Of course, again another person wants her for what she's weakest in. Skulduggery for her wits and Clarke for her powers, as if they weren't an unwanted gift foisted on her for overcoming death.

"You'll want someone like Palamedes if you want to know how it works. I don't get a lot of it myself, aside from what I've picked up, I just do it. But if you want someone to do magic for you," she steps into Clarke's shadow and reappears in the rafters, Cheshire-cat-like, with a smug smile to match.

"I'm your girl." It's rasped out, and Darcy looks... considerably more fucked up than she was when she was at Clarke's side a moment ago. Bloodshot eyes, a hollow face like someone who starved to death... but it's gone again just as quickly, as if it were only a trick of the light.