First published in Great Britain by

HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2018

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

HarperCollins Publishers

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London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins website address is:

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Skulduggery Pleasant rests his weary bones on the web at:

www.skulduggerypleasant.co.uk

Derek Landy blogs under duress at

www.dereklandy.blogspot.com

Text copyright © Derek Landy 2018

Skulduggery Pleasant™ Derek Landy

Skulduggery Pleasant logo™ HarperCollinsPublishers

Skulduggery Pleasant © ™ Derek Landy

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Cover illustration © Tom Percival 2018

Derek Landy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008284565

Ebook Edition © ISBN: 9780008284602

Version: 2018-05-04

This book is dedicated to Reggie.

What is there left to be said about you, my friend?

You’re smart, and yet wilfully stupid. You’re good-looking, yet kind of ugly. You’ve got wonderful hair, yet you’re always wearing hats.

You’ve saved my life three times now – in contrast to the measly once that I’ve saved yours – and you’ve taught me more about Icelandic cuisine that I ever wanted to know (seriously dude – hákarl? Seriously?), but there is something that I’ve been meaning to tell you for years, but I’ve never found the right opportunity.

Remember that girl, your pen pal, back when we were kids? Remember how you kind of loved her?

That was me. Sorry, dude.

And from the nothing came the everything.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Keep Reading …

The Skulduggery Pleasant series

About the Publisher

1

The old castle stood dark against the star-filled sky, its tall windows empty, its battlements jutting like teeth. Upon those battlements, and indifferent to the cold winds that scoured the mountaintops, stood Wretchlings, monstrous things of scabs and sores whose insides boiled with poisoned blood and decaying meat.

Lying on a blanket on a snow-covered perch 809 metres west and 193 metres up, Skulduggery Pleasant put his right eye socket to the scope of his rifle and adjusted the dial.

He wriggled slightly, settling deeper into the blanket, then went perfectly still. His gloved finger began to slowly squeeze the trigger, and Valkyrie raised her binoculars, training them on the closest Wretchling.

The gun went off with a loud crack that the wind snatched away, but they were so far from the target that it took a few seconds for the bullet to hit.

The Wretchling jerked slightly, and looked down at its chest. A moment later, it started to tremble. The stitches that held it together unravelled, and the Wretchling came undone, its body parts falling, its stolen entrails spilling out, and it collapsed on top of itself, a pile of meat steaming in the cold air.

Skulduggery moved on to the next target and adjusted the scope once more.

“You think they feel pain?” Valkyrie asked.

Skulduggery paused for a moment, and looked at her. “I’m sorry?”

“The Wretchlings,” she said. “Do you think they feel pain?”

“Not really,” he answered, and went back to aiming his rifle.

“But they have brains, right? Fair enough, they might not be thinking great thoughts, but they do still think. And if they think, they might be able to feel. And if their body can feel physically, can’t their minds feel emotionally?”

Skulduggery fired again. Valkyrie didn’t bother looking to see if the bullet hit its target. Of course it did.

“They do have brains,” Skulduggery said. “They’re stolen from the dead, along with the limbs and the internal organs, and they’re twisted and warped and attached to the Wretchling like the parts of a machine – because that’s what they are. They look alive, but it’s all artificial. Are you feeling guilty about what we’re doing?”

“No.” She watched him acquire his next target. “Kind of.”

“They’re just like Hollow Men.” He put his eye socket to the scope.

“But Hollow Men don’t have brains.”

“I don’t have a brain.”

“But Hollow Men can’t think.”

“Believe me, the only thing on a Wretchling’s mind is the messiest way to kill someone.”

Valkyrie looked through the binoculars. “So we kill them first? That’s hardly enlightened, is it?”

“We’re not killing them,” Skulduggery said. “These clever little bullets are designed to dismantle, not destroy.”

He fired, and she watched as the next Wretchling was dismantled. Black blood gushed.

Skulduggery stood. “That’s the last of them,” he said, taking Valkyrie’s hand and pulling her to her feet. He left the sniper rifle on the blanket and she handed him his hat. It was black, like his three-piece suit, like his shirt and tie. Valkyrie was dressed all in black, too – in the armoured clothes made for her years ago by Ghastly Bespoke and the heavy coat with the fur-lined hood she wore over them.

Clouds were moving in from the east, scraping over the jagged peaks of the mountains, blocking out the stars. Below where they stood, the drop disappeared into gloom. The wind nudged Valkyrie, like it wanted to tip her over the edge, send her spinning downwards into the cold emptiness. She felt an almost irresistible urge to take a big step forward.

“Are you OK?” Skulduggery asked.

Her face, numb though it was, had gone quite slack. She fixed it into a smile. “Peachy,” she said, taking off her coat. “Let’s go.”

He wrapped an arm round her waist. “Are you sure you don’t want to try this alone?”

“If I knew I’d be able to fly, no problem,” she said. “But I told my folks I’d be there for roast dinner, and if I plunge to my death before that they’ll just think it’s rude, so …”

They lifted up and drifted beyond the ledge, the world opening up beneath them. Skulduggery redirected the freezing winds so that not a single hair was disturbed on Valkyrie’s head. It was strangely quiet as they flew, surrounded by the howls and shrieks of the mountains but tucked away from it all.

“The thought has occurred to me that maybe you’ll only start flying when you absolutely need to,” Skulduggery said.

“Do not drop me.”

“Indulge me for a moment. The range of your powers is still largely unknown to us, yes? You can fire lightning from your fingertips, you certainly have destructive potential, and you have the burgeoning psychic abilities of at least a Level 4 Sensitive. Plus, you have flown before.”

“Hovering is not flying.”

“I bet if I were to drop you, you’d fly.”

“I’m not sure if I can emphasise this enough, but do not drop me.”

“The prospect of imminent death could release you from the mental barriers that are holding you back.”

“It wouldn’t be imminent death, though, would it? You’d catch me. There’s no threat there. You’d save me because saving me is what you do, just like saving you is what I do. The only thing that dropping me would accomplish is to annoy the hell out of me.”

Skulduggery was quiet for a moment.

“Do not drop me,” Valkyrie repeated.

He sighed, and they continued over to the castle, landing beside a pile of Wretchling remains. A sudden gust surrounded them with the stench of putrid meat and human waste. It filled Valkyrie’s nose and mouth and she gagged. As Skulduggery sent the foul air away with a wave of his hand, Valkyrie lunged for the battlements, sure she was going to puke over the side – but she swallowed, managed to keep it down.

“Sometimes I miss having a sense of smell,” Skulduggery said. “Tonight is not one of those times.”

Valkyrie spat, wiped her mouth, and stayed where she was for a moment to recover. She felt sure that she’d once been told the proper names for the different sections of the battlements, but couldn’t for the life of her remember what they were.

The wind whipped her hair in front of her face, so she tied it back into a ponytail, then took a wooden sphere, roughly the size of a golf ball, from her pocket. She gripped the sphere in both hands and twisted in opposite directions, and a transparent bubble rippled outwards, enveloped her and stabilised. The personal cloaking spheres didn’t have nearly the range of their regular-sized versions, but they were just as effective, and a lot handier to carry around.

Skulduggery took out his own cloaking sphere, did the same, and vanished from her sight.

She slipped the sphere back in her pocket and stepped closer to him. Her cloaking bubble mingled with his and suddenly she could see him again.

Sticking by each other’s side, they set off down a set of stone steps, a flurry of snow chasing them into the gloom. Skulduggery held up his hand just before they reached the bottom. A tripwire glinted on the final step.

“Sneaky,” Valkyrie said.

They jumped the last few steps, and the moment before they landed Skulduggery caught her and kept them hovering off the ground.

“Pressure plates,” he said.

“Even sneakier.”

They drifted along the corridor, stopping at the end so that Valkyrie could push open the door. They touched down on the other side, took the next set of stone steps that spiralled downwards, Skulduggery leading the way.

Two guards with sickles on their backs stood at the open windows in the next corridor, their heads covered by black helmets. Rippers. It was freezing in here but they stood with their arms by their sides, as though the cold didn’t bother them, keeping watch on the road leading to the castle.

“Which one do you want?” Skulduggery asked.

Nodding to the nearest Ripper, Valkyrie said, “This one,” in a soft voice, even though she knew that her words wouldn’t travel beyond the bubble that surrounded them.

“Count to ten,” Skulduggery responded, and walked away, vanishing from sight.

Valkyrie moved up behind the Ripper, finished the count and stepped closer. Out of the corner of her eye, the second Ripper disappeared as Skulduggery did the same.

She wrapped her right arm round the Ripper’s throat, grabbed the bicep of her left arm and hooked her hand behind the Ripper’s helmet. His hands came up, trying to free himself. He put a foot to the wall and pushed out, shoving them both backwards. Valkyrie held on, her head down, her eyes closed. She kicked at his leg and dragged him backwards, laying him on the ground as his struggles weakened.

She looked up, watched as the second Ripper fell into view. He hit the floor and stayed there.

When her Ripper was unconscious, she released him and walked to the other end of the corridor. Her cloaking bubble intersected with Skulduggery’s and he appeared before her so suddenly she jumped.

“Sorry,” he said.

She waved his apology away. “I’m sure I scared you just as much as you scared me.”

“Not really.”

She took his hat and threw it out of the window, and was totally unsurprised when a moment later it floated in again and settled back on his head.

“Are you quite finished?” he asked, adjusting it slightly.

“It wouldn’t kill you to admit to being a little startled every now and then,” she said.

“I don’t get startled,” he responded, walking off again. She caught up to him before he left her bubble, and fell into step beside him. “I anticipate and adjust accordingly.”

“You don’t anticipate everything.”

“Of course not. Where would be the fun in that?”

“I’m just saying you shouldn’t feel like you have to keep up this unflappable demeanour around me.”

“Has it occurred to you, after all these years together, that I just might not be flappable?”

“Everyone is flappable, Skulduggery.”

“Not me.”

They came to a door that took them to a tunnel that took them to a room, and in this room they chose an archway that took them to more stairs. Down they went, and down again, until the torches in brackets were replaced by bulbs and the steady thrum of power reverberated through the floor. They avoided large groups of Rippers, passed rooms where white-coated scientists murmured to one another, and kept going until they came to a perspex window overlooking a large laboratory packed with machines that blinked with volatile energy.

Doctor Nye sat on a stool, its back stooped, working on the intricate insides of a rusted device. Nye’s thin limbs looked smaller than when Valkyrie had seen it last, when it had towered over her, its head nearly brushing the ceiling, but she wasn’t altogether surprised. Crengarrions shrank as they got older, and their skin colour tended to lighten. Now it looked, at most, about ten feet tall, and its skin was a delicate ash.

“It looks old,” she murmured. “Good.”

They found the stairs, followed them down, arriving at the double doors that led into Nye’s lab. Two Rippers stood guard.

“I’ve got this one,” Valkyrie said, walking towards the Ripper on the right. She was halfway there when the cloaking sphere started to vibrate in her pocket.

Alarmed, she pulled it out. The two hemispheres were ticking towards each other quickly – much quicker than they should have – counting down to the bubble’s collapse. She tried to twist them back, then struggled to merely keep them in place, but it was no good.

The bubble contracted.

2

Her boots were visible.

Valkyrie crouched before either of the Rippers caught sight of her. There were sigils on the wall – she could see them now. She recognised one of them: a security sigil that attacked Teleporters. She was pretty sure the other one was forcing her cloaking sphere to malfunction.

And it contracted again. Not all the way, just enough to reveal the top of her head. Time was running out.

Keeping low, she pocketed the sphere and hurried over to the Ripper. The bubble contracted again. He heard her footsteps and his hands went to his sickles.

Valkyrie pulled her own weapons – shock sticks, held in place on her back – and launched herself at him. The first stick cracked against his helmet, but he ducked the second, spinning away. Valkyrie’s bubble collapsed completely now, as did Skulduggery’s, and she glimpsed him throwing fire even as her Ripper attacked, sickles blurring.

Valkyrie knew the pattern and countered, slipped to the side and struck the Ripper’s knee, then spun and caught him in the ribs. His clothes absorbed the electrical charge, and he didn’t seem to register the pain.

He left her an opening and she fell for it, committing herself to a swing that she regretted instantly. A sickle blade raked across her belly, would have torn her open were it not for her armoured jacket. He kicked at her ankle, swept her leg, and she hit the ground and somersaulted backwards to her feet, defending all the while. His knee thudded into her cheek and the world tilted.

He leaped at her. She dropped the stick in her right hand and white lightning burst from her fingers, striking him in the chest and blasting him head over heels. He rolled and came up, his jacket smoking.

Valkyrie picked up the fallen stick, placed it end to end with the other one. They attached and she twisted, the staff lengthening, and when the Ripper ran at her she whacked it into his leg, then spun and cracked it against his head. He fell back and she followed, the staff striking him once, twice, and then a twirling third time. He dropped one of his sickles.

She went to finish him off and he dodged, dodged again, dodged faster than she could strike. He jumped over to the wall and rebounded, flipping over her head. She whirled but he was too close, and he grabbed the staff and pulled her into a headbutt that would have broken her nose had she not lowered her head. Even so, bright lights flashed, and she felt the staff being wrenched from her grip as she went staggering.

The Ripper let the staff drop, and swung his remaining sickle towards her neck. She raised an arm, her armoured clothes saving her once again, and snatched the weapon away. It fell, clattering against the stones.

Valkyrie ducked low and powered forward, grabbing him round the waist. Snarling, she lifted him off his feet and slammed him against the wall, then seized his helmet, searching for the twin releases, and tore it from his head. The Ripper fell back, blinking, and she swung the helmet into his jaw and he went down, and she hit him again and again until she figured that was probably enough.

She dropped the helmet and got her breath back.

“You got his helmet off,” Skulduggery said, standing over the motionless form of the second Ripper. “How did you manage that?”

She shrugged. “I adapted accordingly. Come on. We have a doctor’s appointment.”

3

She pushed open the double doors and Doctor Nye waved a long-fingered hand.

“Do not disturb me,” it said in that familiar high whisper. “I left strict orders not to be—”

It looked up then, and its small eyes widened and its wide mouth opened as it got to its feet, the stool crashing to the ground behind it.

Skulduggery held his gun low, by his hip. “The moment you set off an alarm, I will shoot you. I feel we ought to be clear on that from the very beginning.”

Nye stopped moving backwards, and raised its arms. “I have no weapons.”

Up close, Valkyrie could see that the threads that had once sewn Nye’s mouth and eyes shut were still there, poking out of its skin. She walked forward. “You act like you’re not pleased to see us, Doctor. That hurts my feelings. I thought we’d bonded that time you autopsied me.”

“The years have been good to you,” Skulduggery said, coming round the table. “I mean, you’ve obviously shrunk, but apart from that you look great. How have you been spending your time? The last I heard, you’d escaped from Ironpoint Gaol. Who was it that broke you out? Eliza Scorn?”

