First published in Great Britain by

HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2017

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

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

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 2017

Skulduggery PleasantTM Derek Landy

Skulduggery Pleasant logoTM HarperCollinsPublishers

Skulduggery Pleasant © TM Derek Landy

Cover design © blacksheep-uk.com

Cover illustration © Tom Percival

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: 9780008169022

Ebook Edition © ISBN: 9780008219581

Version: 2019-04-15

This book is dedicated to Yve.

Yve, our friendship is like a fine wine: it improves with age, is fragrant and ebullient, and it has aromas of mulberries and pencil lead and …

No. No, that’s not it.

Our friendship is less like wine and more like a journey. It has twists and turns and sometimes you lose the signal for the radio and find yourself driving around in circles thanks to the cheap sat nav you bought from that guy with the …

No, that’s not it either.

Our friendship is less like wine, and less like a journey, and more like a … a …

Listen, Yve, they’re going to print in the morning and I have to get this dedication done in the next few minutes but I really can’t think of anything that adequately describes our friendship so it’d be much easier if we just weren’t friends any more.

Really sorry.

In the nothing before the beginning there was a thought. And the thought became the beginning.

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

Glossary

Dramatis Personae

Keep Reading …

The Skulduggery Pleasant series

About the Publisher

1

A new beginning.

That’s what this was. A fresh start. He was going to deliver this one piece of information and then leave. He could go home, back to New York, or maybe Chicago, or Philly. Ireland didn’t suit him any more. He was done with it – and it, apparently, was done with him. He was OK with that. He’d had some good times here. He’d had some fun. He’d made some friends. But a new day was about to dawn. All Temper Fray had to do was survive the night.

The wall up ahead cracked. By the light of the streetlamps, the cracks spider-webbed. Any last vestige of hope that he’d just be able to walk out of here vanished with those cracks. Temper had seen this trick before. A redneck psycho called Billy-Ray Sanguine used to jump out at people as they passed, kill them before they blinked. Temper had met Sanguine once. For a hillbilly hitman, he’d been all right. Whoever this guy was, he was no Billy-Ray.

The wall spat out a skinny little runt who came at him with a big knife and a bigger snarl. Temper ignored the snarl for the moment, focused on the knife, batting it away and slamming an elbow into the runt’s mouth, dealing with the snarl almost by default. The runt went down, all flailing limbs and broken teeth, and Temper hurried on.

Yep. Things were going badly. But of course they were. Nothing ever went well for Temper Fray.

A motorbike came round the corner ahead of him, its single headlight sweeping the storefronts, and slowed almost immediately. Temper kept walking, keeping his head down, his hands swinging loosely by his sides. The guy on the motorbike wasn’t wearing a helmet, and he wasn’t looking at Temper. He was focused on the road, keeping his head straight. Just a guy on his bike, that’s all, going about his business. As he drew parallel, his right hand drifted into his jacket.

Temper lunged, shoving him as he passed, and the bike toppled and the driver cried out as he fell. Temper kicked the consciousness right out of him and the guy flattened out. Bending over him, Temper reached into his jacket, found the gun and pulled it free. He checked it was loaded, then flicked off the safety. His own gun was on the kitchen table in the house he’d been staying in, alongside his phone. He’d have traded all the guns in the world for his phone right now. What he wouldn’t give for a chance to call in reinforcements.

What he wouldn’t give to call in Skulduggery Pleasant.

He hurried down a side street. There was a woman walking towards him, silhouetted by the lights, her shadow stretching long and thin over the cobbles. He couldn’t see her face. It could be Quibble or, worse still, Razzia, or it could just be another citizen of Roarhaven going for a late-night stroll through the city. Temper held the gun behind his back and kept walking.

They drew closer. The gun felt slippery in his grip. He went left and so did she, and it was only when they passed each other that he glimpsed a face he didn’t recognise. She gave him a courteous nod and he returned it, and they walked on and he breathed in relief.

“Excuse me,” the woman said behind him, and he turned just as a shadow detached itself from their surroundings and snapped the woman’s neck. She crumpled and Razzia stepped over her body.

“Thirteen,” Razzia said in her broad Australian accent. “Thirteen innocent bystanders. I’m not saying I’m breaking any records, but you gotta admit that’s impressive.” She looked up, smiling brightly. Beautiful, blonde, always dressed in tuxedos, Razzia was also completely and utterly insane. “You have been a naughty boy.”

Her hand flashed up and Temper ducked, hearing tiny teeth snapping beside his ear. He glimpsed the black tendril retracting into Razzia’s palm like a nightmarish tape measure and fired at her, but she was already sliding back into the shadows. There was someone behind her, striding up. A bald woman with a gun. Quibble.

She opened fire and he kicked a door open and fell inside, more bullets peppering the doorframe after him. Inside there was a man leaping off a couch and a woman with two mugs of coffee in her hands, staring at him in shock as he barged past her. Temper ran into the next room, saw two men through the window and turned back, took the stairs. The couple shouted and raced after him, and now he could hear a baby starting to cry. He ignored it, hurried to the master bedroom, and through the wide-open curtains glimpsed a young man on the rooftop opposite. Thin, with shockingly platinum hair. Nero. Temper blinked and the young man was gone.

“Dammit,” Temper muttered.

He sprinted to the window and then Nero was beside him, sticking his foot out, and Temper tripped and collided with the wall. He twisted, bringing the gun up, but Nero was suddenly right next to him, snatching the weapon from Temper’s hand before vanishing again.

Temper had a full second to get to his knees before Nero teleported back into the room, gun aimed squarely at Temper’s chest. This time he’d brought a friend, dressed in black, a uniform of rubber and leather. The mask he wore covered his whole head. Not even his eyes were visible behind those tinted lenses.

“Hey, Lethe,” said Temper, slumping back and offering a feeble wave. “What’s going on?”

Lethe observed him for a long few seconds. When he spoke, his voice was that familiar hollowed whisper that picked over every word with undisguised relish. “I knew you were never truly one of us.”

Temper shrugged. “Easy to say with hindsight …”

“I could see it in your eyes,” Lethe said. “Despite your protestations, despite your wild claims, you didn’t hate the mortals nearly enough.”

“Well,” Temper said, resting his back against the wall and crossing his legs at the ankles, “I’ve always had trouble hating people because they’re different than me. It’s a black thing; you wouldn’t understand. Or maybe you would. Could there be a brother hiding beneath that freaky mask of yours?”

There was movement out on the landing, and Lethe stepped aside as Razzia sidled in. Memphis and Quibble shoved the young couple into the room behind her.

“Look who we found downstairs,” Razzia said. “More innocent bystanders.”

“Please,” the guy said. “I … I don’t know what’s going on, but we’re not a threat to you, I swear we’re not. I’m – listen to me, we’re both Arborkinetics. We have a child in the other room, please let us—”

“What’s an Arborkinetic?” Memphis asked, his lip curling while he pressed his gun against the young woman’s head.

“Plants,” said Quibble. “He talks to plants. Makes them grow.”

Memphis laughed and said, “Man, that’s dumb,” which was rich coming from a guy who dressed like Elvis.

“Plants,” said the young man. “Exactly. We can’t hurt you. If you let us go, we’ll—”

Quibble raised her gun to shoot him in the head, but Lethe held up a hand. “Ah-ah,” he said. “They may talk to plants, but they’re still sorcerers. They’re still part of the family. We don’t kill family unless we absolutely have to.”

“Thank you,” the guy said. “Thank you so much.”

“Hey,” Lethe said, “we’re all on the same side.” The baby started crying again, and Lethe glanced at Quibble. “Kill the child.”

The young couple immediately tried to break free, but Razzia hit the guy so hard his legs gave out and then grabbed the girl, held her in a choke.

Lethe didn’t take his gaze off Quibble. “You’re still standing here. The child is annoying me. Kill it.”

Quibble had now gone quite pale.

“I’ll do it,” Razzia said happily, but Lethe shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I instructed Quibble to do it, so Quibble will do it.”

Quibble didn’t want to do it. “Please,” she said, her voice soft. “It’s just a baby.”

Lethe observed her through the tinted lenses of his mask. “I see.”

Tears in her eyes. “Lethe … come on, please …”

“You, ah, are refusing to obey, Quibble?” Lethe asked.

Memphis glanced away, refusing to meet Quibble’s eyes. Nero looked bored, while Razzia watched with growing enjoyment, completely oblivious to the fact that the young woman she was choking had passed out.

“I can’t kill a kid,” Quibble said quietly.

Lethe took a moment. “Oh, dear.”

She was dead. She knew it. Temper had seen that look before, that doomed expression on a slackening face. In his experience, there were only three possible options open to her at this point. The first was to run, but Lethe had a Teleporter on his side, which kind of ruled that out. The second was to give up: to accept what was coming or start begging. But begging wasn’t Quibble’s style. Quibble was an Option Three kind of girl.

She raised the gun, aimed it straight at Lethe’s face. Immediately, Memphis raised his, pressing the muzzle to Quibble’s temple.

“Don’t,” Memphis whispered. “Don’t you do it.”

“This is exciting,” Razzia said, and clapped her hands. The young woman slumped to the floor, unconscious.

“This is unfortunate,” said Lethe. “Very, hugely, unfortunate.”

“I can’t murder a baby,” Quibble said.

“Babies are just people who haven’t grown up yet. You’ve killed loads of people. Loads.”

“So let’s wait eighteen years and I’ll kill this one,” said Quibble.

