clicked her fingers, summoning a ball of flame into her hand, and prepared to ram it into the witch’s face.

“Granny,” Misery called. “Granny, stop that. Gran. NANA!”

The battle froze, and Dubhóg looked round. “Misery? You’re OK?”

“They didn’t hurt me, Nana,” Misery said, somewhat crossly. “Now put her down before you embarrass me even more.”

Dubhóg drifted to the ground and let go of Valkyrie, who stepped back, rubbing her throat.

“Terribly sorry,” Dubhóg said, her hair returning to normal, that ferocious power leaving her as quickly as it had arrived.

“That’s quite all right,” Skulduggery said, walking forward. “We all make mistakes, isn’t that right? No harm done.”

In the corner, Gracious moaned.

“Tell them what they want to know,” Misery said, “then come upstairs. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Misery turned, walked away, and Dubhóg cleared her throat and smiled at Skulduggery.

“I’m a constant source of embarrassment to her,” she explained. “I can’t do anything right, really. All I want to do is protect her from the everyday cruelties of life, but I always do something wrong. I say the wrong thing, or I attack the wrong people …”

“Kids,” Skulduggery said, sympathising.