“How is Eliza?” Valkyrie asked. “Any word?”

“I haven’t seen Eliza Scorn in years,” Nye said. “I was not the only one she freed. There were others.”

“But she set you up here,” said Skulduggery. “You’d lost everything when we imprisoned you. We made sure of it. She helped you.”

Nye licked its lips. Its tongue was small and pink. “She could see the importance of my work.”

Valkyrie picked up a scalpel and walked over slowly. “Excavating the soul,” she said. “How’s that going for you? Found it yet?”

“I believe I have,” said Nye.

“So what next? Now that you’ve found where it hides, what are you going to do with it?”

“Finding the soul was only the first step. Now I follow it to where it leads. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m not experimenting on anyone. You can search the castle. I have no patients here.”

“No?” Valkyrie asked. “You don’t have anyone strapped to a table somewhere, their ribcage open, their organs on a nearby tray while they look around, hallucinating friends and family come to rescue them? No? Well, I have to say that’s an improvement. You’re practically reformed. Skulduggery?”

“You’re quite sure there is no one being tortured, Doctor?” Skulduggery asked. “Maybe having their skin peeled off? I heard about one experiment you ran during the war where you decapitated prisoners and then kept their heads alive in jars.”

Nye backed up. “What do you want?”

“You’re under arrest,” Skulduggery said. “You’re going back to Ironpoint.”

“We’ll be sure to request a smaller cell this time,” Valkyrie said. “Something snug.”

“Or you can make it easy on yourself,” Skulduggery said. “You can tell us where Abyssinia is.”

Incredibly, Nye paled even further.

“Wow,” said Valkyrie, “your poker face sucks, dude. That means we get to bypass the bit where you tell us you don’t know what we’re talking about – and we threaten you and you eventually break – and go straight to the part where you answer our questions. So where is she?”

“I do not know.”

“I’m just going to warn you that we’ve been looking for Abyssinia for almost seven months. Do you hear me? Seven months. And we haven’t found her, or the flying prison she’s commandeered, or any of her little anti-Sanctuary friends. We’re both extremely annoyed about this. Our patience has worn thin, Doctor. When we found out that she paid a visit to this charming castle no less than two days ago … Well, I’m not going to lie: I cried a little. Tears of happiness. And when we learned that you were working here? It was like all my birthdays had come at once. Not only do I get to see my old friend Doctor Nye, but Doctor Nye gets to help us in our search, and tell us where Abyssinia has gone.”

“I promise you, I do not know.”

“Then why was she here?” Skulduggery asked.

“If … if I tell you, you must let me go.”

“OK.”

“I think you are lying.”

“Of course I’m lying. You’re going back to prison, Doctor. The only choice you’ve got is the size of your cell.”

Nye hesitated, then sagged. “It was not a thing she was looking for. It was a person. His name is Caisson.”

“And who is Caisson?”

“Abyssinia said he is her son.”

“I see,” Skulduggery said, taking a moment. “Does he work here? Is he a scientist or manual labour?”

Nye hesitated.

Valkyrie folded her arms. “He was a patient, wasn’t he? You may not be experimenting on anyone right now, but up until two days ago you were.”

“When I came here, this facility had already been running for decades,” Nye said. “I was brought in to replace a scientist who had gone missing. My instructions were clear: I was to continue the work of my predecessor. On my initial tour, I was shown the room in which Caisson was being kept – but I was not the one who worked on him.”

“How long had the experiments been going on for?”

“As far as I am aware, for as long as this facility has been operational.”

“Which is?”

“Sixty years.”

Valkyrie frowned. “He’s been experimented on for sixty years?”

“No,” said Nye. “He was experimented on here for sixty years. I do not know where he was before this.”

“What else do you know about him?” Skulduggery asked.

“Nothing. Experimenting on Caisson was not my job.”

“So who did the work?”

“An associate. Doctor Quidnunc.”

“Is he in today?” Valkyrie asked.

“I have not seen him in a week, since Caisson was removed from this facility.”

“Caisson was removed a week ago?” Valkyrie said. “So when Abyssinia came for him, he was already gone? Why was he moved?”

“I do not know for certain,” said Nye, “but I imagine somebody learned that Abyssinia was drawing close and we were told to evacuate as a result. Caisson was the first to be moved.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“I, and a handful of other scientists, refused to leave. I can only speak for myself, but my work had reached a critical stage and I could not possibly depart.”

“Abyssinia wouldn’t have been happy that her son wasn’t here,” Skulduggery said.

“She was not,” said Nye. “She killed many Rippers.”

“Did you tell her where he was moved to?”

“I did not, and do not, possess that information.”

“Who took him?”

“I do not know. A small team of people. The owner of this facility sent them.”

“Which brings us back to Eliza Scorn.”

Nye shook its head. “Eliza Scorn does not own this facility. As far as I know, she was merely obeying orders when she delivered me here.”

“Then who’s your employer?”

“I am afraid I do not know.”

“You’re working for someone and you don’t even know who it is?”

“What does it matter?” Nye asked. “My work is important and needs resources. I do not care who provides them.”

Valkyrie sighed. “What about Abyssinia? Did she say anything that could lead us to her? Remember, you really want to make us happy.”

“She provided no such information.”

“Did you tell her about Quidnunc and his experiments?” Skulduggery asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you tell her where she could find the good doctor?”

“I do not know where he is.”

“Then how are you still alive?” Skulduggery asked. “You don’t know anything helpful, you worked in the same facility where her son was being experimented on … Why didn’t she kill you, Doctor?”

“Because I did to her the same thing as I am doing to you,” Nye responded.

“And what is that?”

“Delaying you.”

The shadows converged and twisted and from the darkness stepped a woman in a black cloak, her face covered by a cloth mask so that only her eyes were visible.

Skulduggery raised his gun and the woman’s cloak lashed out, and Skulduggery ducked and fired. The cloak absorbed the bullets and whipped again, slicing through the table to get to him. Skulduggery jerked to the side, his hand filling with flame, but the cloak twisted back, covering him – and when it whipped away, Skulduggery was gone.

The woman turned to Valkyrie, but Valkyrie had already moved behind Nye and was buckling its legs. It dropped to its knees and she gripped its throat, keeping her eyes on the newcomer.

“Have to admit,” Valkyrie said, “that was pretty cool, even for a Necromancer. But, if you try anything like that on me, I will fry the stick insect here.”

The woman in black didn’t respond. Her cloak coiled around her.

“You would not kill me,” said Nye, its voice a little garbled. Its skin felt oily in her grip.

“I wouldn’t want to kill you,” Valkyrie corrected him. “I wouldn’t want to kill anyone. But, if your awesome bodyguard tries to kill me, I’ll kill you faster than your beady little eyes can blink.”

Nye made a small sound, like a laugh. “Then it seems that we have reached an impasse.”

“Not at all,” said Valkyrie. “An impasse implies that we’re evenly matched. But we all know that’s not true.” She glanced at the woman in black. “I dabbled with Necromancy. Did you know that? Solomon Wreath taught me a few things. So I know that you can shadow-walk. That’s what you did with Skulduggery, right? But I also know that the range for shadow-walking is limited – so he’s already on his way back here and he’s coming mighty fast. We only have a few seconds before he bursts through these doors, and when that happens … it’s not going to be pretty. All I have to do is wait, because time is on my side. But for you the clock is ticking. Can you hear that? The tick-tock in your head?”

“I am not going back to Ironpoint,” said Nye. “I only have a few years left in my life. I will not spend them in a cell. Whisper – kill her.”

“Whisper – wait,” Valkyrie said, tightening her grip. “Why is it always killing, huh? Why is it always fighting? Why is violence always the default position?”

Nye held up a hand to Whisper, even though the woman had not moved. “You offer an alternative?” it asked.

“Give me Quidnunc, and I’ll let you go before Skulduggery gets back.”

“I do not know where Quidnunc is,” Nye said. “But I do know one thing that could possibly lead you to him.”

“Did you tell this one thing to Abyssinia?”

“I did.”

“So we’d be playing catch-up.”

“Yes.”

Valkyrie considered her options, of which there were none. “OK,” she said. “Deal.”

“First, you must release me.”

“I don’t trust you enough to release you, Doctor.”

“Then you had better make a decision before the Skeleton Detective gets here, Miss Cain. Time is ticking away.”

Valkyrie almost smiled. She took her hand from Nye’s throat and stepped back as it stood. It turned, looking down at her, as Whisper came up behind it. Her cloak swirled around them both.

“Quidnunc suffers from liquefactive necrosis,” Nye said, and the shadows convulsed and Valkyrie was left alone.

“Huh,” she said.

The doors burst open and Skulduggery stormed in, gun in one hand and fire in the other. “Where are they?” he demanded.

“Gone,” said Valkyrie. “You just missed them.”

Skulduggery stood there for a moment, then shook the flames from his hand and slipped the gun back under his jacket. “That’s annoying,” he said. “Are you OK?”

She shrugged. “Grand. Quidnunc has, um, liquid active necrosis.”

“Do you mean liquefactive necrosis?”

“Let’s say that I do. What is it?”

“A form of organic rot that Mevolent had weaponised during the war.”

“That the same thing Tesseract had? So Quidnunc wears a mask, like him?”

“Perhaps,” Skulduggery said. “In any case, he will need the same serums that kept Tesseract alive, and those serums are hard to come by. If we find who makes them, we’ll find Quidnunc.”

“Cool. Although Nye told Abyssinia, y’know, about the liquid factor thing.”

“Liquefactive necrosis.”

“He told her about that, too.”

“Then we have no time to waste,” Skulduggery said, stalking to the door. He spun round. “Unless you’re hungry. Are you hungry? You haven’t eaten since noon.”

“I’m pretty hungry, yeah.”

“Then we’ll stop for pizza,” Skulduggery said, and marched out.

4

Education, Omen Darkly mused as he examined the test he’d just got back, may not have been the area in which he was destined to excel.

While Corrival Academy was indeed a school for sorcerers, that didn’t mean all the lessons were about throwing fireballs or shooting streams of energy out of your hands/eyes/mouth – although there was a fair bit of that stuff.

Mostly it was sitting at desks, reading textbooks and scribbling answers – pretty much the same experience Omen had had when he’d gone to a mortal school, back in Galway. A lot of the time, in fact, things at Corrival were worse. Because there were more subjects to cover – Omen not only had to study history and science, but also mortal history and mortal science – the school day was longer. PE wasn’t just about combat training and self-defence, as tough as those things could be – it was also about picking a sport and playing it, magic not allowed. Students were taught to be the best sorcerer they could be, but they were also taught how to live, behave and thrive in the mortal world. Which meant more work, more tests, and more opportunities to fall short.

Omen folded the test paper, hiding the big red E from view. It wasn’t that big a deal. It had been a difficult test – everyone said so, even the smarter kids. What chance did he have, really, when even the smarter kids were finding it tricky? Sure, they still technically passed, as did just about everyone else in his class, but he wasn’t a big believer in grades anyway. He preferred to get his education out there, on the streets. Where it mattered.

Omen chewed his lip. That said, his parents were probably going to kill him if they found out.

He stuffed the test paper down into his bag. That was one of the good things about Corrival being a boarding school, he supposed – less exposure to disapproving parental figures. Of course, there was a pretty fair chance that they wouldn’t actually care about a failed test. Omen had, quite by accident, cultivated a relationship with his folks that depended entirely on their low expectations. He sidled along in the background of their lives while their focus was on his twin brother, Auger – the subject of an actual prophecy, destined to face the King of the Darklands in a battle to save the world. In order to aid him in this battle, Auger had been born strong, fast and smart – not to mention naturally talented, extremely hard-working, courageous, decent, resourceful, charming, funny, tall and good-looking. Because being good-looking was obviously a vital quality in any self-respecting Chosen One.

Omen had missed out on being the Chosen One by virtue of being born second, so he didn’t possess any of Auger’s attributes. What he did have, however, was a plucky demeanour and a never-say-die attitude – but he didn’t really have them, either.

Life was one bitter disappointment after another. Sure, there had been glimmers of hope along the way. His best friend was pretty cool, for a start, and seven months ago he’d helped Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain stop an ancient evil from being reborn. Well, sort of.

No, he had helped. He had been right there, sharing in the adventure. He’d come away with the bruises to prove it. The problem was that the ancient evil hadn’t actually been stopped. Abyssinia, after all, had succeeded in coming back to life. Taking this into account, he supposed that meant he had helped Skulduggery and Valkyrie fail in their mission. Which may have explained why they hadn’t called on him since.

What made things worse was that word of his involvement hadn’t spread through the school like he’d expected. A few people knew a little of what happened, but it was as if his fellow students couldn’t be bothered to spread cool rumours about him. There were no whispers in the corridor as he passed, no wide-eyed stares, no clusters of girls giggling whenever he smiled. After a brief spell as an adventurer, he was returning to being that insignificant little speck of a boy he’d always been.

Unless he did something about it.

His stomach in knots, Omen went over what he was going to say once more in his head. He’d practised this conversation again and again, planning for all possible contingencies. A part of him wondered about the grade he would have got in the test if he’d devoted as much time to it as he had to rehearsing how he’d ask out Axelia Lukt, but he easily swatted such thoughts from his mind. He had more important things to worry about.

Axelia sat in the common room, chatting and laughing with her friends. She was so nice, so smart, so pretty, and she had the loveliest accent and the happiest laugh Omen had ever heard. He could have listened to her laugh all day, as weird as that would have been.

Omen stood up, took a deep breath, and walked over.

He bumped into October Klein and mumbled an apology, turned round and went back to his corner.

He took another deep breath, and another. And another. He went light-headed, and collapsed back into his chair.

When he felt certain he wasn’t going to faint or fall over, he got back to his feet. Focusing on breathing normally, he made his way across the common room without bumping into anyone, and was about to open his mouth when a firm hand gripped his elbow and steered him away.

“Hey,” said Auger, all smiles today. “How’d you get on in the test?”

“Um,” said Omen.

Auger nodded and then, in that casual tone he always used when he was hiding something, said, “That’s cool, that’s cool. Hey, have you seen Mahala around?”

“I saw her right before breakfast,” said Omen. “Everything all right?”

Auger’s voice dipped. “Yeah, yeah, just, when you saw her, did you notice anything different about her? Anything unusual?”

“Like what?”

Auger shrugged. “Like was she acting any different? Was she talking any different? Did she have glowing green eyes? Did she appear confused …?”

“It’s funny,” said Omen, “out of everything you just said, it was the glowing green eyes thing that stood out.”

“She’s, kind of, slightly possessed right now,” Auger said. “If you see her again, let me know. Stay away from her, but let me know.”

“You need any help? I could help.”

“No, really, it’s fine. I’ve got Kase. We’ll sort it out. If it gets too much for us, though, I promise I’ll give you the nod.”

“Sure,” said Omen. “That sounds good.”

“Anyway, sorry for interrupting. You looked like you were talking with Axelia.” He steered Omen back, depositing him in front of the most beautiful girl in the school and her friends.

