chapter 4

The manor house was old, and monumental in scale. its baronial turrets and grand hallways were of cathedral-like proportions. Gilt door handles and stained glass windows commonplace in the air of absolute wealth that suffused the building. it sat on the crest of a hill, overlooking the sprawling estates it dominated. woodland, pasture and lakes all fell beneath its sway. But, like with all buildings of a certain age, it was not without its more secretive splendour.

Far below the elegant halls and marbled floors of the manor house, down the spiral staircase that cored deep into the earth, a secret room lay. It was large, with walls of stone carved with delicate depictions of the world of the Faceless by some hand with a greater craft than could be known. Wooden tiered seating was arranged in a large semicircle around a pit. The pit was deep, with only one armoured door, and flawless stone walls and floor, dressed so that there were no handholds, no cracks, no way out.

The seats were filled with dozens of men and women all dressed in cowled black cloaks. On the cloaks, over the heart, was the symbol of the Faceless, sewn in silver thread.

One seat, higher than the others, held a tall man in finer robes than any of the others. His face was shadowed by his hood, and a silver chain was wrapped around his neck.

They all sat with a solemn silence that seeped to be tangible in the damp air of the chamber.

The door in the pit opened, and a thin, bedraggled man was thrust into the pit. His suit had been nice once, but now it was torn and ragged, stained in a dozen places.

The man with the chain stood up. “Velice Kismet?” he intoned, his voice echoing all around the chamber. 

The man squinted up at the chamber, and flinched as the voice struck him like a lash, “y-yes sir….”

“Do you know why you have been brought before this court?”  

The man winced as he answered, “n-no s-sir…”

A dribbled of blood ran from one of his sleeves and dripped down onto the stone floor. He didn't seem to notice.

“To answer for your crimes.” Said the man with the chain. His voice was deep, and sonorous, but also cold and flat, without empathy or emotion.

“C-crimes….?” Stammered Kismet, confusion and pain in his eyes.

“Crimes!” roared the man with the chain, suddenly flying into a fury. He gripped the sides of his said so tightly that the wood creaked ominously. “You are nothing but filth! Filthy scum who has sinned and profaned this pure world with your filth!”

He sat back in his chair and took a deep breath, regaining his composure,

“Read the charges.” He growled.

Another cowled figure stood up, and read from a file, “my lords faithful,” he announced in a solemn tone, “the criminal before you is charged with sins most grievous.”

“Read on.” Ordered the man with the chain, glaring down at Kismet.

“Yes, Judge. The first charge is a relatively minor offence, the sin of heresy.”

“Heresy?” wailed Kismet, “but I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“Be silent!” screamed the Judge, veins standing out on his face, “or I will have your tongue torn from your verminous head!”

Kismet fell back into beleaguered silence.

“Read on.” Intoned the judge.

“This man is a catholic, my lords. A worshipper of a false god. The sentence…is death.”

“No!” cried Kismet, falling to his knees, which wept blood onto the ground,

“continue.” Ordered the judge.

“The second charge, my lords, is the charge of impeding the return of the dark gods by interference in the holy work of their followers. To whit, he was part of a sanctuary team that combated the Diablerie. The sentence…is death.”

“Please…” sobbed Kismet, revealing a mouth of broken, bloody teeth.

“The third charge, my lords,” continued the reader, “is of a failure to repent, despite all mercy placed upon him by our jailers.”

“I repent!” cried Kismet, sobbing in terror and agony, “please, god, I repent!”

The Judge smiled cruelly, “god?” you mock us still. You do not repent.”

“No…” moaned Kismet, “please…you can’t do this…”

The judge ignored him, and got solemnly to his feet.

“You stand accused of these crimes. Your guilt is without question.” He intoned, a bright light filling his hand. “You will now be judged.”

“Please!” shrieked Kismet, scrabbling at the door with bloody fingers, “please, no! let me go!”

“die.” Growled the judge. He opened his hand, and the light flew forwards, latching onto the frail figure of Kismet like an enormous parasite. Kismet shrieked and screamed and thrashed as his skin melted like butter, and the marrow in his bones boiled. His screams lasted for an instant that lingered in infinite, unending agony, before he slumped forwards and fell face down on the floor of the pit with a wet crunch.

The Judge bared his teeth, “Court adjourned.”

