“We're not robbing him," Skulduggery said." But I'm afraid I have some bad news."
"Is it Deacon?" Francine asked, her eyes wide.
"It is."
"Is he sick?"
"It's a little worse than that."
She gasped. "He's dying?"
"He was briefly dying," said Skulduggery. "Now he's dead.”
“Valkyrie made a face. "Bloody vampires."
Ryan sat forward. "That was a vampire? That guy who looked like an accountant?"
"We don't talk about vampires," Skulduggery warned.
"But it was daytime. How could he have been out during the-"
"We don't talk about vampires!" Valkyrie said sharply.
Ryan shrunk back. "Sorry," he said.
"Don't worry about it," Skulduggery told him. "Valkyrie used to date a vampire that's all."
"We didn't date ," Valkyrie said immediately.
Skulduggery held a hand up. "I'm not judging."
Valkyrie scowled.”
“The workshop door opened and Skulduggery emerged. "Ryan," he said, "stop leaning on my car.”
“I’ve got good news and bad news for you, Ryan. The bad news is that you’re the only one in the world who can activate the Doomsday Machine, and Foe and his gang are never going to stop coming after you. The good news is that with myself and Valkyrie protecting you, you stand a very good chance of emerging from this relatively unscathed.”
Valkyrie looked at the back of Skulduggery’s head. “You said they’d probably try to cut his hand off.”
“I said relatively,” Skulduggery reminded her.”
“He was so strong,” Francine sobbed. “So proud. So much dignity. How did he die?”
“Wood chipper,” said Valkyrie.”
“Ryan, you're not real. You don't exist... You're Deacon Maybury," Skulduggery said. "You're a hiding place who thinks it's a boy.”
“Unii vor spune ca povestea asta este o minciuna, ceea ce nu inseamna ca ceva care nu s-a petrecut este numaidecat o minciuna.”
“Do you not hear the constant victory,
in the human footrace
of time, slow as fire,
sure, and thick and Herculean
accumulating its volume and adding its sad fiber?”
“When I reach the end of one row, I continue straight on away from the barn and the farm and the road. I walk until I come to a pile of hay bales and plop myself down. The sun is bright and the air is sharp. In the distance I hear the lowing of cows. It's so peaceful here.
"Merry Christmas, " I whisper to myself. "Merry Christmas, Nate.”
“Era quel nome... Marta.
Il suo nome era un sospiro, una preghiera, una supplica: sulle labbra di Fanny un bacio, su quelle di Henry un gemito, su quelle di Effie una benedizione di tale potenza che il suo intero essere era soffuso di amore e di desiderio... Marta.
Dopo mezzanotte lei percorreva il corridoio poco illuminato della casa di Crook Street. Quando passava sentivo sulla nuca il suo tocco leggero, ironico. Coglievo il suo profumo sulle tende, udivo il tono piacevolmente roco, la voce con la lieve inflessione dalla finestra aperta, mentre rideva dall'umida nebbia di Londra. La sognavo così come l'avevo vista la prima volta dalla fessura nel muro, un rosa ardente di carne cremisi, una Furia con i capelli in fiamme, che rideva attraverso il fuoco come una pazza o una dea...”
“Sometimes I wake up at night in a panic. Wondering: What will my life be like? And sometimes I even wonder: Who am I? What am I doing here, on this planet, in this city, in this house? And it gives me the shivers, makes me panic.”
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