“Hey, girls,” he said.

“Hi, Auger,” they chorused.

Auger nodded to Omen, and walked quickly away, and Omen froze.

Axelia looked at him and smiled. “Hi, Omen.”

“Hi,” he said. His mouth was suddenly so ridiculously dry. “Could I talk to you for a moment?” he managed to say. “Maybe go for a short walk?”

Axelia’s friends widened their eyes, like Omen had just dumped a dead bird at their feet, but Axelia had the grace to keep her smile.

“Sure,” she said.

Omen smiled back and they walked out of the room side by side. This was good. She hadn’t yet said the word no, and neither had she laughed at him. If he could keep that going, he was in with a chance.

“What do you think of all those refugees?” she asked as they walked.

“Yeah,” Omen said. “Aw, it’s really … It really makes you think, doesn’t it? Like, who … who are they?”

“Um, we know who they are.”

“Well, yes, but what I’m asking is … uh …”

“You haven’t heard about them, have you?”

“I’m not really sure what you’re talking about, no.”

Her beautiful blue eyes widened a little in surprise. “You didn’t hear about the portal that opened up yesterday, right outside the city walls? It’s literally just over the west wall, Omen. It’s been on the Network all day. It’s all anyone is talking about.”

“A portal to where?”

“To the dimension where Mevolent still rules.”

“Seriously?”

“How have you missed this?”

“I really don’t know.”

“We spent all of last class talking about it. You were there.”

“I was daydreaming. And there are people coming through?”

“Thousands of them, all mortals.”

“Do we know why?”

“They’re slaves over there. Wouldn’t you want to get away from that if you could? I mean, it’s Mevolent.”

Omen nodded. “He’s pretty bad, all right. Do you think he’ll come after them?”

Axelia hugged herself. “I don’t want to think about that. We got rid of our Mevolent – we shouldn’t have to deal with someone else’s. Anyway, that’s all I know. You really should start paying attention in class, Omen. Especially after the result you got in the test.”

“You, um, you know about that?”

“I sit behind you. I saw your mark. Sorry.”

“But I’m not the only one who failed, right? Like, there were a few of us. That was a hard test.”

“Was it?”

“Not for you, maybe, because you’re really smart and stuff. But for us ordinary people it was hard.”

“I’m not that smart.”

“Yes, you are,” Omen said. “You’re dead brainy.”

She laughed. “What did you want to talk about, Omen?”

They stopped walking. There was no one around. It was all suddenly very still and very quiet. Omen nodded again. He was aware of how much he was nodding. It was a lot.

“Well,” he said, trying his best to keep his head still, “in the last few months, um, I’m really glad about how we’ve become friends. You know, with our little jokes and things.”

Axelia’s brow furrowed a smidge. “We have little jokes?”

“Yes. Don’t we? The little jokes? The little …” his mouth was dry again, “jokes? That we have. You don’t notice them?”

“I’m afraid not, Omen.”

His laugh sounded panicked. “That’s OK. It’s not important. Basically, what I wanted to say was: we’re friends. Aren’t we?”

“Of course.”

“And that’s so good,” he said, both hands covering his heart. “It’s so good to have friends. Real friends, you know? And I, I think you’re great. I think you’re funny, and smart, and, like, so cool.”

“Aww, thank you.”

“You’re way cooler than me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You so are.”

“You’re cool, too.”

“Well, I’m not, but thank you for saying so.” He laughed, and so did she. This was going well. Omen felt the time was right for the part he’d rehearsed in the mirror. “I’m really glad you’re my friend – that means so much to me, you have no idea. And I don’t want to ruin that, I really don’t, and what I’m about to say … well, it’s risky. But I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least try.”

Axelia nodded. “OK.”

“You’re probably going to say no,” he said, veering away from his script. “And that’s fine. Saying no is absolutely fine. It’s expected, actually. I’d be, to be honest, I’d be stunned if you said, you know … yes. So I realise that that’s not going to happen. So please, please don’t feel bad. The last thing I want is to make you feel bad.”

“Thank you, Omen.”

He laughed, even as the pit in his stomach opened wider. “No problem,” he said. “But, again, I have to, you know, at least try.”

“Of course.”

“So … um … The thing I was wondering was maybe, and, not expecting a yes to this at all, in the slightest, but the thing I was wondering was maybe you would, um, like to, you know …”

“Yes.”

His heart burst into fireworks in his chest. “Yes?” he repeated, laughing. “Really?”

Axelia reached out, touched his arm, a look of grave concern on her face. “What? No, I was just … I said ‘yes?’”

His laughter died instantly. “Right.”

“I didn’t say ‘yes’,” she said, “I said ‘yes?’, you know? Although it may have come out as ‘yes’, without the question mark after it. I’m sorry, Omen, English is not my first language.”

“You’re really good at it.”

“Thank you.”

“You know so many words.”

“I interrupted you,” she said. “I’m sorry. Please say what you need to say.”

Omen chewed his lip and nodded. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Right. Uh … I think we both know how it’s going to go, though, don’t we? I think we … I think we do.”

“Probably,” Axelia said. “We could stop, if you like?”

Omen nodded, doing his best to consider it even though his brain appeared to be broken. Then he shook his head. “Actually, I feel I have to try. If I don’t at least say the words, then … then it’ll be hanging over me. Are you OK with that?”

“Of course. Go ahead.”

He forced a laugh. “Hey, Axelia, will you go out with me?”

“No,” she said sadly.

His world crashed down and he said, “Yeah.”

“I do like you,” she said, “and I don’t want to say ‘as a friend’, but …”

“As a friend,” Omen said, and nodded again. “That’s fine. I expected it, I really did. I hope this doesn’t make things weird between us. Does it?”

“Of course not.”

“Because it means a lot to me that we’re friends.”

“I know. It means a lot to me, too.”

“Well, um … I suppose I’ll see you around.”

“I suppose so.” Axelia smiled, gave his arm a squeeze, and walked away. Omen went round the corner, sat on a bench and was sad.

5

They came through, three abreast, the adults laden down with bulging bags and the children clutching raggedy dolls and carved wooden animals. Their footsteps were heavy, their shoulders stooped, their spines curved with exhaustion.

They weren’t too tired to look scared, however. Their eyes flickered over everything, trying to spot the differences between this reality and theirs, but avoided the gaze of Valkyrie or anyone who stood watching. This was a battered people. All they wanted was to stop walking, to lay down their packs, to get some sense of a journey completed, but that wasn’t about to happen just yet. As they came through the portal, the doorway sliced from their universe to this one, they were directed to follow a trail of flags to the makeshift town of tents that had sprung up along the outside of Roarhaven’s west wall. Shrinking away from the grey-suited Cleavers on either side, the mortals trudged onwards in a broad, unbroken line.

“Thirteen thousand in thirty-six hours,” Skulduggery said.

“What are we going to do with them?” Valkyrie asked. “China wouldn’t send them back to their own reality, would she? We send them back and Mevolent’s army will either execute them or use them as slaves. Maybe they could stay in Roarhaven. There are plenty of uninhabited districts. Loads of empty houses.”

“Roarhaven is a city for sorcerers,” Skulduggery said. “I don’t know how welcoming its citizens would be to mortal families moving in beside them.”

“What’s wrong with them moving in? We’re supposed to live in peace, aren’t we? That’s why Sanctuaries exist.”

“Roarhaven has a Sanctuary,” Skulduggery pointed out. “It isn’t itself a Sanctuary.”

“I don’t think we have a choice,” she said. “It’s not like we can send them to live in Dublin or London or anything. They’re mortals, but they’re not like our mortals. They’ve lived their entire lives in a reality ruled by sorcerers.”

Skulduggery nodded. “It would definitely require a period of adjustment.”

“I think China’s going to do the right thing. She knows she has to set an example as the Supreme Mage, so I reckon she’ll hand over all those empty houses to these nice people from Dimension X.”

“That’s not what it’s called.”

“We can’t call it the Leibniz Universe. It’s boring, and nobody knows who Leibniz is.”

“He was a German philosopher and physicist back in the late seventeenth—”

“Exactly,” said Valkyrie. “No one’s ever heard of him. And I think I should be the one to name it because I’m the one who discovered it.”

“You didn’t discover it.”

“Well, OK, maybe not discovered it, but I found it.”

“It wasn’t lost, Valkyrie. It had billions of people living in it.”

“And I found them, too.”

He shook his head. “Silas Nadir shunted you over there. By your rationale, he should be the one naming it.”

“He’s a serial killer. He’d pick a stupid name.”

Temper Fray walked through the portal, saw Skulduggery and Valkyrie and immediately started over. One of the Cleavers moved to block his way, but he flashed his City Guard badge and the Cleaver backed down.

“What did you find out?” Skulduggery asked.

Temper frowned. “No hug?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Skulduggery. “Valkyrie, hug him.”

“I’m hugging him with my mind.”

“You two are weird,” Temper said. “It’s telling that I get back from a twelve-hour trip to an alternate dimension and you two are the strangest things I’ve seen all morning. How was your little jaunt to the mountains, by the way? Meet anyone interesting? And by interesting I mean anyone tall, green and ugly?”

“Not quite so tall or so green any more,” Valkyrie said, “but Nye is still as ugly as I remember. We chatted, yes. We have a lead, a man named Quidnunc.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Neither have we,” Skulduggery said. “We’re hoping once we get to him, he’ll lead us to Abyssinia and then we’ll be able to stop her from doing whatever it is she’s planning on doing.”

“You still haven’t found out what that is, huh?”

“Not even close,” Skulduggery said, “but I’ve known her a long time, and, whatever her master plan is, it will not be good news for the rest of us.”

Temper frowned, and looked at Valkyrie. “Is he downplaying it?”

“I think he’s downplaying it.”

Temper nodded. “There’s definitely some downplaying going on. Come on, Skulduggery – you had a thing with her. There’s no need to be embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“She’s a very good-looking lady – you know, once she grew her body back and all. I’ve always found that ex-girlfriends with bodies are better than ex-girlfriends who are just internal organs locked away in a box somewhere. But I’m old-fashioned like that.”

Skulduggery sighed. “Can we stop talking about this?”

“We can,” Temper said, “once you accept that there is no shame in dating a murderous psychic who sucks the life out of people. No shame at all.”

“Thank you, Temper.”

“There’s a bit of shame in losing her to someone like Lord Vile, though. I mean, that dude was evil.”

“Are you finished?”

Temper grinned. “Not even close. But for right now? Yeah, I’m finished.”

“Thank you,” said Skulduggery. “We just got back into the country a few hours ago and we were going to follow up on this Quidnunc person, but decided to take a little detour here instead. Correct me if I’m wrong, Temper, but this portal wasn’t here when we left, was it?”

“It was not,” Temper said, and clapped his hands. “OK then, first things first: that is one messed-up reality they have back there. Seriously. Why anyone would venture into it, I have no idea.”

“You ventured,” Valkyrie said.

“I’m a City Guard now – I have my orders.”

“I heard you volunteered.”

“It’s a portal to another dimension,” Temper said. “What, am I not gonna go through? Anyway, there are thousands of people lining up on the other side of that thing. More coming every hour. With anyone else, I’d be expecting a stampede, but these folks are just so beaten down I doubt they could muster the energy to panic.”

“Did you see any of Mevolent’s men?” Skulduggery asked.

Temper shook his head. “Not a one.”

“We were told there’s a device that’s sustaining the portal. Is that true?”

Temper scratched his jaw. “Never seen anything like it. It’s a metal box, roughly the size of a car battery, with all these sigils carved into it. I don’t know if the device did it all, or if a Shunter opened the rift and this device is just keeping it open. I don’t know how it works, and no one knows how to shut it down, but then I guess the sorcerers in the Leibniz Universe have gadgets we don’t understand yet.”

“We’re calling it Dimension X now,” Valkyrie told him.

“No, we’re not,” Skulduggery said quickly. “Have you spoken to the people? Have they said anything about the Resistance?”

“They won’t talk to me,” Temper answered. “You’ve got to understand, these folks are almost as afraid of the Resistance as they are of Mevolent’s army. To them, all sorcerers are super-powered psychopaths who topple buildings on to innocent mortals.”

“Then hopefully we can show them a new, warmer kind of sorcerer,” Skulduggery said, as a child dropped her doll. He stepped forward, using the air to lift the doll into his hand, and presented it to the little girl. She looked up at him and screamed, and her parents pulled her away.

“Sometimes I forget that being a skeleton is unusual,” Skulduggery murmured. He tossed the doll to the girl’s father and returned to Valkyrie’s side. “Do you have any idea what the best course of action might be?” he asked Temper.

“For me, the best course of action is a shower and bed,” Temper answered. “For the situation, I’d send a squadron of Cleavers through to make sure the mortals are protected while they wait. I heard stories of bandits closing in.”

“As far as we know, China’s not sending any Cleavers,” said Valkyrie.

Temper sighed. “Then maybe you could talk to her? She’s got a soft spot for you, Val, everyone knows that.”

“If we could actually get in to speak to her, maybe,” Valkyrie replied. “But we’ve been trying to arrange a meeting with China for weeks, to discuss our progress – or lack of progress – in this Abyssinia situation, and all we hear is how busy she is.”

Temper chewed his bottom lip for a moment. “Those refugees are easy targets. They need someone to keep them safe.” He sighed. “I guess the shower can wait.”

Valkyrie raised an eyebrow. “You’re going back through?”

“Looks like it.”

“Can’t you send some of your City Guard friends through instead?”

Temper smiled. “I’ve been a Roarhaven cop for five months, and in that time I have discovered that the City Guards are not friendly people. Commander Hoc has changed things since you were in charge, Skulduggery. We report only to him, and he reports only to the Supreme Mage. My colleagues don’t trust me – probably because they see me talking to the two of you so regularly.”

“They think you’re our spy,” Skulduggery said.

“Yes, they do.”

“Good thing you’re our spy, then.”

“It certainly keeps things simple.” Temper looked back towards the portal. “Either of you want to join me?”

Valkyrie held up her hands. “I have things to do today, and bad memories of that place. Thanks, but I think I’ll stay in this dimension.”

“You mentioned bandits …” Skulduggery said.

Temper nodded. “Bands of them.”

“Bands of bandits. That doesn’t sound good.”

“It really doesn’t.”

Skulduggery looked at Valkyrie.

“Good God,” she said, “you don’t have to ask me for permission to go play with your friends.”

“It’s just there are bandits,” Skulduggery said. “I like bandits. There’s no guilt involved when you hit them.”

“When have you ever felt guilty about hitting anyone? Go. Battle bandits. Have fun. I’ll make a few calls, see if anyone can help us track down the guy who makes Quidnunc’s serum.” She held out her hand. “Keys.”

Skulduggery tilted his head. “Sorry?”

“Car keys. You drove us here, remember?”

“But … can’t you get a taxi?”

“Back home? That’d cost a fortune.”

