For any other sorcerer, the Surge was a painful, but relatively brief, burst of pure power that solidified their magical discipline. Thus sorcerers who were stronger in Elemental magic would forever more be Elementals, while those stronger in the Adept disciplines would be confirmed as Adepts. Melancholia’s Surge, however, had been captured and redirected into a never-ending loop of increasing magic, transforming her into the Death Bringer the Necromancers had been waiting for.

And now here she was, waking up after so long with her legs strapped down and her wrists in shackles.

“She’s in a light sleep,” Synecdoche said from behind Valkyrie. “She woke earlier, but was too disorientated to ask questions. She should be more lucid now.”

Valkyrie frowned. “Should I … Should I wake her?”

“She’s slept long enough,” Synecdoche said, leaving the room. “I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”

There was an empty chair by the bed and Valkyrie sat in it. Then she reached forward, nudged Melancholia’s leg.

“Hey,” she said softly. Then, louder, “Hey.”

Melancholia opened her eyes. It took her a few seconds to focus. She blinked, and looked around. “Where am I?”

She sounded like she needed a glass of water.

“In the Sanctuary,” Valkyrie said. “How are you feeling?”

“What happened?” she said. “Where’s Vile? How did I get here?”

“Calm down,” Valkyrie said. “You’re safe.”

She tried to sit up. “I’m in shackles.”

“Of course you’re in shackles. The last time you weren’t in shackles you tried to kill almost half the population of the planet.”

“I planned it,” Melancholia said. “I didn’t try it. There’s a difference.” Quickly, very quickly, she was becoming her old self again. “So where’s Vile?”

Valkyrie glanced at the door to make sure no one could overhear. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“You and me, running through those caves. I remember Skulduggery Pleasant turning into Lord Vile and coming after us. Did you know they were the same person? That’s insane.”

“Yeah. You can’t tell anyone about that, by the way. That’s our little secret. He’s not Lord Vile any more. He’s all better.”

“Oh, that’s reassuring,” Melancholia said, rolling her eyes.

“What else do you remember?”

“Hold on, hold on, let me think.” Melancholia frowned. “I remember getting outside, and it was night, and he was still coming and I was so tired, I was too tired to even … and you punched me.”

“I did.”

“That wasn’t very nice.”

“I needed you to try to kill me.”

“Why?”

“Darquesse. You’ve heard of her, right?”

Melancholia frowned. “That’s the sorcerer all the Sensitives are worried about.”

“Yes it is. And she’s me.”

“I’m sorry?”