“Oh,” said Lethe. “Oh, this is one of those … principle things, isn’t it? That’s … that’s sad. I’m sad now. You’ve made me sad. Because now I’ll have to kill you, Quibble, and … and I would prefer not to.”

His hands flashed, stripping the gun from Quibble’s grip and turning it back on her, pulling the trigger before she knew what was happening.

Her body toppled backwards. The wailing from the other room got louder, and Lethe handed the gun to Razzia. She looked at it like it was a piece of rotting fruit, and tossed it away.

“I’m sorry,” Lethe said to Memphis. “I know you were close.”

“She was my sister,” Memphis said.

“Oh,” said Lethe. “Didn’t know you were that close. I feel I have to ask, though, Memphis, and please, try not to take offence. Are you going to try and kill me for this? To exact revenge?”

Memphis looked down at Quibble’s body. “No, I guess I’m not,” he said at last.

“Good,” said Lethe. “That’s good. It’s best, after a family tragedy, that everyone tries to move on, and put the past where it belongs. In the past.”

“Do you want me to kill the baby?” Razzia asked hopefully.

“What baby?” Lethe said, and turned back to Temper. “You’re coming with us, Mr Fray. We have questions to ask.”

Another man entered the room, a guy with a braided goatee. Temper tried to keep him away but one touch was all it took, and all the bad thoughts Temper had ever had swirled and swarmed and swamped his mind.

2

When the bad thoughts crept up on her, and they did, they came slowly and quietly, slipping in unbidden to the back of her mind, and there they waited, patiently, for her to notice them.

She viewed them as if from the corner of her eye, hesitant to acknowledge their arrival and powerless to make them leave. They stayed like unwelcome guests, filling the space they occupied and spreading outwards. They slowed her down. They dragged on her, made her heavy. When she walked, her feet clumped. When she sat, her body collapsed. It was hard getting out of bed most days. Some days she didn’t even try. She knew what was coming.

She was going to die. And she was going to be on her knees when it happened.

She couldn’t see her death, but she could feel it. Kneeling down to change a car tyre, she had felt it. Kneeling down to clean up after she’d dropped a plate, she had felt it. Kneeling down to play with the dog, she had felt it.

This is how I’m going to die, she’d realised. On my knees.

And always, always, after this had occurred to her there came another thought, the thought that it had already happened, that she was already dead, that her body was growing colder and her blood wasn’t pumping any more. She experienced moments of pure terror when she believed, believed with everything she had, that she was trapped in her own corpse, that nothing worked and that no one could hear her screaming.

And then she moved, or she breathed, or she blinked, and with each new act of living she clawed her way back to the realisation that no, she wasn’t dead. Not yet.

It was mid-afternoon, and it was cold. The cold meant something. It was the last bite of the beast called winter, a beast that had stayed too long already. She could feel it on her face, on her ears; she could feel it seeping through her clothes. It meant she still had a spark of life flickering inside her. That was good. She needed that. But it also signalled a loss of focus, as she found it increasingly difficult to summon the crackling white lightning to her fingertips.

Eventually, she just sat on the tree stump on which she’d placed the tin cans she’d been using as targets. Three of them were scorched. Two were brazenly untouched. Still, three out of five meant that at least her aim was improving.

She hugged herself. It was an old hoody, but she liked well-worn clothes. Her jeans were a state, and she’d forgotten what colour her trainers had once been, but they were comfortable, and more importantly they were her. Lately she’d needed reminding of just who that was.

She looked at the trees. Looked at the sky. Got her mind away from her thoughts. Her thoughts weren’t kind to her. They hadn’t been for quite some time now. She looked at the twigs on the ground. They were dry. It hadn’t rained in two weeks. A rarity for an Ireland still locked in winter’s jaws. She watched a beetle scurry beneath a leaf, caught up in its own little life. To the beetle, she must be a vast, unknowable thing, a hazard to be avoided but not overly concerned about. If a god is going to step on you, it’s going to step on you. You’re not going to waste your little beetle-life worrying about something you have no control over.

She looked up, half expecting to see a giant foot descending, but the sky was blue and clear and free of gods. She waited, nonetheless.

Then she stood, and took the trail back through the trees. She used to walk this path as a child, side by side with her uncle. They talked about nature and history and family and he told her stories and she did likewise. They competed as to who had the goriest imagination, but even when he conceded defeat, with a look of mock-horror on his face, she knew he was holding back. Of course he was. Gordon was the writer of the family.

She remembered walking through this woodland with him. She could recall, quite distinctly, as if looking at a photograph, the angle at which she’d seen him. She was small and he was a grown-up, and his hair was brown and thinning where hers was long and black, but they had the same eyes, the same brown eyes, and when he laughed he had a single dimple, just like she did. It had been twelve years since Gordon had been murdered, twelve years since she’d tumbled into this twilight world of sorcerers and monsters and magic. She’d been twelve when it happened, not even a teenager when she’d started her training. The years, they had thundered by, heavy and unstoppable, a boulder rolling downhill. Bruises and broken bones and bloody knuckles and screams and laughs and tears. A lot of tears. Too many tears.

The house Gordon had left her sat on the hill, visible through the trees ahead. Even after it had officially passed into her ownership, she had been unable to think of it as anything other than Gordon’s house. Every room, and there were many, reminded her of him. Every Gothic painting on the walls, and they were plentiful, brought to mind some comment or other he had once made about it. Every brick and piece of furniture and bookcase and floorboard. It was Gordon’s house, and it would always be Gordon’s house.

Then she’d gone away. Five years she’d spent on a sprawling farm on the outskirts of a small town in Colorado. She had a dog for company, and occasionally company of the human variety, but she kept that to a minimum. She didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts, but she deserved to be. She deserved a lot of horrible things.

And then she’d come home to Ireland, and realised that in those intervening years Gordon’s house had changed, somewhere in her thoughts. Now it was just a house, and so she called it by its name, for names were important. Gordon’s house became Grimwood House, just as Stephanie Edgley had once become Valkyrie Cain.

She started up the hill, stopped halfway to turn and look beyond her land, to the farms that spread across North County Dublin like a patchwork quilt of different shades of green and yellow. Here and there the patchwork failed, replaced by neighbourhoods of new families and the roads that linked them. There was talk of a shopping mall being built on the other side of the stream that acted as a border to her property – a stream that Gordon liked to call a creek and that Valkyrie liked to call a moat. Maybe she’d get a drawbridge installed.

She climbed the rest of the hill, approaching the house from the rear. Xena saw her coming and perked up, came trotting over to greet her. With her fingers scratching the German shepherd behind the ears, Valkyrie unlocked the back door and let the dog go in ahead of her. She closed the door once she was inside. Locked it again.

Her phone was on the kitchen table. She had three missed calls. One message. She played the message. It was from her mother.

“Hey, Steph, just calling to let you know that I’m doing a roast chicken for Sunday, if you want me to make enough for you. I know it’s only Tuesday right now, but I’m planning ahead and, well, it’d be good to see you. Alice is always asking where her big sister is.” She introduced a little levity into her voice there, to pass it off as no big thing. “OK, that’s all. Give me a call when you can. We know you’re busy. Love you. And please stay safe.”

The call ended, and Valkyrie checked who the other calls were from, though she needn’t have bothered. They were both from him.

She left the phone where it was and showered, and when she came back downstairs the phone was ringing again. She answered.

“Hey,” she said.

His voice, smooth and rich, like velvet. “Good afternoon, Valkyrie. Are you busy?”

She was standing barefoot in the warm kitchen, her hair still wet and water trickling down the back of her T-shirt. “Kinda,” she said.

“Would you be able to spare some time? I could do with your help.”

She didn’t answer for a bit.

“Valkyrie?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know if I’m ready. Give me a few weeks. In a few weeks, I’ll have myself sorted out and then I’ll be able to lend a hand.”

“I see.”

“Listen, I have to go. I’ve got things to do and I haven’t charged my phone so it’s going to die at any moment.”

“You’ll be ready in a few weeks, you say?”

She nodded to the refrigerator like it was he himself standing there. “Yep. Give me another call then and we’ll meet up.”

“I’m afraid things are a bit more urgent than that.”

She bit her lip. “How urgent?”

“Me-driving-through-your-gate-right-now urgent.”

Valkyrie went to the hall and looked out of the window, watching as the gleaming black car came up the long, long driveway. She sighed, and hung up.

She stayed where she was for a moment, then unlocked the front door. It took a few seconds, as she had installed many new locks, and she pulled it open just as the 1954 Bentley R-Type Continental rolled to a stop outside. He got out. Tall and slim, wearing a charcoal three-piece suit, black shirt and grey tie. He didn’t feel the cold so didn’t bother with a coat. His hair was swept back from his forehead, but his hair didn’t matter. His eyes were sparkling blue, but his eyes didn’t matter. His skin was pale and unlined and clean-shaven, but his skin, that didn’t matter, either. His hands were gloved, and as he set his fedora upon his head – charcoal, like his suit, with a black hatband, like his shirt – his hair and his eyes and his skin flowed off his skull, vanishing beneath the crisp collar of his crisp shirt, and Skulduggery Pleasant, the Skeleton Detective, turned his head towards her and they looked at each other in the cold sunlight.

Valkyrie walked back into the house. Skulduggery followed.

Xena had taken up her usual spot on the couch in the living room, but when she saw Skulduggery she jumped down and ran over. He crouched, ruffling her fur, allowing her to lick his jaw.

