Argeddion rose, black veins running across his face. “Interesting,” he said.

“How much can you remember?” Darquesse asked.

He frowned. “I remember everything as Michael Tolan. These false memories they implanted, false experiences … they’re really very good.”

“What about your memories as Argeddion?”

“They’re … hidden. Obstructed. But I can … I can get through them if I …”

His eyes widened suddenly, and he smiled. “There,” he breathed. “There …”

Darquesse gave it as long as she possibly could, and then she grabbed him, rammed her hand into his mouth and forced it down his throat.

Argeddion struggled. He wasn’t strong yet, but she could feel his power returning to him. It wouldn’t be long now.

She drew the Remnant into her hand, closed her fingers round it, and yanked it out.

It squirmed and squealed in her grip and Argeddion collapsed, his throat in ruins and his jaw smashed. Darquesse opened wide, forced the Remnant into her own mouth. She swallowed, feeling its little claws ripping her insides to shreds. She smiled, healing everything instantly. The Remnant struggled inside her, tried to escape, but she kept it where it was. After a few moments, its natural processes took over, and she felt it try to slink into her mind. Instead, she pulled it in, isolated it, extracted its memories. Once she was done, she burned it, fed on its power.

So many memories. It would take time to sort through them. Luckily Darquesse had plenty of experience with this. In some ways, it was a lot like Valkyrie absorbing the reflection’s experiences, back in the old days.

She was brought back to the present by Argeddion getting to his feet. His power was returning. She could see it. Within moments, he would remember how to heal himself.

She poured her magic out through her eyes. A beam of energy, no thicker than a pencil, burrowed through Argeddion’s heart. He stepped back, then fell. She watched his life leave him, watched his essence rejoin the Great Stream, as the Necromancers called it – a stream that would soon be bursting its banks.

51

THE TEMPLE OF THE SPIDER

reyfon Signate flickered and disappeared, leaving Valkyrie and Skulduggery alone to creep through the darkness.

Redhoods stood guard, surrounding the remains of this dimension’s Sanctuary. Their scythes looked every bit as nasty as the Cleavers back home, but somehow their red uniforms were even more unsettling than the grey. Grey was the colour of neutrality. Red was the colour of violent, passionate intent.

“Can’t see any survivors,” Valkyrie whispered. “I count seven dead Cleavers, three dead sorcerers. No sign of Ravel.”

“If they caught him, he’s either dead or already on his way to Mevolent,” said Skulduggery. “Come on.”

Staying low, they moved away, seeking refuge in the night’s darkness.

“What do you think Mevolent will do to him?” Valkyrie asked.