“Have Fletcher take you.”

“It’s a school day, and Fletcher’s busy being a teacher. Come on. Keys.”

He hesitated, then handed them over. “The Bentley is a special car.”

“I’m not going to crash it. I’m going to make a copy of the key, by the way. Just so you know.”

“Drive very slowly. Especially round corners. And along straight roads.”

“Can you please trust me?”

“I trust you with my life,” Skulduggery said. “Just not necessarily my car.”

6

Decorum. That’s what it was all about.

Cadaverous Gant insisted on doing things the way they were supposed to be done. It may have been an old-fashioned philosophy to live by, but it was clear-cut, and he appreciated that kind of simplicity in this world — a world he increasingly disapproved of.

When he’d been a young man, he hadn’t approved of progressives. When he’d been a professor, he hadn’t approved of the lackadaisical approach his students took to their studies. When he’d been a serial killer, he hadn’t approved of people interrupting the murders of said students.

It was why he built his house, after all.

A wonderful house in St Louis, built to his own design by a succession of contractors who didn’t know what the others had worked on. Piece by piece, the house had come together, a labyrinth of corridors and traps and doors that opened on to brick walls.

The perfect lair for a serial killer.

His father had taught him all about the proper way to do things. Here’s how to chop down a tree. Here’s how to catch and skin your dinner. Here’s how to take a beating. And, when his father was gone, it was institutions that had taken over, reinforcing this work ethic, carving him into the man he had become – a man who understood decorum and the proper way to do things.

Which brought him to Abyssinia, the Princess of the Darklands.

Over the past few months, ever since she had been reborn, she had been wearing a variety of flowing robes and elegant dresses, garments that worked well with her delicate features and her long silver hair. Cadaverous had watched, approvingly, as she experimented with styles and fashions, searching for herself in mirrors and in the admiring eyes of her devoted followers.

But the dresses and robes, it seemed, had only reminded her of the centuries she had spent as nothing more than a dried-out heart in a little box, so she had abandoned them and gone for something new — a red bodysuit, tighter than necessary and more than a little garish.

Cadaverous didn’t know where the Darklands were, but he doubted this was appropriate attire for their princess. And that was another thing that annoyed him, this lack of a straight answer. She’d been calling herself that for years, back when she’d been a voice in his head as he lay on that operating table, guiding him back from death, giving him a purpose. A focus. His mortal life had ended with that heart attack, and it had come crumbling down around him with that illegal search warrant, but he had seized the focus her voice had given him right when he’d needed it most.

His old life was nothing. His career in academia had been a waste. Those young people he’d killed mere practice. The sharpening of a blade. The loading of a gun. Preparation for what was to come.

The magic that had exploded within him had altered his perceptions in ways no mortal could possibly comprehend. Suddenly his life was so much bigger. He no longer needed his old house of traps and dead ends — now he could transform the interior of whatever building he owned into whatever environment he could imagine.

His newly found magic allowed him to distort reality itself.

If only he’d experienced it as a younger man. If only he’d grown up with magic, cultivated it, the possibilities could have been infinite. Who would he have been? he wondered. What would he have become?

He would have stayed young. That he knew for certain. The magic would have rejuvenated him. Instead of looking like a seventy-eight-year-old man, he would have looked twenty-two. He would have stayed strong and healthy. His back wouldn’t have twisted; his shoulders wouldn’t have stooped. He’d still be tall and handsome and his body wouldn’t ache and fail him.

The others around him were far older, but looked a third of his age. Razzia, the tuxedo-wearing Australian, as beautiful as she was insane. Nero, the arrogant whelp with the bleached hair. Destrier, the little man, fidgeting in his ill-fitting suit. They were all damaged, in their way, but the faces they showed to the world hid the worst of it behind unlined skin.

For all his irritations, he did appreciate Abyssinia for opening his eyes to a world beyond his old one. The question that weighed heaviest on his mind, though, was why she had taken so long.

She stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of Coldheart Prison’s control room, looking down at the tiers of open cells as the convicts – the ones who had elected to stay – huddled in small groups. Discontent had been spreading through this floating island like a slow-moving yet incurable virus. It was not an easy thing to keep hundreds of people fed on a daily basis, and it had fallen to Cadaverous to somehow deal with the problem.

“Do you think my little army is plotting against me?” Abyssinia asked.

“Probably,” Razzia answered.

“They wouldn’t dare,” said Nero.

“That’s what I would do,” said Abyssinia. “I would lead a charge and overthrow the people standing right where we’re standing. Then I’d take this flying prison and use it like a pirate ship, plundering whole cities around the world.” She sounded almost wistful.

“We freed them,” said Nero. “They owe us. And they could have left with the others, but they chose to stay. That shows loyalty.” He looked around. “Right?”

Destrier was too busy muttering to himself to reply, and Razzia just shrugged.

“Cadaverous,” said Abyssinia, “you’ve been unusually quiet of late. What do you think?”

He chose his words carefully. “I think they are unhappy.”

“Because we have failed to feed them?”

She didn’t mean we, of course. She meant Cadaverous.

“That is undoubtedly part of it, yes.”

She turned to him. “And what is the other part?”

He could have said anything. He could have demurred. He could have made it easy on himself in a hundred different ways. Instead, he said, “When we freed them, we made promises. We promised them purpose. We promised them revenge. We promised them power. We have yet to deliver on any of these things.”

He didn’t mean we, of course. He meant Abyssinia.

“You think I have been distracted by the search for my son,” she said.

Before he could respond, the door opened and Skeiri and Avatar strode in. Skeiri was a slip of a girl, dark-skinned and serious, while Avatar was muscle-bound, handsome and eager to serve. They had emerged from their cells all those months ago, and Cadaverous could see a time in the not-too-distant future when Avatar, in particular, was the one issuing the orders, much like Lethe and Smoke had done, and Cadaverous would have to obey. Again.

They held someone between them, a man with blood dripping on to his shirt, his wrists shackled, his magic muted. Avatar and Skeiri stepped back as Abyssinia approached.

The prisoner narrowed his eyes. They were remarkably piercing eyes. “I’ll never—”

“Shush,” said Abyssinia. “Listen to me. I want you to resist. I’m going to enter your mind and find out where you’re keeping Caisson. And I want you to try to stop me. You’re one of Serafina’s top people – you’ll know how to keep a psychic out of your head. Use all your training. Use all the tricks. Give me a challenge.”

The prisoner’s jaw clenched. It was a remarkably square jaw. “You won’t get anything from—”

“That’s the spirit,” Abyssinia said, and the prisoner’s face contorted. He clutched his head and let out a whine, his knees buckling. He dropped to the ground, face still stricken, and then, as soon as it began, it was over, and he sagged.

“My son is in a private ambulance,” Abyssinia said. “They’re keeping him sedated and moving. Right now they are somewhere in Spain. He’s accompanied by five of Serafina’s sorcerers.” She looked down at the prisoner. “You disappoint me. That was far too easy.”

He shook his head, the colour returning to his face. He murmured something and Abyssinia hunkered down.

“Pardon?” she said. “What was that?”

He met her eyes. “I wasn’t ready.”

“Oh!” she said. “I do apologise. Are you ready now?”

He cried out, face twisting, hands clutching at his head.

“You’re three hundred and fourteen years old,” Abyssinia said. “You watched your childhood friend die in a freak accident. The smell of tequila makes you physically sick. You’ve had a song you hate running through your head for the last three days, a song called ‘Uptown Girl’.”

The prisoner gasped and fell forward, and Abyssinia placed her hand on him. “Were you ready for me then?”

She drew the life out of his body, his skin cracking, his bones creaking, and his strength flooded her and she stood, kicking the empty husk of him to one side. She took a moment, shivered with her eyes closed, and calmed herself. She looked at Avatar. “Find this ambulance. Do not act until I say so.”

“Yes, Abyssinia,” Avatar said, bowing.

She walked back to the window. “Cadaverous.”

She had a task for him. He was surprised. He straightened. “Yes?”

She waved a hand. “The body.”

He frowned. “Yes?”

“Get rid of it.”

7

“Chicken or fish?” the man in the hairnet asked, tongs hovering.

Omen pursed his lips, looking closer at the options available. The dining hall was filling up. There was a queue of students waiting behind him. He knew they were getting annoyed, but he couldn’t help it. Lunch was one of the most important meals of the day – he had to get it right.

“What kind of fish is it?” Omen asked.

“The dead kind,” said the man in the hairnet.

“Is it fresh?”

“Does it look fresh?”

“I don’t know,” said Omen. “You’ve covered it in breadcrumbs.”

The man in the hairnet shook his head. “We didn’t do that. It swims around in the ocean like this, covered in breadcrumbs and missing its head. We just catch ’em and cook ’em.”

“I, uh, I don’t think that’s right.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, boy. I’m a Food Service Assistant. We take an oath.”

“Hurry up,” said someone in the queue.

“Yeah,” said the man in the hairnet, “hurry up. Make a decision, short stuff. Fish, chicken, vegetarian or vegan.”

“What’s the vegan option?”

“Spiralised Asian quinoa salad.”

“And what’s the vegetarian option?”

“Vegetables.”

Omen’s stomach rumbled. “I don’t really like vegetables.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re not a vegetarian.”

“I’ll … um … OK, I’ll have the chicken.”

“The chicken? After all those questions about the fish?”

“Well, you see, I don’t really like fish.”

“Then why did you ask about it?”

“I thought I might try it. Then I changed my mind.”

“You’re the reason I hate my job,” said the man in the hairnet, and he dumped Omen’s lunch on to a tray and handed it over. “Next!”

Omen sat at one of the long tables. Across the hall, Axelia was chatting with her friends. They laughed. He wondered if they were laughing about him.

Never joined him at the table, sitting opposite. She had her hair down, and she was wearing a hint of make-up that really brought out her eyes.

“Lunch guy does not like you,” she said, digging into her salad.

“You were in the queue?” Omen asked.

“I’m the one who told you to hurry up.”

“Oh, cheers for that.”

“I made a promise to myself to interact with you in public at least three times a day. I figure it’ll make you more popular with people.”

“So I can expect a third interaction this evening?”

Never took a swig from her bottle of water. “This is our third interaction. Me telling you to hurry up was our second. The first one was when I threw that ball of paper at your head this morning.”

“That was you?”

“You should have opened it up. It had a picture inside, a caricature of Mr Chicane that was quite satirically brilliant, if I do say so.”

“What do you think of him anyway?” Omen asked.

“Chicane? His eyes are a bit too close together, a feature I captured splendidly in my artwork, but he’s OK.”

“You don’t think he’s a bit … off?”

“In what way?”

“Like … he only teaches for a few weeks every year.”

“Because he has a speciality,” Never said. “He only gives a few modules every couple of terms.”

“I think he’s up to something.”

Never put down her fork. “Omen, as your only friend, I have no choice but to be the one to tell you – stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop this,” said Never. “Stop looking for bad guys and conspiracies. Yes, Lilt was working for Abyssinia, but that doesn’t mean any other member of the faculty is involved. Yet you think there’s something about Chicane, just like you thought there was something suspicious about Peccant, and before him it was, what, the ground staff, wasn’t it? For the last seven months, you’ve been searching for an adventure.”

Omen blushed. “No, I haven’t.”

“I get it. You were part of something huge. We both were. But it’s over.”

Omen gave a little laugh. “No, it’s not. Skulduggery said he’ll call me when he needs me.”

“Why would he need you? You’re fourteen, and you’re not exactly at the top of your class, are you? They don’t need us, Omen.”

“That could change at any moment.”

“Yes,” said Never, “it could. And, if it does, awesome. But the problem is that you’re waiting for it like it’s a sure thing. It’s not. Adventure happens to some people. Skulduggery and Valkyrie. Your brother. It intrudes upon their lives whether they want it or not. But the rest of us don’t live like that. I wish we did. I’d love to be off adventuring with Auger or Skulduggery. Maybe not Valkyrie, because she’s responsible for murdering thousands of people, including my brother.”

“Never, you know that was Darquesse.”

“I didn’t say Valkyrie did the murdering, did I? I just meant she bears some responsibility for her evil dark side going nuts and obliterating a quarter of the city, that’s all. Anyway, I admit it, like you, I’m waiting for the call to adventure. But, unlike you, I’m not putting everything else on hold while I wait.”

“I’m not putting anything on hold.”

“How did you do on that test yesterday? You got the results back, didn’t you?”

“I did fine.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you pass?”

“Almost.”

“And how many assignments have you started?”

Omen folded his arms. “That’s a trick question. We haven’t been given any assignments.”

“We’ve been given four,” said Never.

“Oh.”

Never sighed, and leaned forward. “I know you, Omen. I look across the room and you’re sitting there, daydreaming, and I know exactly what you’re thinking about.”

“No, you don’t.”

“It’s always the same two things. The first is Axelia Lukt.”

“Well, obviously.”

“I heard about that, by the way. Tough luck.”

“Yeah.”

“And the second thing you’re daydreaming about is Valkyrie kicking the door open and saying she needs your help to save the world. Am I close?”

Omen said nothing.

“See? Knew it. That’s not going to happen, but you want to believe, so much, that they’re going to swoop in and take you away from all the normal stuff that you’re not actually doing any of the normal stuff.”

Omen picked up his knife and fork again, and started cutting into his chicken. “Can we stop talking about this? I know you mean well, but you’re starting to annoy me.”

“I don’t want to annoy you, Omen,” Never said gently. “I don’t want to be the serious one in any friendship I have, I really don’t. I hate being the serious one. I’m the funny one. I’m the quirky, gender-fluid friend with a heart of gold and abs of steel.”

“You don’t have abs.”

“That’s only because I don’t like to sweat. My point is, I don’t want to be the one to give you bad news. But no one else cares enough.”

They ate in silence.

Once they’d finished, Never reapplied a little lipgloss. “How do I look?”

Omen sighed. “Low-key glamorous.”

This got a smile. “That’s what I’m going for. Are you mad at me?”

“No,” said Omen. “You can, you know, tell me whatever you think you need to tell me, just like I can choose to listen to you, or choose to ignore you. Because we’re friends.”

“We are friends,” Never said, smiling. “But you can’t ignore me. Nobody ignores me. I’m way too cool.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“So what do you think about all this Leibniz Universe stuff, eh? Isn’t it crazy?”

“It is crazy.”

“Omen, do you know what the Leibniz Universe is?”

“Not really.”

“It’s Mevolent’s universe.”

“Well, why don’t they call it that? I’d remember it if it was called that. Who’s this Leibniz person anyway?”

“Nobody knows.”

“Do you think he’ll come through? Mevolent, I mean?”

Never brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. “Naw, I don’t think so. He can stomp around his own dimension as much as he wants because there’s no one there to oppose him. But here, we have a whole world that’d fight back.”

“Yeah,” said Omen. “Maybe. But you know the way all the wildlife – all the deer and rabbits and squirrels and stuff – run out of the forest when there’s a wildfire? What if it’s like that? What if the mortals are just trying to get away from what’s following along behind?”