“I always feel vaguely threatened when she does this,” he muttered, but let it continue until Valkyrie called her away. He straightened, brushing some imagined dust from his knee. “You’re looking well,” he said. “Strong.”

Valkyrie folded her arms, the fingertips of her right hand tapping gently against the edge of the tattoo that peeked out from the short sleeve of the T-shirt. “Gordon had his own personal gym installed in one of the rooms on the second floor.”

Skulduggery tilted his head. “Really? I’ve never been in there.”

“Neither had Gordon, from what I can see. The equipment was never used. It’s pretty good, though. State of the art twenty years ago. I had similar stuff in Colorado.”

“So that’s how you’re spending your time?” Skulduggery asked, walking over to the bookcases. “Lifting weights and punching bags? What about the magic? Have you been practising?”

“Just stopped for the day, actually.”

“And how’s that going?”

She hesitated. “Fine.”

“Do you have any more control over it?”

“Some.”

“You don’t sound overly enthused.”

“I’m just rusty, that’s all. And it’s not like I can ask anyone for advice. I’m the only one with this particular set of abilities.”

“The curse of the truly unique. But yes, you’re absolutely right. We don’t even know the limits to what you can do yet. If you’d like me to work with you, I’d be happy to do so.”

“Ah, I’m grand for now,” she said, watching him examine the books. “Why are you here?”

He looked round.

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to sound so … unwelcoming. You said there was trouble.”

“I did. Temper Fray has gone missing.”

“OK,” she said, and waited.

“That’s, uh, that’s the trouble I mentioned.”

“Temper’s a big boy,” Valkyrie told him. “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

“Barely.”

“Well, he seemed really competent to me.”

“You met him once.”

“And during that meeting he struck me as someone you don’t have to worry about.”

“I sent him undercover. I think they might have figured out that he’s not on their side.”

Valkyrie sat beside Xena, whose ears perked up, expecting a cuddle. “I can’t do this, Skulduggery. I’m not ready to go back.”

“You’re already back,” he countered. “You made the decision to return, didn’t you?”

“I thought it’d be easier than it has been. I thought it’d be like I’d never left. But I can’t. So much has changed, and not only with me. After Devastation Day, after the Night of Knives … so many of our friends are dead and I don’t understand how things are now. I just need more time.”

Skulduggery sat in the chair opposite, elbows on his knees and hat in his hands. “You’re freezing up,” he said. “I’ve seen it happen. In war. In conflict. Soldiers see things; they do things … I don’t have to tell you about the horrors of combat, of taking lives, of people trying to take yours. With that kind of trauma, there is no easy fix. There’s no one-size-fits-all solution. You get past it however you can.

“But one thing I do know, from my own experience, is that the longer you leave it, the harder it gets. Fear is cold water rushing through your veins – if you don’t start moving, that water will turn to ice.”

“How do you even know I can still do this?” Valkyrie asked. “Physically?”

“You proved that you could when Cadaverous Gant and Jeremiah Wallow went after you.”

“That was five months ago,” she responded.

“I’m not worried about the physical,” he said. “Your instincts will come back to you. Your training will kick in.”

She looked at him, her eyes to his eye sockets. “Then what about the mental? I’ve been through a lot. Might not take much more to break me.”

“Alternatively, as you’ve been through a lot, there might not be much more that could break you,” Skulduggery said “I’m going to need you with me on this, Valkyrie. I’m a better detective with you as my partner, and I’m a better person with you as my friend. The world is a lot different to the one you walked out on. The Sanctuary system has changed, Roarhaven has changed … sorcerers have changed. There are very few people I can trust any more, and there’s something coming. Something big and something bad. I can feel it.”

“There’s always something big and something bad coming,” Valkyrie said. “Sometimes it’s you. Sometimes it’s me.”

“And sometimes you and me are the only people who can stand against it. You’re not meant to hide away here, Valkyrie. You’re not built for it. You’re built to be out there helping people, doing what you can because you don’t trust anyone else not to mess it up.”

“That was the old me. These days I can quite happily leave the big jobs to others.”

“Prove it,” Skulduggery said, getting to his feet and holding out his hand. “Come with me for twenty-four hours. If you can walk away after that, I’ll let you go and won’t ask you again until you tell me you’re ready.”

She hesitated, then sighed. “OK. But I’m not taking your hand. It’s silly and I’d feel stupid doing it.”

Skulduggery nodded. “See? You’re already making me a better person. Grab your coat, Valkyrie – Roarhaven awaits.”

3

The city passed beneath him, and he landed on the lower rooftop, stumbling slightly. He turned, his black coat whipping around him. No one there. No one chasing him.

He breathed out slowly, hearing the slight rattle the mask made. He was going to have to get used to that sound. The mask was snug, and covered his whole head, and it was heavy. The carved beak weighed the whole thing down. He took off his wide-brimmed hat, examined it. He looked equal parts ridiculous and intimidating – but he didn’t mind that. Throughout history, plague doctors had always looked strange.

It was a clear day, cold, with only a few clouds in the sky, and below him Roarhaven’s streets were alive with people. They talked and laughed and shopped and complained and went about their business. He’d forgotten that, sometimes, this could actually be a nice city in which to live. Funny how violence and terror and death could taint your opinion of a place.

He’d lost friends here. He’d seen them die, seen the life leave their eyes while he held them in his arms. He’d seen destruction on an almost unimaginable scale. The screams had burned their way into his memory. The images had seared themselves into his thoughts.

But that was why he was here. That was his mission. Sebastian Tao put his hat on. He wanted to find Darquesse. He needed to. In a world gone mad, bringing her back was the only sane thing to do.

4

Devastation Day, that’s what they were calling it now, the day Darquesse had stormed through Roarhaven, levelling its buildings, murdering its inhabitants: 1,351 people had died in those few hours at the hands of an almost-god wearing Valkyrie’s face.

Not just her face, of course. Before the murder and the mayhem, Darquesse had been a part of her. Her true name, the source of her magic made flesh. And now Valkyrie was going back there. Because of course she was.

They joined the M1, then the M50, then turned south-east and drove for half an hour, leaving motorways and service stations behind them. Xena lay on the back seat of the Bentley with her head resting on her paws.

“German shepherds shed their coats,” Skulduggery said. “Is she shedding now?”

“She’s always shedding,” Valkyrie replied.

“Your dog is the only dog that has ever been in this car, you know.”

“She’s honoured.”

“It was meant as a complaint.”

Valkyrie shrugged. “You have me for twenty-four hours. She can’t go twenty-four hours without being fed.”

“We could have left her with your parents.”

“She doesn’t know them.”

A pause.

She could feel him watching her. She kept her eyes on the road ahead.

“When was the last time you were in Haggard?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. She could feel the sharpness coming on.

“You’ve been back in the country for five months. How many times have you seen your sister? Three?”

“Let’s not talk about this right now, OK?” she said. “I’m not in a sharing mood.”

Skulduggery nodded, and Valkyrie felt bad, but she was used to that feeling.

They passed a few signs warning of a flood ahead, then drove by some announcing LOCAL ACCESS ONLY, then about half a dozen PRIVATE PROPERTY signs, before turning on to a long, narrow road that led into the empty distance. An elderly farmer opened a rusted gate and allowed them through, muttering into his lapel as they went. The road seemed to be pockmarked with potholes, some wide enough to swallow a wheel, but the Bentley sped over them without even a rumble. Just another illusion to keep the mortals out.

Advancements in cloaking technology meant that not only were magical elements within the cloaked area rendered undetectable, but what passed for a normal image could also be extrapolated and projected in real time. Skulduggery had explained all this on her first trip back. He’d talked about the marvels of what had been achieved and what was now possible for the future. Valkyrie hadn’t paid attention. Her focus then, as now, was to try to spot the shimmering air of the cloaking field before they passed through it. But now, as then, she failed miserably, and Roarhaven appeared before her in an instant – a vast, walled city exploding into being where a moment ago there had been nothing but dead trees and lifeless scrub.

They slowed as they neared Shudder’s Gate. Named after a friend of theirs who had lost his life to a traitor whose name Valkyrie refused to say aloud, the gate was supposedly the only way in and out of the city – although Valkyrie had her doubts about that. The Supreme Mage was a woman who understood the merits of a good secret entrance, after all. Or, at the very least, a good escape route.

The Bentley prowled forward, reflected in the visored helmets of the grey-suited Cleavers who stood guard, and they joined the traffic that flowed through the city streets like blood through the veins of a giant. Here, on the outskirts, the streets formed a tightly packed grid, and the traffic moved easily. But the closer they got to the centre, the more erratic the design became, and the slower they travelled. They were closing in on what had become known as Oldtown: Roarhaven in its original incarnation, with its narrow streets and narrow houses. The city around it had been constructed in a parallel dimension, then dropped here, on top of and around the original. It was a masterpiece of design by its architect, Creyfon Signate, and a testament to his genius, if not his choice of associates. A lot of bad people were involved in the evolution of Roarhaven. Most of them were dead now.

The city had changed a lot since Valkyrie had been away, rebuilt after the battle with Darquesse. The eastern quarter had been obliterated in the fighting, but fortunately it had been mostly uninhabited at the time. It was still largely uninhabited, though, even with brand-new buildings and roads. Those who had to live there, because of the massive influx of residents over the last five years, reported crippling psychic stresses and traumatic dreams. Those sorcerers whose abilities lay on the Sensitive spectrum couldn’t go any further east than Testament Road, for fear of permanent neurological damage.