He turned to the others and smiled, “now, let us go upstairs and continue the festivities.” 

The manor house began to come alive, as light and sound filled its grand halls and vast rooms of ornate furniture. servants scurried too and fro, carrying out their tasks with rigid discipline. The sound of erudite laughter and soft music began to seep from the house, and the smell of rich food was carried far on the breeze to tantalise the minds of the less fortunate. all the while, beneath the shadows of one of the great oak trees that surrounded the manor, another pair of eyes watched the splendour with amusement...and hunger. In the darkness, beneath the benevolent shade of the ancient tree, the nightmare watched, and waited.

chapter 3

Skulduggery pressed the button on his phone and held it up to his head, "hello?"
A gruff male voice came out of the speaker, the voice of the night administrator at the sanctuary. he was a small, balding man with a ridiculous twiddly moustache. He was called something along the lines of Ravache, but everyone at the sanctuary had another name for him.
"Pleasant," growled 'Tache, who had a good idea who had started the nickname, "there's' been another incident."
"I'm busy."
"Tough. It's only a few minutes away. Go pick up your partner, and get to the Carrick-Cotter hospital. A necromancer's there, and says it urgent."
skulduggery was silent for a moment, his gut giving a little pang of irritation at the thought of having to deal with a necromancer. "Fine. Roarhaven's not far. I'll be at the hospital in an hour."
"Good." grunted 'Tache, and with that he hung up.
Skulduggery sat in the car silently for a moment, letting his mind clear itself. he wasn't particularly concerned about keeping the necromancer waiting. He knew who it'd be.
Eventually, he picked his pine up and dialled Valkyrie' number. He'd better make sure she was ready.

Not far away, Valkyrie Cain was having a bad dream. it was an old, familiar terror. She was running, as fast as she could. Her whole body ached with exhaustion, her breath came in ragged drags of air that felt cold on her burning insides. Her teeth chattered and she imagined the metallic tang of blood in her mouth.
All around her, darkness flowed like oil. Clawed hands grabbed at her from all around, and a thousand eyes glared at her from every angle. And then, like a sudden spring  storm, it was gone.
She staggered forwards, collapsing onto her knees exhaustedly. She lay on a barren waste. Behind her, a grey sea hurled itself screaming onto the sharp rocks of the shore, its cold fingers clawing at the land, leaving wet furrows that glistened like blood for a moment, before dissapearing beneath the gore of a new onslaught. Beneath her, scratchy grass and stony soil rubbed her knees raw beneath her clothes. the earth was damp, and smelled of salt and decay.
In front of her, clearer than ever before, was a circle of stones, silhouetted against an angry grey sky. Amongst the ancient monoliths, a figure stood. It was human in shape, but where flesh and blood should have occupied space, there was nothing. Like a tear in the skin of the world. There was only darkness, and where the eyes should have been, two silver stars glowed with impossible light.
It walked towards her, its movements unsteady and weak, and reached out a dark hand, sharp fingers of dark impossibility clawing the air between them. a voice, so warm and rich, echoed around them, whispering a single, lingering word filled with an wonderfully, impossibly, seductive hatred and malice
"an-ci-ent...."

and then, it was gone. the dream ended, abruptly and cleanly. Valkyrie opened her eyes to the familiar darkness of her room, and sat up. in her mind, there was only a lingering memory of the voice, and the word it had called.
Ancient.
she shuddered at the fading thought, but was pulled back into the material world by a buzzing sound beside her. She fumbled groggily for her phone, and eventually managed to answer.
"what?" she mumbled, suppressing a yawn.
"did i wake you?" asked skulduggery, hos voice a little tinnier from the phones speaker.
"no, no...I was already awake."
"Aw..." he whined, "that takes all the fun out of it."
"what do you want?" asked Valkyrie, teenage irritation at having sleep denied to her showing through.
"get dressed, we've got work to do." said skulduggery, "I'll pick you up in two minutes. If your'e not there, I'll call fletcher. and we shall have great adventures together together without you."
"you'd kill him after five minutes."
"so, for his sake, make sure you're outside your window in two minutes."

Chapter 2 

“its been a while since we’ve needed you lot,” said Caralox, taking a deep drag on his battered cigarette. He was a skinny, mean looking man with a narrow face covered in grey stubble and a hairline that was fighting a losing battle with time. Skulduggery didn’t really have an opinion on him. He was some sort of minor administrator, but had once been a promising detective. Three bullets and a stab wound had shut that chapter on the life of Caralox the young idealist, though, and begun the story of Caralox the bitter cynic.

