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Back Resurrection Save as PDF
Chapters (81)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. Contents
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. 54
  60. 55
  61. 56
  62. 57
  63. 58
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
  67. 62
  68. 63
  69. 64
  70. 65
  71. 66
  72. 67
  73. 68
  74. 69
  75. 70
  76. 71
  77. Glossary
  78. Dramatis Personae
  79. Keep Reading …
  80. The Skulduggery Pleasant series
  81. About the Publisher

He stepped within arm’s reach of Azzedine Smoke, lying there half covered by unconscious convicts, and Smoke lunged, grabbed Skulduggery’s leg with both hands and some internal switch flicked inside Valkyrie’s mind and she saw the darkness swirl around Skulduggery’s aura, faster than before, thicker and darker. Smoke was putting everything into this, everything into overpowering Skulduggery’s essence, and then it was done.

Smoke looked back at Valkyrie. “Kill her,” he snapped.

Skulduggery turned.

Valkyrie raised a hand, but he knocked it aside and hit her, a fist to the jaw that spun her, sent her to her knees. His gun flew into his hand, and he pressed it to Valkyrie’s forehead.

The room stopped.

“Skulduggery,” Valkyrie whispered.

65

On her knees, all strength having abandoned her, bruised and battered with her left eye swelling shut, Valkyrie could only whisper his name.

He stood over her, one hand holding a fistful of her hair, the other holding the gun that felt so cold against her forehead. He burned with darkness. Smoke’s sickness wrapped around him, twisting and seething, infecting him until there was not one glimmer of his true self remaining.

She wasn’t scared. That surprised her. She wasn’t scared, she was just sad. So incredibly sad. This was what she deserved, of that she had no doubt. She was a killer who deserved to be killed, a murderer who deserved to be murdered. Her death, violent and bloody, was inevitable. If it hadn’t been at his hands, it would have been at someone else’s. If not today, then tomorrow, or next week, or a hundred years from now. But she could no more escape her fate than the Earth could escape its orbit of the sun.

He stood over her, his finger on the trigger. Time slowed. Not Destrier’s doing. This was her perception of the moment of her own death, and time was generous in this instance, in order to allow her to fully appreciate the experience.

She thought of her sister, and her parents, and her dog, and she thought of Omen and Never and Militsa. She thought of Tanith, and wished she’d had a chance to say goodbye, and thought of Ghastly and Gordon, and wondered if she’d see them again. She thought of people and places and times, but only as sensations, memories of emotions that she recognised as clearly as faces. They flooded her mind, lingering both an eternity and an instant, and then she thought of Skulduggery, the man standing over her, and she hoped he’d never snap out of this.

“I love you,” she said, and closed her eyes.

66

The shot filled the room.

67