Just one more thing for Valkyrie to feel guilty about.

Roarhaven’s population had surged in the last few years. There were magical communities all around the world – some consisting of nothing more than a single street, and some as big as a mid-sized town. There were even three Mystical Cities that only appeared on earth every few decades, places of wonder and absolute freedom. But Roarhaven … Roarhaven was not only the biggest sorcerer city there ever was, it was the first to become part of the landscape. Mages came with their families, and they suddenly didn’t have to hide who they were or what they could do. Those who didn’t find jobs immediately worked at creating them. It may have been a city of mages, but it was still a city, and like any city it ran on its businesses. It had its shops and its stores and its restaurants and cafés, and it had cinemas and theatres and libraries and swimming pools. It had its own financial sector, albeit a small one, and it was all linked to – and dependent on – the mortal world beyond the wall. The highest salaries went to the people who integrated Roarhaven’s activities with the rest of the world without mortal accountants or lawyers or politicians noticing anything amiss. Roarhaven: the Invisible City.

Once they were through Oldtown, the traffic eased up. Travel here was mainly by silent trams that hovered centimetres off the ground, as any cars other than those with Sanctuary tags were forbidden to enter the Circle zone.

In the middle of the Circle stood the High Sanctuary, a palace by any other name, raised thirteen marble steps above street level. Its walls were thick, formidable, and its towers and steeples stretched for the sky as if rejoicing in their own splendour. Twelve years ago, the Sanctuary had been located beneath a waxworks museum in Dublin. When that had been destroyed, it had moved to a flat, unimpressive circular slab of a building that had once stood here.

Now, that slab was hidden deep within this majestic structure, an imperfection to be painted over and forgotten about.

A cathedral reared up on the east side of the Circle. This was new, and it worried Valkyrie. Black and grey, it had wide shoulders, and its towers were almost as tall as the High Sanctuary’s. In exchange for various concessions, including a vow of non-violence, the Church of the Faceless had been granted legitimacy before Valkyrie had left for America. Disciples of the Faceless Ones had been allowed to worship openly from that point on.

For centuries, the Faceless Ones had been regarded as little more than sadistic fairy tales – insane gods banished from this reality aeons ago by the Ancients, the first sorcerers – but Valkyrie herself had witnessed their attempts to regain a foothold in this reality. Their existence confirmed, sorcerers flocked to their teachings, and Church numbers had exploded. Otherwise good people attended this cathedral and the other churches throughout the city – and the world – and prayed to cruel gods whose very appearance would have driven them insane. Valkyrie didn’t understand it, but then she didn’t understand most religions. Faith, she had learned, just wasn’t for her.

The Bentley slowed to allow a tram to pass, then moved on to the entrance to the High Sanctuary’s underground car park. A City Guard, flanked by Cleavers, held up his hand, and they rolled to a stop. He came forward, eyes on the Bentley, an unimpressed curl to his upper lip. The dark blue uniform struggled to contain his gut, and the badge on his chest glinted in the sun. He had two stripes circling his shoulder, indicating his rank, and his thick belt, on which hung his gun and sword, was polished black leather. The City Guards hadn’t existed when Valkyrie had left. There had been a sheriff’s position and the Cleavers, of course, but they had been all that were needed to safeguard the streets. Apparently, those days were gone.

Skulduggery rolled down his window. “Corporal Yonder,” he said, “how are you this fine morning?”

“Identification, please,” the City Guard responded, hooking his thumbs into that belt of his.

Valkyrie frowned. “Being a living skeleton isn’t identification enough?”

“Corporal Yonder has always been a stickler for the little rules that make life worth living,” Skulduggery said, taking a wallet from his jacket and handing it over. “Though not so keen on the bigger rules, are you, Corporal?”

Yonder didn’t answer, just glared at them both before opening up the wallet and examining the credentials within. “State your business,” he said at last.

“We’ve come to pick up an ID just like that one, which has been delivered here for collection,” Skulduggery said. “My partner has finally agreed to accompany me on an investigation. It is truly a momentous day.”

Yonder closed the wallet with a flick of his wrist, but held on to it. “It doesn’t feel momentous to me,” he said. “It feels like a Tuesday. You can’t use the car park.”

Skulduggery’s tone was amused. “I can’t?”

“The car park is for Sanctuary staff only.”

“I have jurisdiction here, do I not?”

“The way it’s been explained to me,” Yonder said, “is that while you may technically have jurisdiction, we are not obligated to assist you in any way. So you can’t use the car park. It’s staff only. Also, there are no pets allowed.”

“Well,” said Skulduggery, “that’s quite rude. I mean, I wouldn’t call Valkyrie a pet so much as a—”

Valkyrie sighed. “He meant the dog.”

“Oh,” Skulduggery said. “Yes, the dog. I can assure you, Corporal Yonder, that the dog will be staying in the car.”

Yonder opened his mouth to argue, then turned, somewhat sharply, and Valkyrie watched a City Guard with three stripes around his shoulder striding towards them. Valkyrie recognised him from his time as a Sanctuary operative. His name was … dammit, what was it? Larrup? She was pretty sure it was Larrup. He was saying something she couldn’t hear, but it made Yonder flush a deep red. Yonder stepped back, jaw clenched, as Larrup reached them.

“Detective Pleasant,” Larrup said, snatching the wallet out of Yonder’s hand, “my apologies for the delay. You have business inside?”

“Yes, we do,” said Skulduggery.

“Go right in, sir.” Larrup returned Skulduggery’s ID to him, then waved for the Cleavers to stand aside. He bent down, looked in at Valkyrie. “Detective Cain,” he said. “Good to have you back.”

“I’m not back,” said Valkyrie. “I’m visiting.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Larrup. “Good to have you back, nonetheless.”

He gave them a quick salute and the Bentley moved forward smoothly, and took the ramp down, into the High Sanctuary.

5

“Explain,” Valkyrie said, a moment later.

Skulduggery steered them between the aisles of cars. “Explain what?”

“Why did the idiot think he could stop us parking here? You do still work for the Sanctuary, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Skulduggery said. “Well, no, not really.”

“But didn’t you tell me that you’d been made Commander of those morons?”

“I did, and I was, though they prefer the term City Guard, if I remember correctly …”

“So what happened?”

“I quit.” The Bentley swerved into an empty space and Skulduggery turned off the engine. “I felt I would be better suited operating outside the system, as it were, and it just so happened that there was a job opening for exactly that position.” They got out of the car. Xena barely stirred on the back seat.

“So, if you’re not City Guard Commander or a Sanctuary Detective, what are you?” Valkyrie asked as they started walking.

“Centuries ago,” Skulduggery said, “before the Sanctuaries were formed and each territory had its own Council of Elders, magical communities were bound together by way of a loose, international agreement of sorts. We’ll help you if you need it, providing you help us if we need it – that kind of thing. During this time there were certain sorcerers, much like the Marshal Service in the Old West, who delivered justice around the world and enforced the recognised law. They were called Arbiters. When the Sanctuaries came along, Arbiters weren’t needed, but the institution was never actually disbanded.”

“So the new Supreme Mage in all her majesty made you an Arbiter?” Valkyrie said.

“Actually, it was a lowly Grand Mage who bestowed that honour upon me,” Skulduggery said. “Grand Mage Naila. The African Sanctuary has troubles of its own right now, but they’ve been keeping an eye on how things have been going over here. As Arbiter, I now have jurisdiction all around the world and I’m free to investigate whatever I choose.”

“And who’s your boss?”

“Technically, I don’t have one.”

“How do you get paid?”

“I don’t do what I do for money.”

There was a low buzzing in Valkyrie’s ears that she tried to ignore. “But you do get paid, right? Who pays you?”

He sighed. “Each Sanctuary contributes a proportional amount in order to fund the Arbiter Corps.”

“And how many people are in the Arbiter Corps?”

“Including me and you? Two.”

“I’m not a part of it.”

“Your credentials were approved two hours ago.”

“By who?”

“Me.”

The buzzing got louder until it filled her head, and then her vision blurred for a moment, then came sharply into focus like a new lens being attached to a camera. The world suddenly burst with colour, a glorious red that overlaid Skulduggery’s body, and Valkyrie staggered.

“Valkyrie?” he asked. “Are you OK?”

She nodded, aware that she was blinking madly. “I’m just … I can see your aura.”

He tilted his head. “I didn’t know it was showing.”

“Give me a moment. It’ll go away.”

“Take your time,” he said, but even before he’d got the words out her vision had already snapped back to normal.

She straightened. “I’m good.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am. Really. It’s happened plenty of times before.” She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. “I call it my aura-vision. I really need a better name for it, but whatever. If you’re interested, your aura is a vibrant red.”

“Ah, excellent,” he responded. “Is red a good colour for one’s aura to be?”

“I have no idea. Most auras I see are orange. I think you’re different because … you’re different.”

He nodded. “That would make sense.”

They walked on towards the far wall, where the concrete ground gave way to highly polished tiles. Skulduggery stood on one, making sure to keep his feet in the centre. Valkyrie did the same on the neighbouring tile.

“Skulduggery,” she said, “do you really think that you being your own boss is wise? You’re an incredibly irresponsible person.”

He nodded. “That did worry me at first, yes, but the more I thought about it, the more accustomed I became to the idea. I think I’ll be a wonderful boss, actually, and I certainly intend to lead by example.”