“You’re worrying over nothing,” said Never. “We don’t know what things are like over there now. All we have are the reports Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain made after they got back, and that was, what, eight years ago? Besides, we already killed our own Mevolent. If the other one shows up, we’ll just do the same to him.”

“How, exactly? No one knows who or what killed our Mevolent.”

“Skulduggery killed him,” Never said, shrugging. “Everyone knows that. Just because it’s not in our textbooks …”

“If Skulduggery killed him, he’d talk about it,” said Omen. “He talks about everything else.”

Never sighed. “Because you know him so well?”

“I don’t claim to know him well. I’m just saying that he wasn’t the one to kill Mevolent.”

“It doesn’t make any difference. If we get invaded, we’ll still send them packing. They have magic, but we have magic and technology.”

“So do they.”

“But we have nukes.”

“Seriously? You’d nuke them?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know. It’s a bit … drastic, isn’t it?”

“War is a drastic thing,” said Never. “Ooh, that should be on a bumper sticker.”

“I think I’d keep the nuclear bombs as a last resort,” said Omen. “We have the Sceptre of the Ancients, don’t we? Skulduggery and Valkyrie stole it from Mevolent’s dimension, too, so using it to push back his army would be … uh …”

“The word you’re looking for is ironic.”

“Is it? OK. It’d be ironic.”

“That’s a good plan, Omen. Ignoring the fact that no one’s been able to even find the Sceptre since Devastation Day, that’s a wonderful plan.”

“Well, like, we have other God-Killer weapons. One little nick from the sword and even Mevolent drops dead.”

“The sword’s broken.”

“Then the spear,” Omen said irritably, “or the bow or the dagger, whatever, it’s the … What?”

“Nothing. I’m just quite impressed that you could name all four God-Killers.”

“Really? Three-year-olds can name the God-Killers.”

“Yeah, but they’re three, Omen.”

Omen nodded. “Because infants are smarter than me. Yep, I get it. That’s funny.”

Never grinned. “Feeling overly sensitive today, are we? I wouldn’t blame you. Tell you what, I won’t tease you again until you really, truly deserve it, I promise. Come on, tell me more about how you’d beat Mevolent.”

“No.”

Never laughed. “Oh, please? I was really enjoying that conversation.”

“Tough.”

“So you’d use the God-Killers on him, and …?”

Omen shrugged, looked away, happened to glance at the door just as Miss Wicked walked in. Tall, blonde and terrifying, he watched her look around, and immediately glanced away when her eyes fell upon him.

“Oh, God,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” Never asked.

“Miss Wicked caught me looking at her.”

“She’s coming over.”

“Is she?”

“Coming straight for you.”

“Are you joking? Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Omen,” Miss Wicked said, and Omen yelped and swivelled in his seat.

“Hello, miss,” he said. “I mean, hi. I mean … yes?”

She looked down at him. “Omen, you have been summoned.”

He blinked. “I have?”

“Tomorrow morning,” she said, “ten o’clock, in the headmaster’s office.”

He paled. “But … tomorrow is Saturday.”

“It is.”

“But there’s no school on a Saturday.”

“The school is still open at weekends, Omen.”

“But there aren’t any classes …”

“Correct. Which means I shouldn’t be coming in. And yet I am.”

“Is … is this because of the test?”

“Why would I be coming in if this was because of a test? No, Omen, this is not about a test. Grand Mage Ispolin, of the Bulgarian Sanctuary, is visiting Corrival Academy and he has requested that both of us be present when he arrives.”

“Jenan’s dad? Why would he want me to be there?”

“Jenan has yet to return home. I’m sure the Grand Mage wants to discuss the events that led to his son running away.”

“Am … am I in trouble?”

“I really don’t know, Omen.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Grand Mage Ispolin is probably going to try to have me fired.”

“But why? You didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Your vote of confidence will go a long way, I’m sure. Ten o’clock, Omen. Don’t be late. I have no truck with tardiness.”

She walked away.

This, Omen thought, was not at all the call to adventure he had been hoping for.

8

Valkyrie didn’t get the headaches any more. That was one good thing about working on her Sensitive side, as Skulduggery liked to call it – the more Valkyrie practised, the easier it got. And she had been practising – but not even Skulduggery knew just how much.

She’d been eighteen when her true name had walked away from her, when Darquesse had become a separate entity, a person all of her own. When Darquesse left, she’d taken Valkyrie’s power, leaving her dulled and weak and, once again, mortal.

Nature abhors a vacuum, however, and a new kind of magic had rushed in to fill the void. Valkyrie had just turned twenty-five, and they still couldn’t explain how she could control that strange energy, or how she could see people’s auras, or how she could do all those things and be a Sensitive as well. They didn’t even know what to call her.

She was a one-off, she’d been told. An oddity. In a world of weirdos, she was a freak.

She tried not to take it personally.

The truth was, her power scared her. She felt it in her blood, twisting in her veins, eager to become whatever she needed it to be. But, for all its destructive potential, it also allowed her glimpses into the future, a future of darkness and pain that had lodged itself in her thoughts. Sometimes it was all she could think about. Sometimes it was all there was to think about.

Death was coming for the people she loved, unless she could learn enough about the future to avoid it.

And so here she was again.

She pulled up and got out of the Bentley. Standing beside the door to Cassandra’s cottage was a piece of Darquesse that Darquesse had left behind when she’d departed this universe. Tall and strong and dark-haired, physically identical to Valkyrie in every way, she had taken to calling herself Kes.

“Hey,” said Valkyrie. “Sorry I’m late. I was in the Alps yesterday, doing a thing, and then we got back this morning to find out that there’s this portal that opened up at Roarhaven and … anyway. Sorry. Have you been waiting long?”

“Only a few hours,” Kes said. “Well, a day.”

“Seriously? I am so sorry.”

“It’s OK.”

“How did you pass the time?”

“Oh, that was easy,” Kes said. “I was standing over there for a few hours, then I stood over here. The time flew by.”

“We really need to get you a phone.”

“If you can find one I can hold, I’m all for it. Ah, it’s fine. It’s not like I have anything better to do with my time. You are literally the only person I have to talk to on this entire planet. I can’t interact with anyone else in any meaningful way. I can only do tiny amounts of magic before I fade away and recharge. I’m … I’m bored.”

Valkyrie smiled. “I thought you told me last week that gods didn’t get bored.”

“Well, as you took delight in reminding me, I’m not a whole god, am I? I’m a splinter of a god. A fragment of a god.”

“I believe the term I used was ‘crumb of a god’.”

“Whatever I am, I get bored, OK? But you’re here now, so let’s get to it, what do you say? Ready to see the future?”

Valkyrie sighed. “I suppose I am.”

She took the key from beneath the old pot and led the way into the house. The first time she’d come here after Cassandra died, when Skulduggery had wanted to test her burgeoning psychic abilities, she had taken a few minutes to process her feelings about being back in such a warm and welcoming environment. Today, she just walked straight through and took the stairs down to the cellar. This was her seventh time here without Skulduggery, and she had settled into a new, simpler routine.

She stood in the middle of the cellar. The floor beneath her feet was little more than an iron lattice, treated with magic to prevent it from heating up when the flames burned through the bed of coals beneath. The walls were brick, and reverberated with psychic energy, making Valkyrie’s mind vibrate like a tuning fork. The ceiling was criss-crossed with pipes, designed to spray water.

Months ago, Valkyrie had had to project her visions on to the clouds of steam that billowed upwards. But she didn’t need to do that any more.

She closed her eyes, let her thoughts scatter, and worked to find the peace within that chaos. When she found it – the quiet place – she let it grow and expand and fill her up until it pushed the noise away and, for a moment, for a single blissful moment, there was nothing in the world but her breathing.

She opened her eyes.

The vision filled the cellar, dissolving its walls, and she was suddenly outside, in the refugee camp, surrounded by the displaced and the scared. She felt their relief at escaping Mevolent’s army, but also the rising fear of once again being at the mercy of a society of sorcerers they had no reason to trust. Valkyrie drifted through the camp, alert for any new deviation, but there were no extra details for her to absorb today. Satisfied, she allowed her mind to move on, and the camp vanished and she was in darkness.

“Here he comes,” Kes said, from somewhere to her right.

They’d taken to calling him “the Whistler”. He signalled his arrival with a tune. Most of the time it was ‘Dream a Little Dream of Me’. Twice, it was ‘Blue Moon’.

Today, he was whistling as usual, and, for only the second time, Valkyrie could see his outline. He was maybe her height, maybe six foot, and slender, but that was all she could discern. His outline was solid, but everything within that swirled and flipped too quickly to identify.

“Bring him closer,” said Kes.

“I can’t,” Valkyrie answered. She took a few steps towards him, but the Whistler stayed at the same distance. Out of all the elements in her visions, all the bloodshed and death that was to come, his presence was the thing that unnerved her the most.

The vision moved on.

“You actually think you’re going to win?” someone said behind her, and she turned, and a burning town built itself up around her. Dead bodies littered the streets. Car alarms wailed.

Auger Darkly fell to his knees in front of her, clutching his shoulder. Blood soaked his shirt. Omen ran out, picked him up, his brother gritting his teeth against the pain. Together they hurried on. They were being chased. There were people chasing them. People with guns.

Valkyrie moved in. This time she’d see their faces. This time she’d find out who they were so she could stop them before this happened.

They came round the corner, guns up, and passed right through her. Dressed in black, wearing body armour. Helmets. No insignias. Moving like soldiers, or SWAT teams, relentlessly tracking their prey.

She watched them spot the Darkly brothers. They opened fire. Bullets punched Omen in the back and he flopped on to the pavement as Auger went stumbling. Valkyrie did her best to ignore it. It was a scene she knew well, and it tore at her insides each time. But today she didn’t curse or cry out – she just listened. Waited. Waited for one of them to say something. Anything.

“Target down.”

The vision swept away and Valkyrie was confronted with the Plague Doctor, who held a child in his arms. Valkyrie stepped closer and the child vanished and the Plague Doctor’s hands went to his mask and he pulled it off, but before Valkyrie could see his face he was gone, and Saracen Rue was lying dead on the ground.

“There’s Tanith,” Kes said softly, and Valkyrie turned to watch her friend back away from an unseen enemy, her sword in her hand.

Then Tanith was gone and China was lying in that field of broken glass Valkyrie had seen again and again. Just a flash of that, and then they were standing in the Circle, in Roarhaven. Smoke and flames billowed from the High Sanctuary and the Dark Cathedral was in ruins, and marching towards them was an army with Mevolent leading the way.

Valkyrie had glimpsed this before, but the vision stayed with Mevolent longer this time. She didn’t know what that meant. Was this future more likely now? Was it closer?

The army was almost upon her, and her heart hammered in her chest.

She looked away and Cadaverous Gant walked by, holding a rag doll in a blue dress. A house appeared, tall and pointed and radiating darkness, and Cadaverous went into the house and the door stayed open, like it was inviting Valkyrie to follow.

Valkyrie started to walk, but Kes pointed. “There,” she said.

A figure was slowly coming into focus on the other side of the room. A woman with silver hair, standing with her head down.

“Leave,” Kes said.

“Not yet.”

“You have to.”

“There’s something about that house.”

“Valkyrie,” Kes said, “leave now or she’ll see you.”

Valkyrie hesitated, but she knew she had no choice.

She let it go, let it all go, and the house vanished and the vision washed away and the cellar came back.

Kes looked at her. “You OK?”

“No,” said Valkyrie, walking for the stairs. “I hate seeing the future.”

9

For a solemn occasion such as an execution, the mood in Coldheart Prison was something approaching a festival.

The convicts lined the tiers, eager for the show and struggling to contain themselves. Every so often an excited whisper would drift down to the broad dais that hovered above the energy field. On that dais the teenage members of First Wave stood in the costumes that Abyssinia had ordered to be made for them – black, with shiny belts and polished boots – to give them the false sense that they were an elite military unit. To Cadaverous, they were scared little children, no matter what they happened to be wearing.

He stood with Razzia and Destrier and Nero. Beside them, and yet apart, were Avatar and Skeiri. Abyssinia’s new favourites. The up-and-comers. Cadaverous despised them even more than he despised First Wave.

The only member of First Wave not dressed in her finery was the annoying girl with the habit of constantly flicking her hair out of her eyes. Dressed in civilian clothes, she stood on the very edge of the dais, a mere step away from a lethal plunge to the force field below. The bracelet she wore was cheap but solid and needed a key to remove it. It also bound her magic.

“Please,” she said through the tears that were streaming down her face, “I just want to go home.”

Abyssinia stood beside Parthenios Lilt, their heads down, seemingly consumed by disappointment. They didn’t answer the girl. That wasn’t down to them. That was down to First Wave’s leader, the arrogant whelp Jenan Ispolin.

He strode forward awkwardly, as if his knees had locked. The bravado that he usually carried with him – even here in Coldheart, surrounded as he was by genuine threats – seemed to be missing at this moment. He was pale, and afraid, and he looked as young as he was.

“Isidora Splendour,” he said, his voice trembling slightly, “you have been found guilty of betraying your true family.”

Isidora shook her head. “I didn’t betray you, I swear.”

Jenan continued. “We are destined for greatness. We have been chosen to change the world. This is the highest honour.”

“Jenan, please.”

“And yet, you jeopardised this sacred mission with your cowardice.”

She turned. “I don’t want to kill anyone,” she sobbed. “None of us do. Mr Lilt, please. You’re my teacher. Please help me.”

Lilt shook his head sadly.

“Abyssinia,” Isidora tried, “I’m begging you, we don’t want to do this, but we’re too scared to tell you. Please don’t make us. We’re only children. We don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Abyssinia looked to the rest of First Wave as they huddled together. “Is this true?” she asked gently. “Have you reconsidered? Have you had second thoughts? We are training you, making you stronger, better, more powerful. Your old classmates would barely recognise you, you have advanced so much. You have evolved. You are my dream made flesh.” Her smile faltered. “But if this traitor’s words are true, if you do indeed see yourselves as only children, you must tell me. Please, I beg you – be honest. Open your hearts. If you doubt me, if you doubt my plan and you have lost faith in our future together, a future that is on the horizon, now is the time to make this clear. Speak, my loves.”

It was as if the entire prison held its breath and was silent.

Isidora fell to her knees, crying.

Abyssinia nodded slowly to Jenan. “Continue, my loyal warrior.”

The boy’s chest puffed out ridiculously, and he looked down at his weeping friend. “Today, you tried to leave,” he said. “You knew the punishment for that.”

Isidora shook her head again. “I didn’t know,” she said. “We were never told that! Please, give me another chance! This isn’t fair!”

The boy hesitated, then reached down, took Isidora’s hands, and pulled her gently to her feet. For a moment, Cadaverous thought he might give her a reprieve, but then he saw Abyssinia close her eyes, and knew she was in Jenan’s head.