“We’ve not had a suspicious death here for over thirty years,” continued Caralox, smoke pouring out of his mouth and nose, making him look like some sort of mangy dragon. “Terou’s a nice town.”

Skulduggery shrugged, “probably a tourism thing. ‘Terou’, town of culture and colour, come and see the floral discotheque, buy a t-shirt, kill a local’. I bet it’s in all the brochures.”

Caralox snorted, and pointed at the body that lay covered by a white sheet. The street was quiet and deserted now, the houses cleared by a team of sensitives and sorcerers. Cleavers manned cordons at either end of the road.

“Whatever. His name’s Jako Augment. Take a look, then go away.”

Skulduggery crouched beside the stiff body, and peeked beneath the sheet. “No sign of any injury?”

“Only the ones he got in the fall. Coroners say he’s got a load of scratches on his body though. Deep and nasty, and self-inflicted.”

“Self-inflicted?” repeated skulduggery. “Not defence marks?”

“They don’t think so, but won’t say for sure ‘til the proper autopsy. All of this is just the obvious stuff.  There’s bruising on his temples, again, self-inflicted. His feet are all bloody, too.”

Skulduggery straightened up and straightened his suit, “Does he have any history of self-abuse? This might be a suicide.”

Caralox shook his head, “not the type. He preferred to do the hurting on others.”

“Criminal?”

“Thug. He did some work for a couple of gangs in ulster once, cheap and nasty.”

“Gangs open up the possibility of a hit.” Mused skulduggery, but Caralox just shrugged,

“That’s why you’re here.” He said, “If you want my opinion, it’s no great loss, but a gang war isn’t something we can afford. We’re already stretched thin.”

It was true. After Vengeous, the Diablerie, Argeddion, and Scarab, resources were increasingly low, unlike Grill, the quartermaster’s, blood pressure.

Skulduggery nodded, “I’ll look into it.”

“Good.” Said Caralox, turning away and stalking off towards his battered ford fiesta, “I’ll have the autopsy report sent over to Roarhaven. The body too.  Get that scuttling wretch Nye to take a look at it.”

“Miss you already.” Called skulduggery, but Caralox ignored him. 

skulduggery stared at the body for a few minutes in silence, letting his thoughts percolate. Eventually, the coroners came over and asked him to leave, as the needed to pack up the body before it started to rot, as they’d had to drive it to the morgue, and the van would stink, and harry would throw up, and then it would smell worse.

Skulduggery left gratefully, an idea already forming in his fertile mind. he stared at his phone thoughtfully for a moment, in the cosy confines of the Bentley. his finger hovered over the button to call Valkyrie, and fell away as the phone began to buzz and vibrate in his hand.  

Note: sorry if the  layouts a little bit weird, but the Word Processor on my laptop sucks. I'm trying to fix it, but you might just have to make do. Sorry...

Chapter 3

The hospital was quiet at night. through the shiny, clean corridors there was only the soft rustling sound of distant movements, of beds being moved and the far away rumble of a generator, all diffused through the thick doors. The air too, seemed softer. the cloying, acrid scent of disinfectant seeming less heavy than during the day.

On the top floor, in an unremarkable room, Jalas Leprous, or Declan Keller as the doctors knew him, was dying. He'd been dying for a while, but his body seemed unwilling to take the hint.

He lay on his bed, drifting in a place somewhere between dreams and the waking world. the morphine numbed him, and made him fell as though he were floating on nothingness. He could still feel the world around him, but it was as though it was through the third person, never quite real to him.

He lay, dozing, staring out at the darkness that seemed to swirl around him like a dark fog.

Something moved in the darkness.

a primal instinct, a will to survive that now seemed so bitterly ironic, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. a trickle of adrenalin crept into his blood, and dulled the morphine's saccharine numbness. He sat up, and stared.

At the end of the bed, a man stood.

He was tall, a little over six feet, and rangy. he looked, to Jalas, as unremarkable as the other thirty-something's he'd seen in the hospital. but for his eyes, his irises were blue, shot through with veins of black and silver, and seemed to shift and change as he watched, like stars in the night sky. They watched Jalas interestedly.