The tiles lifted off the ground, and Valkyrie had a moment to steady herself before shooting upwards to the squares of light in the darkness above. She still didn’t know what was so wrong with the regular old elevators just a little bit further on. At least you weren’t in danger of falling off one of them. This was, in her quiet opinion, needlessly magical.

Skulduggery swerved in front of her and her tile darted around him, twirling as it ascended. They passed through the empty squares above, the tiles clicking into place, and Valkyrie stepped off, a little dizzily, into the obsidian and marble foyer of the High Sanctuary.

The Cleavers standing guard remained impassive, but there were some curious glances from the people hurrying by. After a moment, Valkyrie realised they weren’t looking at Skulduggery – they were looking at her. It was like they’d never seen a pair of ripped jeans before.

Administrator Tipstaff came over. A narrow man with a neat haircut, he held a stack of folders under his arm and looked like he hadn’t slept for days.

“Detective Pleasant,” he said, “Detective Cain, thank you for being on time.”

“We’re on time?” Skulduggery asked, sounding surprised.

“I truly appreciate it,” said Tipstaff, “as I am incredibly busy today. While I do acknowledge the magnitude of Detective Cain’s appointment to the Arbiter Corps, I’m afraid we’ll have to dispense with the usual pomp.”

Skulduggery tilted his head. “There’s pomp usually? I wasn’t shown any pomp when I collected my badge. There was a smidgen of circumstance, but no pomp. I feel quite let down.”

Tipstaff ignored him, and handed Valkyrie a wallet. “Detective Cain, I have been instructed to tell you that even though the Supreme Mage had no say in approving your appointment, she supports you one hundred per cent and welcomes you back into the fold.”

“I’m not back,” said Valkyrie, opening the wallet. Beside her name and photograph there was a sigil made of silver, half the size of her palm. She slipped the wallet into her back pocket.

“May I enquire as to what case you are working on?” Tipstaff asked. “Of particular interest would be any potentially catastrophic global events. Our early-warning system in this regard has been quite limited ever since the Night of Knives.”

The Night of Knives had taken place two years earlier. At precisely the same time in four European countries, assassins unknown had slit the throats of eleven psychics as they slept. How the assassins had plotted against and then killed people who could literally see the future remained a mystery, almost two years on.

“If you are investigating something of appropriate seriousness,” Tipstaff continued, “the Supreme Mage has extended to you our full co-operation.”

“Supreme Mage,” Valkyrie echoed. “Grand Mage just wasn’t enough for her. She had to go all Supreme on us.”

Tipstaff gave a quick, polite smile. “Her duties are immense, as you are probably aware. There were no objections, however, when she claimed her new title.”

Valkyrie gave him a small smile back. “Lack of response isn’t exactly a glowing endorsement.”

“Perhaps not,” said Tipstaff. “But the case you are working on …?”

“Probably nothing,” said Skulduggery. “I thought I’d bring Valkyrie in on something nice and gentle, just to ease her back into things. But I assure you, if the potential for catastrophe increases by any significant margin, we’ll let you know.”

“That would be much appreciated,” Tipstaff said, and glanced at his watch. “And now I must depart. Good luck, Detectives.”

Valkyrie nodded to him as he spun on his heel and hurried away, and in that moment she caught another person glancing at her. She glared and the man looked away quickly.

“People keep staring at me,” she said.

“I’m sure it’s just your imagination,” Skulduggery responded, heading for the exit.

Valkyrie followed him as the doors opened into the sunshine. People strolled across the Circle and a few even braved the cold to eat lunch at the fountain and the base of the clock monument. Beyond them, the Dark Cathedral loomed.

“I don’t like it,” she said.

Skulduggery didn’t even have to ask what she was referring to. “It is quite an imposing structure, if one were to be imposed by structures.”

She folded her arms. “I don’t like where it is. It looks like it’s challenging the Sanctuary’s authority. I bet Eliza loves that.”

Skulduggery adjusted his cufflinks. “Actually, Eliza Scorn is no longer leader of the Church. I don’t even think she’s in the city any more.”

“How awful,” said Valkyrie. “I’m really going to miss her.”

“She was quite charming.”

“I think I’ll get over it, though.”

“The rest of us have.”

“So who’s in charge now?”

“That’s where things get decidedly less fun,” Skulduggery said. “A man named Creed is to take over. Quite a pious fellow. Likes the rulebook. Is fond of self-flagellation.”

“Ah,” Valkyrie said dismissively, “who doesn’t like to self-flagellate every now and then?”

“During the war, he denounced Mevolent as having strayed too far from the teachings of the Faceless Ones.”

“He thought Mevolent was too soft?” Valkyrie asked. “Mevolent? The guy who tried to take over the world and kill all mortals?”

“Ah-ah. He never said he wanted to kill them all, just that he wanted to kill some of them and enslave the rest.”

“And this new guy denounced him. He sounds lovely.”

“You’re going to like him, I just know it.”

They watched the people go by.

“You didn’t tell Tipstaff what you’re working on,” she said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Any particular reason?”

Skulduggery shrugged. “I don’t have to. I don’t report to anyone here. If they’re smart, they’ll keep out of my way and let me do my job. Sometimes that happens. Sometimes it doesn’t.”

The monument in the Circle, across from the fountain, was a huge, three-sided clock, its inner workings exposed to the elements. The clocks were each stopped at different times, representing different stages of Devastation Day. The first clock was frozen at the moment Darquesse broke through the energy barrier protecting the city, the second clock was trapped at the moment she set off that devastating explosion in the eastern quarter, and the hands of the third clock were eternally stuck at the moment Darquesse left this reality, believing she had destroyed everything worth destroying.

It appeared, however, that a clock wouldn’t be a clock, even one as symbolic as this, without the ability to tell the actual time, so within every face there were the shadows of hands that weren’t there. This, Skulduggery had explained to Valkyrie upon her return, was a metaphor for life carrying on after catastrophe. They were also pretty accurate, which was a plus.

Checking the time, Valkyrie waited until no one was within earshot. “You’ve got me for twenty-two hours and thirty-three minutes,” she said, “and Temper Fray is still missing. What’s the plan?”

“We’re going to need someone to go undercover, I’m afraid. Nothing dangerous, I assure you. At least, it shouldn’t be. I presume it won’t be dangerous in the slightest, but it might be just a little bit dangerous, if we’re unlucky. Which we usually are, let’s be honest.”

She looked away so he wouldn’t see the doubt in her eyes, but it was too late.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

“I can’t do it,” she said softly.

“Can’t do what?”

She cleared her throat. “Can’t go undercover, Skulduggery. I just can’t. I’m not … I’m not at my best and I’m not ready for it. I don’t even want to be here, for God’s sake. I’m sorry, I don’t want to let you down, but surely there’s someone else we can send. There has to be.”

His head tilted. “There is.”

She frowned. “Really?”

“I wasn’t going to send you, Valkyrie. You’re far too conspicuous, especially in Roarhaven. No, this will have to be somebody new. Somebody totally unconnected to either of us. Somebody no one would ever suspect of doing anything remotely adventurous. Luckily, I have just the boy in mind.”

6

The prophecy told of the first-born son of Caddock Sirroco and Emmeline Darkly, a boy of intelligence and strength with a courageous heart who, in his seventeenth year, would face the King of the Darklands in a battle that would decide the fate of humanity.

Omen Darkly was not that boy. Omen Darkly was the second-born son of Caddock Sirroco and Emmeline Darkly, albeit only by a few minutes, and, as such, he got all the leftovers.

Auger, the first-born, was tall and good-looking. Omen had yet to really start growing, and he was worried about a new rash of pimples that had appeared on his chin overnight. Auger’s dark hair looked styled even when messy, but Omen’s hair, the colour of wet sand, looked messy even when styled.

There were other problems, too. His waist, for example. Yes, it was wider than he’d have liked, but more troubling was that the way it was shaped made it impossible for shirts to stay tucked in. There were possibly some issues with his feet, too, as shoelaces stubbornly refused to remain tied. But, even beyond the physical, Omen struggled in comparison to his brother. Auger would have come top of his class even if he didn’t work hard, but work hard he did. Omen had never mastered working. Given the choice between studying a textbook or daydreaming, he’d choose daydreaming every time. He liked some subjects well enough, in particular the languages of magic, but he just didn’t have the drive that his twin possessed. He didn’t have the focus. And he certainly didn’t have the natural talent.

But he wasn’t jealous. For all Omen’s faults, and he recognised that he had many, he at least didn’t blame his twin for his own shortcomings. His brother was a good guy. His brother was a great guy. His brother was the greatest guy alive, in fact, because in three years’ time he’d turn seventeen and fulfil the Darkly Prophecy and fight to save the world. Can’t get any greater than that.

So Omen didn’t mind being constantly overlooked. He was used to it at home, and he was used to it in school. Everyone wanted to hang around the Chosen One. Nobody wanted to hang around the Chosen One’s brother.

Sometimes, in his quieter moments, Omen would fleetingly wonder what life would have been like if he had been born first. He bet it would have rocked.

But again no jealousy. No bitterness. Just easily quashed curiosity. He didn’t mind.

He watched Auger pass in the hall. A First Year kid tripped and dropped his books, and Auger helped him pick them up. He joked with the kid and the kid flushed with happiness and walked away with his books in his arms and a new confidence in his step. The Chosen One had that effect on people.

