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Filament shook his head admiringly. “It must be some life to live, huh?”
“Must be.”
“And it must be a lot to live up to, as the twin brother.”
“You’d imagine so,” Omen said, “but I try not to try too hard. I’d hate to disappoint anyone.”
“That is probably wise, Omen.” There was a shout from down the corridor, and Filament waved, then turned back. “So hey, it was very good to meet you. I have passed you loads of times, but never had a reason to say hi. So … hi.”
“Hi.”
“And if you ever change your mind about the rugby …”
“The only way that’d happen is after a concussion playing rugby, so …”
Filament laughed. “Very well. I will see you around, then, Omen.”
The dinner bell rang, and Omen took one of the smaller staircases down. Never was sitting with his other friends, so Omen sat alone and watched people as they ate in their groups. The Sixth Year boys scared him, so he didn’t spend too long looking at them. The Sixth Year girls intimidated him, so he didn’t spend too long looking at them, either. The Fifth Year girls intimidated him, too, and so did the Fourth Years, so he pretty much stayed away from the girls completely.
His eyes settled on Jenan and his friends. They sat at the table at the far side of the hall, smirking to each other because that’s what they did – they smirked and felt superior. It was their favourite pastime.
It wasn’t a big deal, slagging off mortals. Omen didn’t like it, but it was everywhere, it happened in every part of the school, all the way up through the Years. Even some of the teachers indulged in it for a cheap joke and an easy laugh. But Jenan and his friends – Lapse and Gall, Sabre and Disdain – their comments were made of harder stuff, of sharper words. Their jokes were jagged, edged in bitterness. If a recruiter was to start recruiting in Corrival, Jenan Ispolin would be the obvious place to start.
And they were all part of a history study group, Arcanum’s Scholars, formed by Mr Lilt – a passionate teacher who, now that Omen thought about it, never had a good word to say about any mortal. Lilt sat at the staff table, chatting happily to one of the Combat Arts instructors.
Parthenios Lilt. Omen’s first suspect.
Excitement flared in his belly, as the idea registered with him that he might actually be good at this.
15
“I’m terrible at this,” Valkyrie said, closing the fridge door. Xena cocked her head quizzically. “Doing my own grocery shopping,” Valkyrie explained. “Human is no good at being human.”
Xena offered a whine of agreement.
“Don’t worry,” Valkyrie told her. “I’ve got plenty of food for you. That’s all you care about, isn’t it? As long as you’re fed, that’s all that matters.” She opened a pouch of dog food and emptied it into the bowl on the floor. “Unless I can microwave myself some of yours. It doesn’t look that bad …”
Xena didn’t seem impressed with that notion. She crowded her bowl, shielding it from view as she ate.
“Fine,” Valkyrie said, shrugging into her coat. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Protect the place while I’m gone, OK? And no parties.”
Xena ignored her.
Valkyrie got in the car and drove the fifteen minutes to the Super Saver in Haggard. She picked up the essentials, loaded in a treat or two and took it to the till. As she was waiting to pay, she saw her mother perusing the shelves. Valkyrie stayed very still.
Her mother looked around, eyes low, smiling as Alice came into view. Little Alice, with those dimples and that ever-present smile, showing her mum which box of cereal she’d like. Valkyrie handed over cash, didn’t bother with the change, just grabbed her grocery bags and walked quickly out of the store. To be spotted was to be hugged, was to be showered with love she didn’t deserve. To be spotted was to see the excitement and love in Alice’s eyes – eyes she had seen flutter closed five years earlier, when Valkyrie had killed her in a misguided attempt to save the world. The fact that she had clumsily managed to revive her moments later didn’t change the fact. Killing was killing. Murder was murder.
Valkyrie loaded the bags into the back of the car and got out of there.
She was halfway home when the phone rang. It made her jump. She pressed Answer and Skulduggery’s voice filled the car.
“We have a name,” he said.
“Sorry? A name for what?”
There was a pause from the other end. “You sound like you’re in a bad mood.”
She sighed. “I’m just hungry. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. And the fact that I now have visions has made me hugely grumpy. I don’t want to see the future, Skulduggery, especially if the future looks like that. I’m barely holding it together as it is.”
“What do you mean?”
Her hands tightened on the wheel. “I mean the stress.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. The stress. You know this. I talked about this.”
“You did. But for a moment it sounded like you’ve been going through more than you’ve been letting on.”
“No. Just the stress. So this name you’re talking about – a name for what?”
“For a suspect.”
“Wait, we have a name for whoever’s been recruiting from Corrival Academy?”
“We may have.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And where did we get this name, Skulduggery? Who gave us the name? It was Omen, wasn’t it? It was. For God’s sake, I thought we agreed on this.”