Jenan put his hands to Isidora’s shoulders and pushed, and Isidora shrieked and toppled from the dais. The other members of First Wave looked away, covered their mouths, gave little cries of shock, and Jenan stepped backwards, a look of horror on his face.

“My loves,” said Abyssinia. “Come to me.”

She spread her arms and they walked to her, hesitantly at first, but Cadaverous could feel the waves of empathy Abyssinia was giving out, even from where he stood. When they huddled around her, they were safe and warm and they belonged.

Just like he used to.

Cadaverous followed Abyssinia back to her quarters. When she saw him, she sighed.

“Do you mind coming back later?” she asked. “We just had to execute one of the children.”

“I was there,” Cadaverous said. “You handled it well.”

She sat. “Thank you.”

“Do you think they’ll be ready?”

“Of course,” she responded.

“You’re putting an awful lot of faith in a group of scared teenagers,” Cadaverous said. “You have hundreds of followers now – most of whom would be all too eager to engage in some mindless slaughter for you.”

“But it’s not mindless,” Abyssinia said. “There is a point to it all, even if you can’t see it.”

“You could help me see it. You could explain it to me.”

“When you’re ready, I’ll tell you. Is there another reason you’re here, Cadaverous?”

“There is. But, now that I have you alone, I almost don’t know where to begin.” He took a breath. “We believed in you. We brought you back.”

“And I love you for it.”

“We love you, too. I can say that with absolute certainty because, before you, I didn’t know what love was. I knew it as an abstract thing, something other people said. Something other people felt. But your voice in my head, lying on that operating table … that was the voice of love. And I was hearing it for the first time.”

“That’s sweet of you to say.”

“You’re here because of us, and we’re here because of you. Because of the mission.”

“The mission,” Abyssinia said. “Yes.”

Cadaverous hesitated. “Only … only I think the search for your son has distracted you in recent months.”

The good humour drifted from Abyssinia’s face. “Do you indeed?”

“I have to be honest with you, Abyssinia. That’s what love means, isn’t it? Honesty? I feel, since you returned, that your focus hasn’t been on the mission.”

“I see.”

“The rest of us, the ones who brought you back, we’re starting to feel …”

“Yes? Starting to feel what, Cadaverous?”

“Neglected.”

A ghost of a smile. “Huh. Like children, I suppose? Everyone’s vying for the mother’s love, jealous of anyone she dotes on. Is that what you are, Cadaverous? Are you a child? Should you be in First Wave, too?”

He didn’t answer.

“What would you prefer? Would you like it if I spent more time with you, is that it? Would that be enough for you, I wonder? Would that coddle you?”

Cadaverous bristled. “I’m not asking to be coddled.”

“You’re not? Because it seems like you are.”

“You made promises.”

She rose. “You dare make demands of me, Cadaverous Gant? After everything I have given you? After I called you back from death itself? After I gave you purpose? Now you want more? You think you deserve more?”

“I think I deserve the truth!”

Abyssinia was upon him in an instant, pressing him back against the wall, her open hand hovering in front of his face.

“You insubordinate little nothing,” she whispered. “You deserve only what I tell you you deserve. You have grown disillusioned with me, have you? Well, I have grown disillusioned with you, Cadaverous. You are not the man I hoped for. I have watched you shrivel in these last years, ever since your precious Jeremiah fell from that walkway. Your hatred of Valkyrie Cain has turned you from the path I had set you on. All those murderous urges you gave in to when you were mortal? I allowed you to make peace with them, to channel your rage. I calmed the demons in your head so that they no longer control you — and how do you repay me?” She stepped away. “By doubting me. By questioning me. By betraying me.”

“I have not betrayed you!” he snapped.

“You betray me every day!” she shot back. “With every disappointment, you betray me! You were my loyal soldier! My favourite!”

Cadaverous snarled. “I was never your favourite. Smoke was your favourite, and then Lethe, when he came along. I’m always there, but always pushed to the back by the bright and the new. I should be your second. I should be your lieutenant. Instead, I arrange the food for the convicts and the criminals while people like Avatar and Skeiri waltz in and catch your eye.”

Abyssinia shook her head. “Jealousy does not become you, Cadaverous.”

“You’ve kept us in the dark long enough, Abyssinia. We’re starting to feel as if we’re not on this mission you told us about. We’re starting to feel that you’ve lied to us.”

“Get out,” she said quietly.

10

Tea and biscuits were already laid out when Sebastian Tao crept into the house through the back door.

It was all back doors these days – back doors and skylights and narrow windows and a lot of sneaking around. Dressed as he was – all in black, with the curved beak mask and the wide-brimmed leather hat and the flowing coat – it was difficult to walk down the street, even at this time of night, and not attract curious stares or invitations to fight. Sebastian didn’t like to fight. He hated violence. He’d had enough of that growing up.

He stepped into the living room. “Hello,” he said.

The small group turned, smiling and nodding.

“Welcome, Plague Doctor,” said Lily. “Cup of tea?”

They laughed. Sebastian chuckled politely. They knew very well that he couldn’t take his mask off. Not that he needed to. His suit provided him with all the sustenance he required – although he eyed the biscuits on display longingly. What he wouldn’t give for a taste.

But no. He had a mission.

“Let’s hurry this along,” Tantalus said, standing up from the floral couch. “Some of us have lives to get back to.”

The others went quiet. Tantalus was the unofficial leader of their little group of Darquesse-worshippers, primarily because he lacked any identifiable sense of humour. He just seemed like the kind of man people would take orders from, although Sebastian had yet to witness any actual leadership abilities.

Tantalus cleared his throat. “I hereby call this meeting of the Darquesse Society to order. Blessed be her name.”

“Blessed be her name,” the others echoed.

“We have gazed into the face of God and we found love.”

Sebastian repeated it along with everyone else.

“All right then,” Tantalus said, scowling at Sebastian, “why are we here?”

Tantalus didn’t like Sebastian, and he wasn’t shy about letting it show.

Sebastian nodded to Forby. “Tell them what you told me,” he said.

Forby, a small man with fantastic hair, cleared his throat. “Um, OK, so, the portal – the portal that all these Leibniz people are coming through. The mortal portal, I call it.” He laughed. “Anyway, I’m on the team. The investigating team.”

“Congratulations,” said Bennet. “That’s pretty high-profile. It’s good to see you getting recognition in your job.”

“Thank you,” said Forby. “It’s a real boost to my confidence, I have to admit. I’ve been working at the High Sanctuary since it opened; before that I was at the old Sanctuary for eighteen years … I mean, I’ve put in the time, you know? I’ve put in the work. It’s just really nice to have—”

“Tell me we’re not here just to congratulate Forby for doing his job,” Tantalus said.

“We’re not,” Sebastian assured him. “Forby, get to the bit about the box.”

Tantalus frowned. “What box?”

“A device,” said Forby. “I was part of the team that went through the portal to examine it. I’m fairly certain that the device opened the portal.”

Tantalus folded his arms. “So?”

“If I’m right, and I think I am, once we reverse-engineer it, once we figure out how it works, I can use the device to open a portal to wherever Darquesse happens to be, and we won’t even need a Shunter to do it.”

“This is good news,” said Lily, her eyes widening. “This is great news!”

Tantalus held up a hand for silence, and kept his eyes on Forby. “That is good news. I agree. Or it would be, if we knew where Darquesse is. But we don’t, do we?”

“Not yet,” said Forby. He glanced at Sebastian, and Sebastian stepped forward.

“We’ve been talking about this,” he said.

Tantalus scowled again. “Who’s we?”

“Forby and me,” Sebastian said.

“And what exactly have you been discussing?”

Sebastian chose his words carefully. “I don’t know a whole lot about this stuff, but I do know that while it is possible to track energy signatures through dimensions, to go looking for one, even one as powerful as Darquesse’s, would be a waste of time.”

Forby nodded. “That’s true.”

“But then I asked Forby,” Sebastian continued, “if it would be easier to track the Faceless Ones instead, seeing as how there’s a whole race of them.”

Tantalus’s eyes narrowed. “Why would we want to do that?”

“We all know that Darquesse left this reality to find a new challenge. Fighting the Faceless Ones was that challenge.”

“The Plague Doctor posited the idea that Darquesse might very well still be fighting them,” Forby said, “so to find them would be to find her.”

“And apparently, that’s entirely possible.” Sebastian paused. “We just need some Faceless Ones’ blood.”

Tantalus laughed. “Oh, is that all? Well, I’ll nip down to the shops, shall I? Anyone want anything else while I’m picking up a jar of Faceless Ones’ blood? How are we for milk?”

“I know where there’s some blood,” Lily said.

They all looked at her.

“There’s a scythe in the Dark Cathedral,” she said. “I saw it on a tour I took there. They have it sealed off with a bunch of other stuff. The little sign said that it was splattered with the blood of one of the Faceless Ones that came through at Aranmore. Would that do?”

Sebastian looked back at Forby, who shrugged.

“I don’t see why not,” he said.

“So what are you suggesting?” Tantalus asked. “That we break into the Dark Cathedral and steal this scythe right from under their noses? Do you have any idea of the amount of security they have? Do you have any idea what they’ll do to us if they catch us?”

“Probably kill us,” said Lily. “I don’t think I should go.”

“No one’s going!” Tantalus snapped. “The only way this wouldn’t be a suicide mission is if someone knew a secret way in. Do you? Do any of you?”

Beneath his mask, Sebastian smiled, and raised his hand.

11

Valkyrie woke and lay there, scrabbling for the last threads of a departing dream. It was almost within her grasp – a normal dream, this time – when her thoughts tumbled in, filled her head, sent the dream scattering. She reached for the bottle of water by the bed, found it empty. Her throat was parched.

She got up. It was cold. She pulled on her bathrobe, tied it and hugged herself as she unlocked her bedroom door. The landing was dark. Her fingers trailed across the wall, finding the three light switches. She pressed the middle one. The light came on downstairs. Hugging herself again, she went down, narrowing her eyes against the glare until she was used to it.

She left the light, walked through the gloom to the kitchen. She could see well enough. Xena raised her head when she stepped in, just to check, and then went back to sleep. Valkyrie smiled at her, opened the fridge as quietly as possible, took a bottle of water and turned to go. Abyssinia stood watching her.

Valkyrie yelled in shock and dropped the water, white lightning crackling around her fingertips. Xena leaped up, barking, came running over, ignoring Abyssinia entirely to sniff at Valkyrie’s legs, tail wagging with sudden excitement. Abyssinia looked away, her mouth moving, holding a conversation Valkyrie couldn’t hear with somebody she couldn’t see.

Valkyrie let the energy die. Abyssinia was looking down, not at Valkyrie at all. Valkyrie was seeing her, but she wasn’t seeing Valkyrie. She started to fade. In seconds, she was gone.

Valkyrie slid down to the floor, her back against the fridge. Xena came and sat beside her, then laid her head across Valkyrie’s lap. Her fur was warm and soft and reassuring.

“Good girl,” Valkyrie whispered. “Everything’s going to be all right. Good girl.”

She reached for the bottle of water, and took a swig.

She stayed like that until the sun came up.

12

Omen was a morning person. He didn’t like getting out of bed, but when he did he was invariably bright and optimistic. Mornings, he often thought, were bursting with potential. Every morning was the start of what could become the best day ever.

True, the brightness tended to dull a little once the day began to beat him down, and his optimism never lasted that long when faced with the disappointment that came with being who he was, but that didn’t change how much he liked mornings. Especially a Saturday morning, when half of the students went home for the weekend and the other half chatted and hung out and bonded as people. He imagined.

This Saturday, however, was determined to squish him before he’d even had his breakfast.

His room-mates had snored. This was not unusual. What was unusual was the sheer determination they displayed, as if they were working together to deny him sleep. From then on, it was one minor catastrophe after another. He’d dropped his toothbrush in the toilet. His phone hadn’t charged. Grendel Caste sneezed on his breakfast. And now here he was, sitting outside the Principal’s Office.

Filament Sclavi walked by, then stopped and turned round. He sat down next to Omen.

“I heard,” he said.

“Heard what?” Omen asked, even though he knew.

“You asked out Axelia Lukt, and Axelia Lukt said no.”

“Ah,” said Omen. “That’s what you heard. I’m surprised people care enough to gossip.”

“People gossip even when they don’t care,” said Filament. “It’s what people do. So how are you? How is your heart? Is it broken?”

“Naw,” said Omen. “It’s ever-so-slightly dinged. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Filament looked at him. “You don’t have to be brave in front of me, Omen.”

“I’m … not. I swear.”

Filament patted his arm. “I can see that you are fighting back the tears.”

“I’m really not, though.”

Filament smiled sadly. “Then why is your lower lip quivering?”

“I think that’s just what it does.”

“You know what? You should ask her again.”

“You think she’s changed her mind?”

“Not yet, but she might if you pursue her. Have you never seen a romantic comedy? Have you never seen the nerd get the hot girl? How does he do it? He proves himself worthy of her affection. He devotes himself to wooing her.”

“Am I the nerd?”

“Well, you’re certainly not the hot girl.”

Omen laughed a little. “Yeah, I suppose.”

“My sisters – I grew up with sisters – they love the romantic comedies. Have you seen 10 Things I Hate About You? Heath Ledger pursues Julia Stiles. You should sing to Axelia during morning assembly.”

“That’s a terrifically bad idea.”

“A Partridge Family song, maybe.”

“I’m not sure who they are.”

“They were a musical group. One of my older sisters, she loved David Cassidy when she was a teenager. David Cassidy was in the Partridge Family. According to my sister, he was the main Partridge.”

“Did they have costumes, or …?”

“I don’t know if they dressed up as partridges, I just know the David Cassidy song. But you can’t do that song – that was used in the movie. You want another one, a song that may once have been cheesy, but now is sort of cool.”

“I don’t think I’m going to sing to her, though.”

“That’s a pity,” said Filament. “It would work. I’m sure of it. But there are other ways to woo a lady. Send flowers every day. Write her poems. Or appear at her door one evening with cue cards professing your love.”

“Is that wooing, though? Or is it, you know … stalking?”

Filament frowned. “How can it be stalking? It’s for love.”

“I get that, I do, but everything you’ve just mentioned sounds a little like harassment. I’d really prefer to be the guy who, you know, is rejected and then is kind of cool about it. I don’t want her to regret knowing me – that’s basically what I’m trying to say. I don’t want to be the bad guy, or the guy who can’t take the hint. You know?”

Filament didn’t respond.

“Filament?”

“Your words have made me sad,” Filament said.

“Oh.”

“All those romantic comedies I watched.”

“It’s fine for movies.”

“No,” said Filament. “No. I shall never watch another. From here on out, it will be horror movies and only horror movies. Not even musicals.”

“Musicals are OK.”

“Maybe one or two musicals, like Grease.”

“Grease is funny.”

“It was nice talking to you, Omen, even if you did make me sad.”