Omen kept watching, as a boy with bronze hair and a girl with a wide smile joined his brother. Auger’s friends were almost as cool as Auger himself, having earned their place at his side by not giving a damn about his celebrity status. Omen knew that Auger, in fact, would have sought them out once they’d satisfied his mysterious checklist. It took a lot to be Auger Darkly’s friend, and Kase and Mahala had passed that test without ever knowing they’d taken it.

Omen closed his locker and slung his bag over his shoulder, then headed off to his next class.

This was his third year at Corrival Academy, deep within the heart of Roarhaven’s cultural district. Protected from the surrounding streets by four massive walls with a massive tower at each corner, the school would have been the biggest structure in the city were it not for the Dark Cathedral and, of course, the High Sanctuary. Within those massive walls of the school stood the main building of stone and staircases and balustrades and balconies, and another half-dozen adjunct buildings dotted around the campus and courtyards.

Omen liked the place well enough, and liked Roarhaven, too. It was a lot better than where he’d grown up. The magical community in his hometown near Galway was small and suspicious of their mortal neighbours. His parents, in particular, were guilty of harbouring a deep and abiding distrust of anyone born without magic. Of course, they distrusted most people born with magic, too, so he had been glad to leave it all behind and come here, to the most exclusive school in the world. The fact that he had only been invited to attend because of the Darkly Prophecy did not matter to him one little bit.

Omen even liked the uniform. He said he didn’t, claimed he hated it to anyone who would listen, but it was actually pretty cool, all things considered. Black blazer worn with black trousers or skirt, white shirt and tie. Each of the Years, from First to Sixth, had a different colour, starting with yellow and ending with black. As a Third Year, Omen’s tie and the piping on his blazer were both purple. The school crest, a dragon and three burning towers, was captured in a patch worn on the left breast, and the uniforms looked cool no matter the size or weight of the student. Omen may not have won any Student of the Year prizes (they usually went to Auger), and he wished he could fit into a uniform a size or two smaller, but he definitely felt that all-too-rare sensation of pride whenever he donned those clothes.

Now he joined a line of smartly dressed students as they filed into class. He did his best to tuck in his shirt, then sat at his desk and pulled a book out of his bag.

“Where’d you get to?”

Omen looked up. Never’s ash-brown hair was tied back today, which meant he was identifying as male. This was unusual for a Tuesday. Normally he was a she by this stage of the week, although Omen knew by now that to assume anything of Never was a mistake. Back in First Year, she had stood up in class and declared loudly that he would not be held to anyone’s expectations but her own. He sat next to Omen in most of their classes together.

“I had a study period,” said Omen. “Where were you?”

“Maths,” said Never. “Where you should have been.”

“We have maths next class.”

“No, we had maths last class. Peccant has you down as ditching.”

“Aw, man.”

“You should really look at your timetable every once in a while.”

“He hates me so much.”

“You’re not his favourite, it has to be said.”

The door at the front of the class swung open and Miss Wicked walked in. Immediately, the chatter died. Miss Wicked was one of those teachers who demanded obedience from even the unruliest of students. In his three years of attendance, Omen had never seen her angry, had never heard her raise her voice, and yet she somehow remained intimidating despite this calm demeanour.

She was tall and brilliant and blonde and slender, and she had a tongue as sharp as her cheekbones and always wore pencil skirts and high heels. Omen was a little bit in love with her.

“Today we are going to be discussing Necromancy,” Miss Wicked said in that precise way of hers, where every word was perfectly formed. “Can anyone tell me the names of some prominent Necromancers of the past?”

Hands went up, Omen’s included.

“Axelia,” Miss Wicked said.

Omen almost sighed. Axelia Lukt was the prettiest girl in school, with hair almost as blonde as Miss Wicked’s and big blue eyes and the cutest Icelandic accent Omen had ever heard. Omen had had many conversations with Axelia, conversations where he’d joked and laughed and made incisive comments about world events. He’d been charming, funny and considerate, and the fact that she hadn’t yet fallen in love with him was a puzzle he just couldn’t solve. Maybe the fact that all of these conversations had taken place entirely in his head had something to do with it, or perhaps it was because he had yet to engage her in an actual, physical, real way. Whatever the reason, girls remained a mystery to him, but he was determined to figure it out.

He’d started practising in the mirror.

“Morwenna Crow,” Axelia said, answering the question while simultaneously proving that a better volunteer could not have been chosen. “Melancholia St Clair. Lord Vile.”

Miss Wicked nodded. “Lord Vile. The most notorious. Can you tell me the object into which he poured his power?”

“His armour,” said Axelia. She was so smart.

“Very good. Necromancy is death magic. Shadow magic. As such, it is a lot more volatile than Elemental magic, or even most Adept disciplines. Necromancers store a good portion of their power in an object that they either wear or carry around with them.”

“Necromancers are sad little lunatics,” said Jenan Ispolin, his lanky frame lounging back in his chair. “My father rounded them all up years ago, dragged them out of their little temple and kicked them out of our country.” Jenan’s father was the Bulgarian Grand Mage, and his smirking son rarely let anyone forget it. Like Omen, Jenan belonged to a Legacy family, where everyone was encouraged to take on the same surname – but, whereas the Darkly name had somewhat positive connotations, the Ispolin name brought to mind brutality under the auspices of law. “That’s what you do to people like that.”

Miss Wicked observed him. “People like what, Jenan?”

Jenan sat up a little straighter, and cleared his throat. “Uh, Necromancers, miss.”

“Necromancers are sorcerers, the same as you or I. Are you going to condemn them for their chosen discipline?”

“No, miss,” Jenan said, flushing red. “I just meant … when the Death Bringer was around, she—”

“Her name, please?”

“Melancholia, miss. When Melancholia was around, she tried to kill billions of people. That was the Necromancer plan all along. My father said they were all murderers and he didn’t want them in our country so he … he kicked them out.”

“And what if some of your classmates harbour a desire to join a temple and study Necromancy?” Miss Wicked asked. “How do you think they feel right now, to hear you speak of them this way?”

Jenan shrugged. “Dunno, miss. Don’t care.”

“We have a Necromancer on our teaching staff, here at the Academy. Are you calling her a murderer, too, Jenan?”

He shrugged again. Defiant this time.

Miss Wicked nodded, like she had reached a conclusion she had no intention of sharing. “I see,” she said.

There was a knock on the door and a blushing First Year came in. He hurried up to Miss Wicked, passed her a note, and hurried out as fast as his little legs could carry him. Miss Wicked glanced at the piece of paper, then looked up.

“Omen,” she said.

Omen sat straighter. “Yes, miss?”

“Your presence is required elsewhere.”

A creeping dread came over him. Peccant must really be on the warpath if he was taking Omen out of class. “Do I really have to go?”

Miss Wicked gave a half-smile, and a part of him, beyond the dread, delighted in being able to amuse her. “Yes, you do. Take your bag and report to the South Tower.”

Omen frowned. “Mr Peccant isn’t going to throw me off, is he?”

“I have no more information than that, I’m afraid. You’ll have to take your chances. Off you go.”

Omen glanced at Never and got a sympathetic look in reply. He stuffed his book into his bag, headed for the door and tripped over Jenan’s outstretched foot. Omen went stumbling and the class erupted into laughter that was immediately curtailed by Miss Wicked’s arched eyebrow.

Omen left the room and dragged himself to the South Tower. Peccant may have been an excellent teacher, but he was also a terrifying man with an explosive temper, and Omen had always got the impression that teaching was just the wrong vocation for him. Maybe something like State Executioner would have been more suited to his personality. Or Puppy-Killer.

Despite his reluctance to arrive, Omen walked a little faster. To keep Peccant waiting when the teacher was already in a bad mood would not have been wise. Omen took the main stairs up and cut through the Combat Arts block. Not every Corrival graduate was going to work for a Sanctuary, but it was still generally acknowledged that being able to defend yourself was a good thing, and should be encouraged. In this block, they devoted equal time to the physical and magical sides of self-defence. Auger, of course, was the star pupil.

When Omen reached his destination, there was nobody waiting for him. He walked out on to the covered balcony that circled the tower. The wind was pretty stiff up here. He looked out over Roarhaven. From where he was standing, he could see the High Sanctuary and the Dark Cathedral, challenging each other across the Circle zone. Below him, people walked over the bridge that spanned Black Lake. He thought he saw movement beneath the water and he peered closer. The Sea Maiden had her home down there, somewhere in that sparkling darkness. A beautiful woman with long dark hair, Omen had only glimpsed her once, but that had been enough to enthral him. Below the waist she may have been a serpent, but above the waist she was divine.

“Mr Darkly,” a man said from behind. Right before he turned, Omen thought it was Peccant speaking, but it wasn’t.

It was Skulduggery Pleasant. Skulduggery Pleasant was standing there, speaking. Beside Skulduggery Pleasant stood Valkyrie Cain. Valkyrie Cain stood beside Skulduggery Pleasant, and they stood there, looking at Omen, and Omen stood there, looking at them and trying his very best not to geek out.

7

“I’m your biggest fan,” Omen said before he could stop himself.

Skulduggery Pleasant’s head tilted. “Thank you,” he said. He was wearing the coolest suit Omen had ever seen, and he was a skeleton. Omen had known this, of course he had, but there was a world of difference between knowing there existed a living skeleton and actually seeing him in front of you. There were no wires or strings keeping the bones together, at least none that Omen could see. He was tall, and the brim of his hat dipped low over his eye sockets.

Valkyrie Cain – the Valkyrie Cain – was almost as tall as Skulduggery, and prettier than she appeared in the photographs he’d seen – and she appeared plenty pretty in the photographs. Her black hair was a little longer. She was bigger, too. Slim, but beneath her jacket her shoulders were wide. It was weird seeing her in jeans. Like she was out of uniform.

