The Midnight Game - Skulduggery Pleasant Fanfiction

EPILOGUE

The Bentley pulled up in the deserted layby on the deserted road beside the old, rotten, broken gate that lead to the old, rotten, broken path that lead into the forest. A few seconds later, Skulduggery, Dexter and Saracen emerged from the car one by one.

"I don't know if this is such a good idea," Saracen said reluctantly. "It feels like asking for trouble."

"Is there something you know about this place?" Dexter questioned, and Saracen paused, and shook his head.

"No."

"Then I'd wager we're good to go," Skulduggery sad firmly. "After all, Saracen Rue knows things."

There was a brief moment of quiet in which Saracen bit his lip before nodding, and Skulduggery opened the boot of the car, lifting up the floor of the trunk and propping it up with a wrench.

Hidden beneath the boot was an assortment of curious objects; it was customary, of course, that Skulduggery carried his revolver - there wasn't an instance in which he was seen without it. But all this new paraphernalia in the back of his car was new to the previous two years - multiple shakers of salt, six old fashioned lighters, candles of assorted shapes and sizes, some with slightly singed wicks, some brand new and waiting to be burnt. There was an assortment of pens and four penknives, and if anyone outside of the Dead Men were to open the Bentley's boot and somehow discover the hidden compartment, they'd most likely run with their tails between their legs. The things here were by no means a normal group of objects to carry; but over the past few years, they had become necessary.

Skulduggery handed Dexter a black briefcase and Dexter opened it without being asked, setting it down on the floor. Into it, Skulduggery and Saracen loaded three candles, three lighters, three pens, three salt shakers and three penknives, and when that was done Dexter zipped up the case and they straightened up and leapt over the rotting gate.

The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon and the sky was becoming stained a blood orange with streaks of pink. Tonight, there would be a full moon - Skulduggery thought about the full moon and he thought about Valkyrie Cain.

The path through the forest was long and straight. Earth crunched underfoot and disturbed the silence that was smothering the trees and muting the birds in the sky. Everything was quiet, and everything was waiting. Not a leaf dared to twitch. The breeze fell flat and motionless. The Dead Men didn't breathe a word until, half an hour later, they came out at the end of the narrow, dirty, abandoned path.

"This feels odd," Dexter commented, his voice sounding alien, even to Skulduggery. His hand seemed to instinctively go to his throat and rub it, as if he was feeling he scratch and the pressure and the tightness of the noose again. He swallowed.

"What do you mean odd?" Saracen asked as they stopped walking.

"It feels...it feels totally wrong," Dexter clarified, "like we buried a body here and we're coming back to unearth it. But at the same time it feels...safe."

"It feels like coming home," Skulduggery added, and all three of them stood there, not a whisper between them, and looked up at the house.

It loomed up before them like a spectre, its shuttered windows the eyes, its great wooden door the gaping mouth, beckoning to them to enter. It was in no better a state than Skulduggery remembered it - no lights were on inside, even more slates had fallen from the already dilapidated roof and the brickwork had crumbled further. But something significant had changed; where there was once evil here, now there was peace. Now there was tranquillity. Dexter was right - it felt safe.

Skulduggery had seen evil before - all of the dead men had. They had seen evil forces and evil people, and they were well familiar with it. But none of them recalled ever feeling true evil before that night. None of them had felt it wrestling with their souls and coming to life in their troubled dreams. None of them had experienced this feeling of relief before either, the feeling that something strong was attacking the evil, beating it back into hell, where it belonged.