“I need somewhere quiet if I want to kill a country, and I need someone to look out for me while I do it.”

“I’d… I’d be honoured. But we need to keep moving. There are creatures down here who feed on magic, and if the Rippers find us…”

“I wouldn’t worry about the Rippers or the monsters,” she laughed. “If I were you, I’d worry about Skulduggery Pleasant.”

Craven stared at her. “He isn’t dead?”

“Oh, he’s dead, but it’s the same dead as always. He and Valkyrie weren’t in the crowd when I took all those lives. I’d say they’re looking for us as we speak. Come.”

She turned, led the way through the tunnel.

She was going to kill him. There was no way round it – Melancholia was going to kill him, and she wasn’t trying to hide it. Craven knew what his options were. He could run, but he doubted he’d get very far, or he could fight, but that option scared him even more than running. He knew what Solomon Wreath would do in his place. He would bide his time, wait until Melancholia was distracted, and then he’d attack. It would be short, sharp and brutal. She’d be dead before she knew what had happened. That’s what Wreath would do, and he wouldn’t hesitate, either. He’d have that assurance he was always so good at wielding.

Craven didn’t have that level of assurance, though. He was afraid he’d panic, misjudge the attack, or miss the moment. And then what would happen? She’d turn to him, laugh at his pathetic attempt, and with a casual flick of the wrist, she’d tear him apart.

His eyes came to rest on the back of Melancholia’s head as she walked. If Wreath was with him, it would have been over by now. Melancholia would be lying dead on the ground, and they’d go back to looking for a Death Bringer they could control. But Craven was alone, and it was up to him to save himself. He raised his hands, feeling the power in his amulet ready to burst forth. His tongue slid over his dry lips. The ground levelled off and Melancholia walked in a straight line, like she was inviting him to try it.

What if she was inviting him? And what if he missed?

Head pounding in his chest, Craven lowered his trembling hands. He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t risk making the attempt and failing. He couldn’t risk angering her. For all he knew, maybe she’d decided that she needed him around to look out for her. Maybe she wasn’t going to kill him after all.

Melancholia looked at him over her shoulder, and he saw the smile on her lips and in her eyes, which were still glowing with that deep, deep red.