“My name is Skulduggery Pleasant. This is my associate, Valkyrie Cain.”

“Hello,” Omen said. He sounded reasonably calm, which surprised him. His voice didn’t break, which delighted him. This was a good start, but he could feel the excitement bubbling up from his chest. He hiccuped. “Excuse me,” he said.

“Your name was given to us by one of your teachers,” Skulduggery continued. “Apparently, you are someone we could possibly trust with sensitive information. We need your help, quite frankly.”

Omen nodded. Then frowned. Then tried to smile. Then looked confused.

“This world faces a threat,” Skulduggery went on, “and we think you may be able to help us stop it.”

“Oh,” said Omen, it all suddenly making sense. “No, sorry, you’ve got the wrong brother. I’m Omen Darkly. You want Auger Darkly – he’s the Chosen One.”

“We haven’t made a mistake, Omen. It’s you we want.”

A frown creased Omen’s forehead once more. “Why?”

“Your brother would draw too much attention,” Valkyrie said. “From what I’ve heard, people notice when he walks by. We need someone who disappears in a crowd.”

Omen smiled widely. “That does sound like me.”

“What we’re about to ask you to do shouldn’t be dangerous,” Skulduggery said, “but, if it turns out that way, your skills could come in useful.”

My skills? Omen thought.

“My skills?” Omen said.

“Your brother has received the best combat training available anywhere since he was four years old. You help prepare him, don’t you?”

“I’ve … I’ve trained with him since we were kids, yes. What’s this about, please?”

They came forward. Omen had to resist the urge to step back.

“There is an organisation,” Skulduggery said, “which doesn’t have a name. We’ve been hearing rumours about it for years, an anti-Sanctuary, designed to sow the seeds of chaos and discord around the world and, ultimately, force a war between sorcerers and mortals – a war that sorcerers, presumably, would win, though not without heavy cost. We don’t know who’s in charge. We don’t know where it’s based. We don’t know how many agents it has or how powerful it may be. What we do know is that it’s been working behind the scenes for decades. We have had run-ins with only three people who we suspect were directly connected to it. The first was a man called Bubba Moon, who claimed to have been visited by a ‘being of wonderment and awe’, demanding blood sacrifice. The next two were a couple of killers with a mission to complete – Cadaverous Gant and Jeremiah Wallow.”

“What was their mission?” Omen asked.

“To kill me,” said Valkyrie.

“Oh.”

“Out of those three individuals,” Skulduggery continued, “all were American, and only Gant is alive and at large. Whether their nationality is a coincidence or means something more, I can’t say yet. In the last three years, however, the rumours I’ve been hearing have intensified. Apparently, the anti-Sanctuary is now operating out of Roarhaven.”

“OK.” Omen tried smiling again. “I still don’t know what you want with me, though.”

“An associate of mine went undercover,” Skulduggery said. “Temper Fray. He infiltrated a group of sorcerers who talk about mortals like they’re vermin. He befriended them, and started giving me names. Melior. Smoke. Lethe. Then he disappeared.”

Omen stared. “Is he dead?”

Skulduggery tilted his head. “Hopefully not. Before he vanished, Temper became convinced that the anti-Sanctuary had someone inside Corrival Academy recruiting young and impressionable students.”

“Oh my God,” said Omen. “You want me to go undercover.”

“Yes.”

“Even though the last person you sent undercover got killed.”

“Temper might still be alive,” Skulduggery said, sounding irritated.

“Oh, right, yes, of course. Sorry. But you do want me to go undercover, yes?”

“That’s correct.”

Omen looked at them both, and completely failed to stop the stupid grin from crawling across his face.

“Dear God,” Skulduggery said. “You look demented.”

“I’m just really excited.”

“It’s getting freaky,” said Valkyrie. “Quit it.”

“I can’t. I don’t know how.”

“We’re not asking you to take any risks,” Skulduggery said. “We’re asking you to keep your eyes and ears open. Are any of your fellow students acting suspiciously? Are they congregating at unusual times, in unusual places? Your teachers – are they acting normally? Do any of them seem unusually angry?”

“Mr Peccant is usually unusually angry,” Omen said at once. “Usually at me.”

“I’ll investigate Mr Peccant, don’t worry,” Skulduggery said, “but I’ll need you to focus here, OK? Any behaviour that strikes you as out of the ordinary. That’s what you need to be looking for.”

“And then what?”

“Then you tell us,” said Valkyrie.

Omen nodded. “OK, yeah. And then what?”

Skulduggery and Valkyrie looked at each other.

“I don’t understand,” said Skulduggery.

“Like, do I come with you, then?” Omen asked. “Do I still have to go to school, or will you give me a note to get out of classes or something? I mean, I’d use my reflection, but the teachers can always tell, and little alarms go off sometimes.”

Valkyrie held up her hand. “Wait, hold on. We’re asking you to snoop around this school. That’s it. That’s all we’re asking, and that’s all you’re going to be doing.”

“But … but you might need me. For stuff after.”

“Doubtful.”

Omen looked at Skulduggery. “But sir … I read all about you. All about the both of you. You took Valkyrie on as a partner when she was twelve. I’m fourteen.”

“This is true,” Skulduggery said slowly. “But, as it was pointed out to me only an hour ago, I am a very irresponsible person. I’m trying to change that, truly I am, so unfortunately I am not taking on any more partners. Ever.”

“Then I’ll … I’ll be your protégé.”

“I’m not taking on protégés, either.”

Omen looked at Valkyrie. “Could I be your protégé?”

She looked horrified. “What? No. I don’t have protégés. I’m too young to have protégés. I’m only twenty-four, for God’s sake. I barely know what a protégé is. I’m still the kid here. I’m still the … Skulduggery, tell him. I’m the young one in this whole dynamic.”

Skulduggery nodded. “You definitely are the young one. Though technically he is younger.”

“But he’s not a protégé! Or a partner! He’s a schoolboy! I’m the partner, I’m the young partner. I still have learning to do. I’m still …” She trailed off, then glared at Omen. “I’m the young one here.”

“OK,” he said. “Sorry.”

“I feel like we’ve strayed a little off topic,” Skulduggery said, “so allow me to pull things back to our original question. I realise this is a lot to take in, but we have to know – Omen Darkly, will you help us save the world?”

8

Cadaverous Gant was of the opinion that this world was not worth saving.

It was peopled with savages who revelled in their own ignorance, who splashed about in the mud and the mire like children. This was a Truth he had glimpsed even before his Great Awakening, a Truth that had stained his hands red, that had left bodies in his wake, and it was a Truth that would rend flesh and shatter bones for years to come. Cadaverous would be there to see it happen. This he had been promised.

Sorcerers called them mortals. Cadaverous preferred to call them what they were: cattle. Dead-eyed and unthinking. Bags of meat and fountains of blood, unimaginative animals awaiting slaughter. In the end, they all sounded the same. They all wept the same tears, prayed to the same gods, offered the same feeble entreaties. And they all died the same. Every single one of them.

And there had been many. The methods he had used may have varied, but the deaths were identical. Once they’d got past the terror, once they’d realised their fate was inevitable, they were still surprised by the very act of dying, as if they hadn’t truly believed it could happen to them.

In his mortal youth, he had gloried in the hunt. They ran, screaming and sobbing, the perfect prey, and he pursued, calm and determined, the perfect predator. When his muscles were strong and his legs were quick, their deaths were explosions of brutal violence. When his muscles weakened and his legs grew tired, their deaths were splendid blueprints of meticulous planning. His house was his weapon, his traps mere extensions of his will.

And then his heart attack, and the voice, the woman’s voice, that whispered to him and led him to his Great Awakening.

Charles. Charles, open your eyes. Open your eyes, Charles. You are mine. You will come to me.

And so he left his mortal life behind and opened his eyes to the lights of the operating room and the sounds of the machines and the doctors and the nurses and the clink of scalpels on trays and the squeak of the wheels of gurneys and the faraway voices and the chatter and that soft whispering in his mind that said, Charles, welcome back, we have work to do.

She had brought him magic in those moments of death. He was an old man, but his magic made him new again. He was strong, and quick, with a new appetite for killing and a new mission. The war they were to bring about. The things they were to do.

There had been missteps. There had been failures. He had suffered defeat and suffered loss. The boy he had mentored, the boy to whom he had bequeathed his knowledge and his insight and his philosophy, who had grown to be a man of sterling character and dark potential, had been delivered a meaningless death at the hands of a mewling, pathetic young woman, a woman just like all the others except for that crackling, cackling power that she held in her fingertips.

Cadaverous had wanted immediate vengeance, but the voice in his head commanded him to wait. Soon, she said. Soon you will have her life in your hands. Free me, and you will have both your reward and your revenge.

And it was almost here.

He stood on the clifftop, looking out to sea, the cold wind snagging at his coat. The others stood beside him but not with him. He was apart from them. He was special.

“I can’t see it,” said Nero. His voice had adopted the annoying whine that irritated Cadaverous so much.

“Of course you can’t,” Smoke said. “It’s got a cloaking shield around it.”

“But if I can’t see it then I can’t teleport on to it, can I?”

“You can and you will,” said Lethe. “We know exactly where it’ll be in three minutes, so, in three minutes’ time, you’re going to teleport out there.” He pointed directly in front of them. “It’s perfectly safe.”