“I’m really sorry about that.”

“I will try to be as brave as you.”

“I’m not being brave, though.”

Miss Wicked approached. “Filament,” she said, “it’s a Saturday morning. Do something better with it than sitting outside the Principal’s Office.”

“Yes, miss,” Filament said, and hurried away.

Miss Wicked frowned at Omen. “It’s ten o’clock. Why are you out here?”

“I, um, I haven’t been told to go in.”

“Our appointment is for ten,” she responded, striding to the door. “We go in at ten.”

She walked in and Omen hopped up and hurried after her.

He’d never been in Principal Rubic’s office before. He was immediately struck by the number of books on the shelves and the huge window behind the desk. Rubic himself sat at his desk, an elderly man with a face that longed for a beard it didn’t have. Standing before him was a tall man with dark hair swept back off a high forehead, a man who looked just like his son.

“Ah, Miss Wicked, Omen,” said Rubic, waving them in, “I was just about to call for you. Of course, you will both recognise Grand Mage Ispolin, here from the Bulgarian Sanctuary. The Grand Mage is, very naturally, concerned about Jenan’s well-being.”

“It’s been seven months,” Ispolin said, “and nothing has been done.” His accent, like that of so many sorcerers, was both distinct and soft, the result of hundreds of years of living. “My son remains missing, and this woman is still teaching at this school. I’m here to demand answers.”

“Of course,” Rubic said, “of course. Your concern is understandable.”

“For seven months, I have been met with nothing but excuses from the High Sanctuary.”

Rubic nodded sadly. “Investigations of this nature do, unfortunately, tend to take a lot of time, Grand Mage.”

“I am aware of the amount of time investigations take,” Ispolin said slowly. “What I am interested in learning is why this woman is still employed here.”

“I believe you know my name,” Miss Wicked said.

Ispolin looked up. “What?”

“My name,” she said. “I believe you know it. Please use it. Every time you say ‘this woman’ I look around, wondering who you’re talking about. I am here, I gather, because of the altercation outside the boys’ dormitories. Is that right?”

“That’s right,” Ispolin said. “When you attacked Jenan. Is this the type of teacher you have here, Mr Rubic? One who goes around assaulting your students?”

Omen cleared his throat to speak, but could only croak. Ispolin glared at him.

“Yes? You have something to contribute?”

“I’m sure Omen was about to remind you that the altercation began when your son attacked him,” said Miss Wicked.

Ispolin sneered. “So he claims.”

“Now, now,” said Rubic, “we have no reason to doubt Mr Darkly’s version of events.”

“Jenan attacked me,” Omen whispered.

Ispolin folded his arms. “And I say that you are a liar.”

Omen flushed red.

“Look at his face,” Ispolin said. “Only the guilty blush.”

“Nonsense,” said Miss Wicked. “Omen blushes at the mention of his own name. Please don’t make my student feel any more uncomfortable than he already does, Grand Mage Ispolin. Blushing means nothing, and Omen is not a liar.”

“How can you be so sure?” Ispolin fired back. “His brother is the Chosen One, isn’t he? Jenan told me all about him, and, from where I stand, this is a boy who has been starved of attention his entire life. His brother is the one people know. His brother is the one people remember. But this boy here is so desperate for a moment in the spotlight that he has fabricated this entire story.”

“I didn’t,” Omen said, shaking his head.

“You’re a liar!”

“Grand Mage!” Rubic said, rising slightly in his chair, “I must ask you to calm yourself!”

“I want him expelled.”

Rubic frowned, and sat back again. “I … Grand Mage, I cannot do that.”

“I want him expelled and I want her fired.”

“Grand Mage, please …”

Miss Wicked adjusted the sleeve of her blouse. “Are we done with this nonsense?”

Rubic held up a hand. “Just a moment—”

Miss Wicked ignored him, and focused on Ispolin. “I walked by and found Jenan choking the life out of Omen. I intervened. Jenan proceeded to physically attack me. I restrained him.”

“You nearly broke his arm!”

“It could have been far, far worse. Headmaster, you realise this, do you not? I could have hurt Jenan far, far worse than I did?”

“Of course,” Rubic sighed.

“In which case, I restrained him with an admirable amount of, dare I say it, restraint. For which I should be thanked. Of course, I don’t do this for the thanks. I do this for the love of teaching, of moulding young minds.”

“If this happened the way you say it happened,” said Ispolin, “then you won’t mind a Sensitive verifying it to be the truth.”

Miss Wicked smiled. “No Sensitive is going to poke around inside my head, Grand Mage. You are just going to have to take my word for it, as an educator.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“I’m afraid you don’t actually have a choice,” said Rubic. “Miss Wicked has been before a Review Board, and we have cleared her of any wrongdoing. Grand Mage, we have taken this meeting with you as a courtesy, but please don’t be under any illusion that you have any sort of jurisdiction here.”

Ispolin glowered, and Rubic turned to Omen and Miss Wicked.

“Thank you both for coming.”

Miss Wicked gave a curt nod, and led the way to the door.

“Not the boy,” said Ispolin. Omen turned. “She can leave, but I haven’t finished with the boy.”

Omen looked to Miss Wicked for help, but her face was impassive.

“Very well,” said Rubic, sighing. “Omen, stay behind a moment, would you?”

“I will take my leave of you,” said Miss Wicked, opening the door. “But, as I had foreseen something like this occurring, I have arranged for someone to come in and speak on the boy’s behalf.”

She left, and Omen frowned. Then he heard footsteps. Familiar footsteps.

They entered the room with a flourish – Emmeline Darkly and Caddock Sirroco, grand and good-looking and imperious. The room seemed to shrink around them, like a lens being refocused. Rubic stood up quickly and even Ispolin diminished slightly in their presence.

“Hi, Mum,” said Omen. “Hi, Dad.”

His mother threw him a sharp glance, but his father was too busy looking furious to acknowledge him.

“We were listening,” Caddock said, turning his gaze on the Grand Mage. “So you haven’t finished with the boy, have you? The boy?”

Ispolin bristled. “I have a legitimate grievance to—”

“The boy is our son,” Emmeline cut in. “The boy is a Darkly, and his brother is destined to save the world. You should be thanking him. You should be thanking us for our very existence.”

“Instead,” Caddock said, “we find ourselves being dragged from our commitments – at the weekend – to defend our son for, what, exactly? For surviving your son’s attempt to murder him?”

“How dare you—”

“How dare we?” Emmeline shot back. “How dare we what? How dare we side with the truth?”

“Jenan did not attack anyone.”

“Jenan is part of the First Wave,” Emmeline said. “That’s what they’re calling themselves now, is it not, this little group of terrorists formed here, at the Academy, by Parthenios Lilt? The headmaster has enough questions to answer about how he allowed this man to teach here, how he allowed this rot to fester in his own school, and they are questions that he will answer, but today, Mr Ispolin, we are focusing on you and your son.”

Ispolin smoothed down his tie, though it looked perfectly smooth from where Omen was standing. “Jenan is easily led. His friends pressured him into joining. It’s this teacher, this Lilt, who is responsible for what happened.”

“I don’t think you’re giving Jenan enough credit,” Caddock said. “Everything we’ve heard indicates that he’s a natural leader – and now he’s with this Abyssinia person, in a flying prison populated by convicts and criminals. He’s the enemy, Mr Ispolin. We didn’t do that to him. Our son didn’t do that to him. He did that to himself.”

Ispolin glared. “It’s Grand Mage,” he said. “Grand Mage Ispolin. You will refer to me as such.”

Emmeline observed him with a sneer on her lips, and turned to Rubic. “I presume we are done here, Mr Rubic.” It was not a question.

“Of course,” Rubic said, nodding quickly. “Thank you for coming in. Omen, would you see your parents to the gate? There’s a good lad.”

13

“I’m sorry about that,” Omen said to his parents as they walked away from Rubic’s office. “I know how busy you are.”

“We are very busy,” said Emmeline, examining everything that they passed. “Please tell that teacher not to call on us again.”

“I will,” said Omen, though he knew he wouldn’t.

“Where’s Auger?” Caddock asked. “We were hoping to see him before we left.”

“I’m not sure,” Omen said. “I can pass on a message, if you like.”

“We don’t have a message,” said Emmeline. “We just wanted to see him. Never mind.”

“I could show you around,” Omen suggested brightly. “If you have time, like. If you’re not rushing back.”

“We are rushing back,” Caddock said.

“Oh, OK. I’ll walk you out, then.”

They walked on, Caddock a few steps in front. Silence descended.

“How are your classes going?” his mother asked eventually.

“Good,” Omen responded. He wondered for a moment if they’d heard about his failed test. But no. His parents were formidable people, but they weren’t omnipotent. “Really good. They’re all going well. Even maths, and I’m terrible at maths.”

“Are you?”

“Um, yes. I’ve always been terrible at maths. Remember?”

“Of course,” Emmeline said in a tone that let Omen know she didn’t, not at all. “And that’s going well for you, is it?”

“Yep. I mean, I still don’t understand most of it, but I don’t think that’s too important.”

Caddock looked back. “You don’t think understanding maths is important?”

Omen shrugged. “Not really. As long as the numbers fit, that’s the only thing that matters, isn’t it?”

Caddock sighed irritably, a sound Omen knew only too well. “Understanding a subject enables you to master the subject. What you’re doing is skating along the surface of your education, Omen. It’s time you committed. It’s time you took it seriously.”

“OK,” Omen said quietly.

“Auger takes his studies seriously,” Caddock continued. “Wouldn’t you like to be like that?”

“I suppose.”

“There you go again. Humming and hawing. You’ve got to be more decisive. You can’t go through your life like this. Be definite. Do something. Commit to something.”

“I’ll try.”

Caddock turned and Omen had to stop quickly to avoid bumping into him. “You’re not listening to me at all, are you?”

“I am.”

“You’re hearing me, you’re just not listening to me.”

“I’m going to be late,” Emmeline said, glancing at her watch. “Omen, do something with your life, will you? Auger volunteers for things; he gets involved in extra-curricular activities. He puts the work in at school, but he also has so many outside interests. Be more like that. Now we have to go.”

“OK,” said Omen, watching them walk on without him. Then they turned a corner and they were gone and, as usual, he was left feeling curiously empty.

He didn’t know what to do so he went walking. He should have been used to it by now, his parents’ ability to rob him of himself. In the same way that Ispolin had seemed diminished around them, Omen became lesser in their presence. Smaller. Even more insignificant. He wished it had gone on longer, their defence of him. Even though he knew their outrage was actually about Ispolin’s assault on the family name, he had enjoyed listening to their words. It had almost been like they cared. It had almost been like they approved of him.

But of course they didn’t. Their approval was reserved solely for Auger who, Omen admitted, more than deserved it.

Not for the first time, though, he wondered what he’d be like as a person if he’d had his parents’ approval. Would he be more confident? Would he be more popular? Would he be more daring?

Miss Gnosis was setting up a table outside the dining hall, a table with a blank clipboard resting on it. He liked Miss Gnosis. She’d made him rethink his attitude towards Necromancers. Sure, her discipline was death magic and she wore black like all Necromancers, but she was bright and fun and a really good teacher. Plus, she had red hair and she was in her twenties, and she still had her strong Scottish accent.

“Good morning, Omen,” she said. She pursed her lips and turned her head slightly, looking at him from a new angle. “Everything OK? You look a little down in the dumps.”

“I’m fine. I was just … No, I’m fine.”

“I heard about Axelia.”

“Seriously?” said Omen. “Even the teachers have heard?”

“Staffrooms are sad places unless we have something to gossip about. Guys like you, Omen, they get the girls later in life. You just wait till you hit your twenties.”

He blushed, and tried to hide his smile by nodding to the clipboard. “What’s this about?”

Miss Gnosis held it out. “We’re collecting food and blankets for the Leibniz refugees. Would you like to sign up? We’re going down to the camp on Monday to distribute whatever we’ve got, and we need all the help we can get. You interested?”

“Would … would this count as, like, an extra-curricular activity?”

“It’s practically the definition of the word.”

“And signing up for it, that would be a commitment, wouldn’t it?”

“It certainly would.”

“Yes,” said Omen, and paused. Then he said, “Yes,” again, more forcefully.

“Good man,” said Miss Gnosis.

“I’ll do it.”

“All right then.”

“I’ll help.”

“I have to tell you, Omen, this sounds like it’s a bigger deal to you than it is to me. Put your name down there like a good lad, and I’ll explain what you’ll have to do.”

14

Valkyrie was curled up on the couch with Xena, watching Saturday evening TV, when she saw Skulduggery drop slowly from the sky and land outside the window.

She moved the dog to one side and got up, padded on bare feet to the hall and opened the door.

Skulduggery’s jacket had bullet holes in it.

“You look like you’ve had fun,” she said, leaning against the doorjamb.

“I punched many bandits,” Skulduggery responded. “Temper did, too, but I punched more. Not that it was a competition. But, if it had been, I’d have won.”

“Well, I’m proud of you for winning what wasn’t a competition. Have all the refugees passed through the portal?”

“Not even close. By the time we were returning, there were perhaps two thousand waiting to go through, with plenty more arriving every few minutes. China finally sent in a battalion of Cleavers to offer protection.”

“Well, that was nice of her,” said Valkyrie. “Any sign of Mevolent’s army?”

“Not so far.”

“Well, you know, be grateful for small mercies, or whatever it is that people say. Also, have you seen your jacket?”

“Ah,” he said, “yes. Most unfortunate.”

“Do you even have anyone to fix it any more?”

“Of course. Ghastly wasn’t the only tailor in town – just the best. I see, by the way, that the Bentley is in one piece.”

“Naturally,” said Valkyrie, taking the car keys from the side table and handing them over. “When I borrow something, I return it in pristine condition, and I am shocked that you would ever doubt me.”

“I never doubt you,” he replied, and handed her a key in return.

She raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“A spare,” he said, “for the Bentley. In case I ever lose my own.”

“You’re giving me a key to your car?”

“Just to mind.”

“Does this mean we’re now sharing the Bentley?”

Skulduggery stiffened. “Dear me, no. Not in the slightest.”

She clutched the key to her chest. “You mean I now own the Bentley? You’re giving her to me?”

“OK, I’m changing my mind about this whole thing,” he said, and reached for the key.

“No take backsies,” said Valkyrie, and shut the door.

15

The President of the United States was in a bad, bad mood.

Martin Maynard Flanery had been elected fair and square and, try as they might, the leftist losers and the liberal media couldn’t take that away from him.

His presidency was beyond legitimate. He had won the electoral college on a scale no one had ever seen before or even dreamed possible. Yet he had done it, because he was smarter than everyone else, shrewder than everyone else, and smarter than everyone else. He was a winner.

“I’m a winner,” he said to the Oval Office, but the Oval Office didn’t respond.

There was a knock on one of the doors.