“Beautiful moon tonight, don’t you think.” Said the man, his voice like a cats purr.

“Who are you?” demanded Jalas, his once strong voice nothing but a pathetic whisper.

The man walked over to the chair in the corner and eased himself down,

“i am…”  he said, pausing to consider his answer, “an idea. A concept, if you like. Albeit, one that’s strong enough to be given a voice, and a face.”

“Why’re you here? I don’t know you.” Said Jalas, pushing himself up in the bed.

The man looked at Jalas curiously, “I’m here to help you, of course.”

Jalas laughed bitterly, “That’s rich. A whole building of doctors to help me, but none who can, and now you. You can’t help me. Let me be.”

The man smiled, “you’re a good actor. Did you put on the same sort of show for your family? Strong at the end, no regrets, that sort of thing?”

Jalas stared, unable to speak, as the man continued,

“I can only imagine that they’ll be so proud, when you eventually go. You were so brave, an example to us all, that’s how I want to go.” the man smiled again, it was the same sort of smile undertakers gave to big customers.

“Get out.” Said Jalas.

“No. I don’t think I want to. I don’t think you do either.”

“Leave me alone!” cried Jalas, grabbing his glass from the table by his bed. He threw it, and it smashed into the wall, but the man didn’t flinch. He just kept smiling.

“You’re scared.” He said, “Its ok, I understand. After all, nobody cares about the dead knight but the ravens.” 

“Go away…” sobbed Jalas, “leave me in peace…”

Jalas blinked, only for an instant, but when he looked again, the man wasn’t in the chair. He sat on the end of the bed, his eyes fixed on Jalas.

“But why? I told you, I’m here to help.”

Jalas felt tears in his eyes. He was afraid, and in pain. Everything seemed so trivial now, so pointless. “How? He sobbed, “How can you help me? All the doctors say I’m done for, what can you do?”

The man leaned in closer, “you were never powerful, Jalas,” he whispered, “but you were a sorcerer. The doctors don’t know, and the ones who do don’t know how to use that information, but I do”

“How…?”

The man laughed, a sound that felt good. “I’m something of a mage myself. But I’m a little more…imaginative than the ones you’re used to.”

Jalas sat up in the bed, “you’re a sorcerer?” he said cautiously.

“Not exactly. But does it matter? You don’t want to die, do you?”

Jalas shook his head, “n-no…sir.”

The man smiled again, “good. Now, listen to me…”

They talked, and as they talked, Jalas felt himself grow a little stronger, no much, but just enough to give him hope. All the while, he never saw the Nightmare.

Hello.
Unoriginal, I know, but I'm afraid that's your lot. For now.
A few formalities before we get started,
Firstly, I don't own Skulduggery Pleasant. Either the series, characters or indeed anything to do with Derek lady's intellectual property. Characters of my creation, I do own however. Be told.
Secondly, I just want to say thank you for taking to time to look at this, it means a lot.
Hope you enjoy, so please, read on.

The Dark Madrigal

Chapter 1

Fear.

That was all there was.

Pure, unadulterated terror and horror.

There was no reason for it, no rationale, only the trembling, and the tears, and the begging. Begging for it to stop, for it to end.

A thought.

A whisper.

Darkness.

Death.

The body fell forwards, it's face crunching into the cold tarmac of the street with the wet sound of shattered bone.

Far above, the nightmare lounged on a lamppost, chewing reflectively on a stalk of grass. He spat it out, and got to his feet, balancing like a cat.

The nightmare thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his black trousers. He considered making a smart comment, but decided against it. It wasn’t needed.

There was a cry for further down the street, and figures came running over to the body, their shopping bags bouncing up and down in a ludicrous counter to the seriousness of the corpse.  

The nightmare grinned in the darkness. He could see them, so small and confused. Frightened. They called the ambulance, and the police. Clinging to the system that formed their most precious shield against the truth.

The nightmare straightened up, and let out a long, slow breath. Far above them, the moon was full, a great silver orb in a sea of the deepest blue. The stars were just tiny pinpricks in the sky, their sharp lights blunted by the sickly yellow lights of the city. 

The nightmare glanced back down at the gathering crowd. Everyone loved a bit of drama.

He raised his gaze, and focused in on the hospital. A slim smile formed on his lips, and he vanished.