“We do,” Skulduggery said quickly, “and I was planning on talking to him in the morning, breaking it to him in person, and then a short while ago I received his text message. I didn’t expect him to come up with a name so quickly, to be honest. I mean, it’s probably nothing.”
“It’s undoubtedly nothing,” said Valkyrie. “He’s had half a day of being undercover and he has a name for us already? Either Omen is imagining things or he’s the greatest undercover agent in the history of the world.”
“You may be right.”
“So who is it?”
“Who is what?”
“The name.”
“Oh. Parthenios Lilt, a history teacher.”
“And why does our super-spy think the history teacher is a recruiter for the anti-Sanctuary?”
“The history teacher doesn’t like mortals, for one thing.”
“I don’t like mortals.”
“You don’t like anybody.”
“That doesn’t make me the recruiter.”
“Parthenios Lilt leads a study group called Arcanum’s Scholars, a reference to Rebus Arcanum, a supposedly long-dead explorer into Realms Unknown. That’s what he called them. With capital letters and everything.”
Valkyrie stopped at a crossroads as a huge tractor, festooned with lights, rumbled by. “Why is he supposedly long dead and not actually long dead?”
“We never found the body.”
“And what does he have to do with this Lilt guy?”
“Nothing as far as I can see,” Skulduggery said. “That’s just what Lilt calls his study group. Six boys, three girls in all. Omen doubts they do any actual studying – he says they’re just not the type – so the question then becomes what is Parthenios Lilt teaching those students?”
The tractor trundling away, Valkyrie eased out over the crossroads and continued on. “And Omen thinks he’s recruiting them for the anti-Sanctuary.”
“Yes, he does,” said Skulduggery. “I’ve looked into Mr Lilt. I’ve just had a few minutes, but already I’m finding things that lead me to believe he’s led a varied life.”
“He’s a sorcerer. That shouldn’t surprise you.”
“He authored a report for the French Sanctuary on Neoteric sorcerers, nearly forty years ago. He actually coined the term.”
“Then he should have done a better job because it means nothing to me.”
“Neoterics are mages without recognised disciplines,” Skulduggery said.
“Like Warlocks.”
“Not really. Usually, they’re people brought up outside the magical community. They don’t know the rules, so they make their own, and their magic adapts to their personality.”
“So sorcerers who didn’t know they were sorcerers,” Valkyrie said.
“I suppose that’s a fair assessment. From what you’ve told me, Cadaverous Gant is probably a Neoteric. When his magic manifested, it fitted itself around his warped sensibilities and resulted in his unique power. They are relatively rare, thankfully, but usually unstable, unfortunately, so we keep an eye out for them. Most incursions occur because a Neoteric sorcerer has lost control and a mortal is right there to witness it.”
“Jeremiah Wallow was probably a Neoteric, too,” she said, the car going over the humpback bridge on the way to her house.
“Very likely, and Lilt may have had contact with them both. Valkyrie?”
“I’m here.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah. He may have had contact. So Omen might be right.”
“It’s a possibility. I’m heading back to Roarhaven. The High Sanctuary has a copy of the Neoteric Report and I want to reacquaint myself with it. Can you meet me there tomorrow?”
“Sure,” she said, if the nightmares that she knew were coming didn’t drag her down. If she could get out of bed in the morning. If she could even convince herself that she wasn’t dead.
“Is everything OK?” Skulduggery asked. “You sound … distracted.”
“I’m fine.” I’m not. “Just hungry.” Just nuts. “See you in Roarhaven.”
She ended the call, passed the heavy gates and drove up to her front door. She got out, breathed in the cold air and leaned against the car for a moment with her eyes closed. She wasn’t going nuts. She wasn’t insane. She was as healthy as ever. Everything was perfectly normal.
When she opened her eyes again, Darquesse was sitting on her front step. “You’re late,” she said.
16
“Surprise,” said Never, taking the seat beside Omen in the Dining Hall and flicking the hair out of her eyes. “Someone is actually sitting beside you for breakfast. Wonders – will they never cease?”
Omen frowned. “People sit beside me all the time.”
“Rarely by choice, though. Admit it, Omen, you’re delighted to have someone to talk to this early in the morning, aren’t you?”
Omen didn’t answer. But he was.
“However, the truly amazing thing,” Never continued, “is that I’m sitting beside you even though you’ve been avoiding me all day.”
“It’s … first thing in the morning.”
“Don’t deny it, Omen. When you deny a truth, a kitten dies.”
The din in the hall – chattering voices, clinking utensils, the heavy tread of feet and the tortured scrape of chairs – had not yet reached deafening proportions, so, when Never leaned in and lowered her voice, Omen could hear her perfectly.
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