“Not now!” he called out. Beyond that door was a line of people, all with demands on his time, with reports and briefings and files and folders that would clutter up his perfectly bare desk. He didn’t want to let them in. He could feel them hovering out there, full of nervous energy that would get under his skin. Even thinking about it made him uncomfortable.

Flanery stood, went to the window, stared out through the bulletproof glass. From here, he could see Secret Service agents, sworn to protect him, trained to give their lives for his.

But would they? Would they die to protect him? He narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t trust them to do what they’d sworn to do. If his time as president had taught him anything, it was that he couldn’t trust anyone.

He had enemies everywhere.

There was a knock on the other door, and, before he could order them to go away, the door opened and Wilkes slipped in.

“I’m not to be disturbed,” Flanery snapped.

“Oh,” said Wilkes, freezing in midstep. He looked around, eyes flicking to the empty desk. “What … what are you doing?”

Rage boiled. “You don’t ask me questions!” Flanery snarled.

“No, sir,” said Wilkes, immediately wilting. “Sorry, sir.”

Flanery gripped the back of his chair. “I’m thinking,” he said. “I’m planning. I’m deciding. I’m doing many things.”

“Yes, sir,” said Wilkes. “Um, I’ve received requests from a few members of staff. They really need to speak to you on some pretty urgent matters …”

It was pitiful, the way he stood there, riddled with weakness. Flanery hated weakness. He hated Wilkes.

“Have you handled the witch?” Flanery asked.

Wilkes winced. He didn’t like talking about the witch in the Oval Office. He’d even proposed they use code words. Flanery enjoyed seeing him squirm.

“She is under control, yes, sir.”

“How can we be sure she won’t refuse my orders again?”

“I, um, I made it very clear what the repercussions would be.”

“What did you say?”

“I, ah, relayed, uh, what we had discussed in—”

“Uh!” Flanery blurted. “I relayed what we had, uh, duh, duhhh … Why can’t you just answer the question, eh? Why can’t you do that? What did you tell her?”

Wilkes swallowed. “I told Magenta that if she ever disobeyed your orders again, she’d never see her family.”

“And what did she say?”

“She … she started crying, Mr President. She apologised, and said she would do as she was told in future.”

Flanery pursed his lips. “She cried, did she?”

“Yes, sir.”

He smiled. “I’d have liked to have seen that. I bet that was something to see, this high-and-mighty witch reduced to tears. Was she on her knees when she was crying?”

“Um … no, sir.”

“Next time, make sure she’s on her knees.”

“Yes, sir.”

Flanery sat behind his desk again. “I want you to call Abyssinia,” he said. “Tell her I’ve decided to move up the operation.”

Wilkes went pale. “Sir?”

Flanery pretended not to notice his shock. “The mainstream media are producing more fake polls saying I’m the most unpopular president in history. They’re turning the people against me, Wilkes.”

“The people love you, sir.”

“I know that!” Flanery snapped, his anger rising again. “But they’re being lied to. They’re being misled. We need to do something to unite the country behind me. So move up the operation.” Wilkes hesitated, and Flanery glared. “Well?”

“Mr President,” Wilkes said, “that might not be possible. The plan is … is delicate, sir. We have to get our people in place and Abyssinia has to get her people in place, and the timing has to be just right.”

“They’re calling me the most unpopular president in history, and you want me to wait on timing?”

“Sir, Abyssinia’s plan requires—”

Flanery leaped up and Wilkes flinched.

“Abyssinia’s plan?” Flanery roared. “Abyssinia’s? This is my plan! I’m the one who thought it up! I’m the genius here! She’s nothing but another witch! What do we do with witches, Wilkes? What do we do with them? We make them get on their knees and weep. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes … yes, sir.”

“And then what do we do with them?”

“I’m … I don’t know …”

“We burn ’em, Wilkes. We burn the witches.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The same goes for the freaks and weirdos and sorcerers and whatever else they’re called. They’re all gonna burn, Wilkes, and when they do the entire country will stand behind me and they’ll shout my name and they will love me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wilkes wouldn’t meet Flanery’s eyes.

16

The fifteen-minute drive to Haggard took over twenty minutes. Valkyrie decided on the scenic route, right along the coast, the road clinging to the shoreline like the hem of a dress. There was a boat on the water, somebody parasailing. It looked fun.

She could have driven for hours, but Haggard reached for her, pulled her in, and no matter how slow she went, her childhood home drew closer, until she was suddenly parked outside. She turned off the engine and took a breath. She was excited to see her family. She wanted to see them. But there was a part of her that crouched in the shadows of her mind, and that part whispered to her, telling her to turn round, to leave them in peace. They’d be happier without her, it said. They’d be happier if she left them alone. Safer.

She’d killed her own sister, after all, just so that she could use a weapon. It didn’t really matter that she’d resuscitated her immediately afterwards. What kind of person, the voice whispered, could bring themselves to do that to someone they loved?

Valkyrie got out of the car, slammed the door shut. She wasn’t going to let the voice win today. She wasn’t going to let all those bad feelings come crashing down on her, like they had so many times in the past.

She was getting better.

She walked up to the front door and paused, immersed in a feeling she still hadn’t become familiar with. This was her home and yet it wasn’t. Her childhood lived here. The young girl called Stephanie Edgley lived here. This was where she’d watched TV and read her books and done her homework. This is where she’d listened to her mum and dad crack jokes and riff off each other. This was where her little sister hurtled around the place. This was the house where normal lived.

She walked in. The house was warm, and smelled of good food cooking. She went immediately to the kitchen. Her mum was chopping carrots, her back to her.

Valkyrie opened her mouth to say something, and realised she didn’t know what that something should be. She waited for the chopping to stop, then she just said, “Heya.”

Her mum looked round, and a smile broke out and she hurried over. “Sweetheart,” she said, wrapping Valkyrie in her arms. Valkyrie spent so long trying to figure out how much pressure to apply to her own hug that it was over before she’d really committed to it.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” her mother asked. “Sit down, I’ll put the kettle on.”

Valkyrie nodded and smiled as her mum busied herself with the mechanics of tea-making. The kitchen looked exactly the same, apart from the refrigerator. The refrigerator was different.

“You got a new fridge,” Valkyrie said.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Well, three or four years ago. Didn’t you see it when you were here for your birthday?”

“I don’t think I came into the kitchen.”

“Oh, well, there it is: the sort-of-new fridge. Now, dinner won’t be ready for about a half-hour or so. Are you hungry? I think we have some biscuits, unless your father ate them.”

“I’m OK.”

“You’re sure? They’re chocolate chip.”

“I’m fine.”

The front door opened and closed.

“There’s a strange car parked outside,” came her father’s voice. “We should be on the lookout for odd people acting oddly in the neighbourhood.”

He walked in, grinning.

“Hi, Dad,” said Valkyrie.

“Hello, oddball,” her father replied, coming over to give her a hug. “Good God! It’s like hugging a statue. Melissa, you’ve got to try this.”

“We’ve already hugged.”

“It’s like hugging a statue!”

“Yes, dear.”

“Obviously, a statue that I love very much, and a wonderful statue full of life and warmth and all those other things, but holy God, those are some hard muscles.” He poked Valkyrie’s arm.

“Ow, Dad.”

“Sorry,” he said, then poked again.

“Ow.”

“Sorry.”

“Des, stop poking her.”

“Right, yes,” he said, and stepped away. He poked his own arm and his face fell. “Why don’t I have muscles like that?”

Valkyrie’s mum passed her a mug of tea. “Because you don’t work out like your daughter does.”

“But why can’t they be hereditary?”

“That’s not how hereditary works. Things are passed down, not up.”

“Stupid DNA,” he grumbled. “Do I at least get a cup of tea?”

“You do if you make it yourself,” said her mum. “I made one for Stephanie because she’s a guest.”

“No, she’s not. This is her home and I, for one, refuse to treat her any differently. Stephanie, fetch me my pipe and slippers.”

“No.”

“Ah, go on.”

“You don’t even have a pipe,” Valkyrie said.

“My slippers, then.”

“I don’t fetch, Dad. I’m not a dog.”

“Where is your dog, by the way? Did you bring her?”

“She’s at home, guarding the house.”

“And how is life up where you live? Up there in foreign climes, with your strange customs and language and everything?”

“It’s fifteen minutes away.”

“Which begs the question: why haven’t you been down to see us more?”

“I’ve just been busy, that’s all.”

“Too busy to call in on your way past?”

“Des,” her mum said, “she keeps unconventional hours, remember.”

Her dad shrugged. “Ah, yeah, but we’ve barely seen her in six months. How’s work?”

“It’s OK. I mean … yeah, it’s OK. I’ve been easing back into it.”

“Saved the world lately?”

“Not quite. But working on it.”

Her mum leaned forward slightly. “You are keeping safe, aren’t you? You wouldn’t do anything silly now.”

“No, Mum. I’m keeping safe.”

“Because I still have nightmares about—”

“Hey now,” her dad said. “We had an agreement, didn’t we? We don’t talk about that day at the dinner table. It puts everyone off their food and puts some of us in a bad mood. Besides, we have to watch what we say around the munchkin.”

And, right on cue, Alice came running into the room. “Stephanie!” she cried, delighted.

“Hey there,” said Valkyrie, getting off her chair just in time to catch Alice in a hug. She laughed as her little sister squeezed her with all her tiny might. “I love your top.”

“Thank you,” said Alice, stepping back, full attention now on her clothes. “Do you like the sequins? They catch the light.”

“They do catch the light,” Valkyrie said. “That’s a very grown-up thing to say. They’re lovely.”

“Thank you. Do you want to see my shoes? Look at the heels.”

“Oh! They have lights!”

“Red lights and orange lights,” said Alice. “Do you wish you had lights in your shoes?”

“I do. I really do.”

“They don’t make them for grown-ups, though, I don’t think. Mom, do they make them for grown-ups?”

“I don’t think so,” said Valkyrie’s mother.

Alice nodded. “They don’t. They’re only for small feet like mine.”

Valkyrie raised an eyebrow at her mother. “Mom?”

Melissa sighed. “All the kids call their mums mom these days. I think the young moms kind of encourage it.”

“Do you want to see my dolls?” Alice asked. “I have princess dolls and soldier dolls. Today, the princess dolls rescued the soldier dolls from the evil dragon.”

“Sounds exciting,” said Valkyrie.

“It’s very exciting. Would you love it very much to play with me?”

“I would love it very much.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Desmond said. “Don’t rush off yet. You can play dolls with Stephanie after dinner, OK?”

“But can I show Stephanie my room?”

Desmond sighed. “Of course you can.”

Alice took Valkyrie’s hand and led her upstairs, to Valkyrie’s old bedroom. The walls were light blue with interlocking rainbows traced along the borders. It was the same bed with brighter sheets, the same bedside table and dresser. The same wardrobe.

Valkyrie opened the wardrobe. There was a new mirror on the inside door, to replace the smashed one, the one her reflection used to step out of. That was one of the main secrets Valkyrie still kept from her parents, the fact that they had had a duplicate daughter living with them for years and they never suspected she wasn’t the real thing.

“Do you like my clothes?” Alice asked.

“I do,” said Valkyrie, and closed the wardrobe. “This used to be my room. There were books everywhere and weird posters on the walls … You keep it a lot tidier than I ever did.”

Alice nodded. “That’s what Mom says.” She picked up a small doll, dressed in green with wings and pointed ears. “This is Sparkles. She’s my fairy.”

“I like her wings.”

“She uses them to fly. When there are no humans around, Sparkles comes alive, but when humans come back, she has to pretend to be a toy again.”

“That’s pretty cool,” Valkyrie said, sitting on the bed. “Is she your friend?”

Alice nodded. “My best friend, along with Molly and Alex in school.”

“Wow, you’ve got a lot of friends.”

“It’s important to have friends. They like me because I’m always happy.”

Valkyrie smiled. “Always? You never get sad?”

Alice frowned. “I don’t think so. Molly and Alex are sad sometimes. Sometimes they’re not friends, and they get sad because of that. But I never get sad, even when people aren’t friends with me.”

“You’re a smart girl.”

“Do you get sad?”

“Sometimes.”

“You should be happy like me.”

“I should, shouldn’t I?”

“What do you get sad about?”

“Different things. But it all goes away, isn’t that right? Even when you’re really sad about something, you always feel better after a while.”

“I don’t know,” said Alice, looking puzzled. “I’m always happy, I said.”

Valkyrie laughed. “Of course. Sorry. I forgot.”

“Do you want to see my other toys?”

“Sure.”

They stayed up there until they were called downstairs. In the kitchen, the table was already set and Melissa was carving the roast chicken.

Valkyrie’s stomach rumbled. “Oh, wow, that smells amazing.”

“How amazing?” Desmond said, his eyes narrowing.

“Very amazing.”

“Then would you be interested in a trade? This dinner for a teeny, tiny favour?”

“Des,” Melissa said. “She’s getting the dinner anyway. She doesn’t have to do anything for it. She’s our daughter.”

“What favour would that be?” Valkyrie asked, tensing despite herself.

Her parents exchanged a glance.

“We were wondering if you’d be free to babysit on Thursday,” Melissa said. “It’s our anniversary, and we thought we’d spend the day getting pampered in the Lakeview Hotel.”

Valkyrie hesitated. “Babysit?”

“If you’re not too busy.”

She looked at Alice. “Babysit this squirt?”

“I’m not a squirt,” Alice said, frowning.

“You’d have to pick her up from school at quarter to three,” Melissa said, “and we’d be gone until the next morning.”

“So I pick up this squirt from school, and then I get to spend the rest of the day with her? And she gets to spend the night at my house?”

Alice’s eyes widened. “Your house? Would I have my own bed?”

“You’d probably have to, wouldn’t you?”

Alice nodded quickly.

Valkyrie grinned, and shrugged to her folks. “I think I could manage that.”

“Yay!” Alice cried, thrusting both hands in the air and dancing.

Melissa laughed. “Everyone sit. Hope you’re all hungry.”

“I’m starving,” said Valkyrie.

“I’m starving, too,” said Alice.

Valkyrie sat at the table in her usual spot. It felt strange, especially with Alice settling into the chair beside her. But as soon as Alice was seated she hopped up again.

“I forgot Sparkles!” she said, and ran upstairs.

“Have you met Sparkles?” her dad asked, helping Melissa serve dinner.

“I have.”

“All her schoolfriends have them. They’re like that elf, you know, at Christmas, that comes alive when all the humans leave the room? Creepy little things. Expensive, too. You never had anything like that when you were a kid, did you?”

“Nope,” said Valkyrie. “No elves. No fairies. I didn’t even have an imaginary friend.”

“I did,” said Desmond. “His name was Barry. He was always getting me into trouble.”

“I didn’t have time to have an imaginary friend,” Melissa said. “I had a very full social calendar, even back then. I’ve always had lots of friends, actually. Then I got married and they all kind of drifted away.”

Desmond grinned. “That’s the effect I have on people.”

“I know you’re joking,” Melissa said, “but you can be quite rude.”

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