“What if you’re wrong?” Nero asked.

“We’re not. We have its schedule.”

Nero hugged himself against the cold. “What if the schedule’s wrong? We’re going to be teleporting into empty space.”

“It won’t be empty.”

“But what if it is?”

“Then you’ll start falling, and you’ll teleport yourself to safety.”

Nero’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, what? No one’s coming with me?”

“It’s too risky.”

“You just said it was safe.”

“It is safe. But it’s too risky for all of us to go at once. You go, confirm it’s there, then come back for us.”

“Sounds pretty easy to me,” Razzia said, nodding with confidence.

“OK,” said Nero, “so what if it is there, but I ’port right into the middle of a group of Cleavers?”

“Then extricate yourself from the situation,” Smoke said, like he was talking to a four-year-old.

Nero shook his head. “Everyone here seems to have this idea that I’m just a mode of transport. Listen to me: I’m not a car, OK? I’m not a car or a train or a plane. I’m a person. Teleporting somewhere blind is a sure way to get myself killed.”

“Trust in the plan,” said Lethe.

“If I get caught or get killed, there is no plan,” Nero countered. “I want someone to come with me.”

Razzia stuck her hand in the air. “I’ll go with him!”

“Not her,” Nero said immediately.

Razzia frowned. “Why not me? What’s wrong with me?”

Nero looked around for help. With none forthcoming, he swallowed thickly. “Uh … you’re just … You’re not very stealthy.”

“Bull dust! I take off these heels and I barely make a sound when I walk. My feet are tiny. Look at them. It’s amazing I don’t fall over more often.”

“Well, it’s not really the stealth that’s the problem,” Nero said. “You just, in certain circumstances, you tend to go a little … crazy.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

“At times.”

“Crazy?”

“A little.”

“I go crazy?”

“No,” Nero said. “No, you don’t. At all.”

She snarled. “Then you’ll let me go with you?”

Nero paled. “Of course.”

“Yay!” Razzia said, happy again.

Lethe held up a hand. “Nero may have a point, Razzia. This infiltration requires a certain deft touch that you may be lacking.”

Razzia bit her lower lip while she pondered. “Well,” she said, “I suppose I do go a little crazy sometimes.”

“I’ll take Memphis,” said Nero, but Memphis shook his head.

“Hell, no, I ain’t going.”

Nero looked dismayed. “Why not?”

“You might get it wrong, man,” Memphis said, running a comb through his hair. “Or you might teleport us into a group of Cleavers. I’ll stay here until I know the coast is clear, thank you very much.”

Cadaverous sighed. “I’ll go with him.”

Nero scowled. “I don’t want him to come.”

“You’ve already turned down one and been rejected by another,” Cadaverous said. “It’s me or it’s no one. I’m sick of listening to you complain about not being appreciated for who you are or what you contribute to the team. That’s all I’ve heard from you for the last few weeks. If you’re too scared to go alone, then I shall hold your hand. Is that acceptable to you, Mr Nero?”

“I don’t like the way you’re talking to me.”

“I somehow fail to care.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Lethe said, holding up his hands, “there’s no need for hostility. Cadaverous has made a kind-hearted offer. Nero, will you accept?”

“Sure,” Nero said grudgingly.

“Beautiful,” Lethe said. “Razzia: what is the time?”

Razzia nodded. “Time is a social construct designed to derive order from chaos.”

“Well put, Razzia. And do you have the time?”

“Oh,” she said. “No, I don’t wear a watch. I don’t believe in them. Time’s never done me any favours, and that’s fair dinkum.”

“I see. Smoke?”

“It’s twelve oh four,” Smoke said. “Twenty seconds to go.”

Lethe rolled his shoulders. “Nero, Cadaverous, prepare yourselves. The rest of us will stand ready.”

Cadaverous took hold of Nero’s wrist.

“We don’t need to be touching,” Nero complained.

Cadaverous gave him a smile. “I’m just making sure you don’t forget about me in all the excitement.”

Nero took a moment to roll his eyes before looking straight ahead, at the patch of thin air he was aiming to arrive at. As the seconds ticked away, Cadaverous used his tongue to pick a piece of meat from between his teeth. He spat it out.

“Go,” said Smoke.

Suddenly they were 1,100 metres off the coast and falling towards the churning, freezing sea. Cadaverous’s body released a bolt of adrenaline. Nero tried to snatch back his arm. He was about to panic, about to teleport away. Cadaverous tightened his grip.

And then his feet vanished.

The rest of him followed, almost too quick to register – his knees, thighs, hips, chest – and then they had dropped through the cloaking shield and Coldheart Prison burst into existence beneath them, a floating island of rock on which sat the walls, the fences, the watchtowers and the prison buildings themselves.

They teleported lower and flipped, so that their momentum took them upwards and then cancelled out. When they stopped rising, Nero teleported them once more, straight down to solid ground. They landed gently and crouched, waiting for the alerts to be called. When they heard no shouts, heard no alarms, they dared to raise their heads.

They were on the very edge of the island, perched on the slippery rocks. Before them was a fence. Beyond that, another fence. Towers, manned by Cleavers, stood at regular intervals – eight towers to a side. Walls and more fences separated the yard into sections for prisoner recreation and sections for staff. The buildings were big and blocky and imposing. Small windows and few of them. Solid doors.

The main prison building was a massive tower with broad shoulders. Slanted windows at the very top gave it its scowl. The inmates called this building the Brute.

“Fetch the others,” Cadaverous said, the wind whipping away his words. Nero vanished.

As irritating as Nero could be, he was also the key to taking this prison. So long as his enemies were within a certain range, he could teleport them away without having to lay a finger on them. The sigils and safeguards that kept out others of his ilk had no effect on him. He was, to all intents and purposes, virtually unstoppable. That reason, and that reason alone, was enough to keep him alive.

He arrived back with Lethe and the others.

“Cleavers in every tower,” Cadaverous told them. “Electrified fences. Cameras covering the yard. Just as we were warned.”

“And we’re not yet fighting for our lives,” said Lethe, “which means we are indeed in the one blind spot the island offers.”

“Our information was correct,” Smoke said.

Lethe looked at him. “You doubted it?”

“I don’t like spies,” he said, pulling at the braids in his goatee. “Theirs or ours.”

“Well,” Lethe said, “I for one am grateful for our spy. It bodes well for what is to come. You all know what to do. You all know where to go. We want the Cleavers and all Sanctuary personnel dead or gone. This is to be a clean sweep. Ignore the convicts. They’ll beg you to open their cells, but we’re not here for them. We’re here for her. We’re here to find the box.”

“And while we’re all risking our lives,” Nero said, “what are you going to be doing?”

Lethe nodded towards the Brute’s slanted windows. “I’m going to be in the control room,” he said. “Someone’s got to steer this thing, after all.”

9

Skulduggery and Valkyrie watched as Omen Darkly, his schoolbag slung over his shoulder, failed utterly to take his leave with anything resembling dignity. He tried two locked doors before finding the one that led off the balcony and into the tower. He waved, blushing madly, and disappeared.

“Interesting boy,” Skulduggery said. “Not what I would call especially impressive, but an interesting boy, nonetheless.”

“I don’t know about this,” Valkyrie said. She was getting cold. “He’s a kid, Skulduggery. We shouldn’t be involving him in this stuff.”

“Perhaps,” Skulduggery said, “but he did make a valid point. I involved you in ‘this stuff’ when you were even younger.”

“That’s different.”

“How so?”

“That was me,” she said. “I could handle it.”

“I think Omen will surprise you.”

“He forgot which door he literally just came through.”

“So it’ll be an even bigger surprise.”

She peered over the railing, down on to an empty courtyard. “He’s not going to get the chance, though, is he? He keeps an eye out for this recruiter person and that’s it, he goes home.”

“This is a boarding school.”

“You know what I mean.”

“That’s all we’ll need him to do, yes. But there’s a stubbornness in his eyes that I’ve really only seen once before.”

“I was never stubborn,” Valkyrie said, climbing over the railing. “I just happened to be right.”

She let go and plummeted. The South Tower was six storeys high and she was halfway to the hard ground before the air began to slow her descent. Skulduggery drifted down beside her, wrapping his arm around her waist.

“I do wish you’d tell me before you jump,” he said, “especially if you aren’t even going to attempt to use your powers.”

“I can’t fly,” she reminded him.

“You’ve flown before.”

“I’ve hovered.”

“Hovering is the first step to flying,” he said as they touched down gently in the empty courtyard. He released her. “That’s what I tell people who ask for tips.”

“Do many ask?”

“More and more,” he said. “Apparently, there’s been a resurgence in people choosing Elemental magic as their discipline, all because they want to learn to soar above the clouds.”

The wind had messed up her hair, so she tied it back into a ponytail. “Even though none of their Elemental teachers can fly? This doesn’t suggest to them that maybe flying is harder to master than it would appear?”

“They don’t care,” Skulduggery said. “They just want to emulate their heroes.”

“You mean you.”

“As the only Elemental who can actually fly, yes, I mean me. Don’t you miss it?”

“Flying? The only times I’ve properly flown, Darquesse had taken over. The memory’s a little tainted.”

“I suppose,” he said, then took his pocket watch from his waistcoat and glanced at it. “There’s someone I need to talk to before we leave. Will I meet you back at the car?”

“Ah,” she said, “I kinda want to explore a little, see what’s what.”

“Oh. OK. And you’re sure you don’t want to head back to the car and wait for me there?”

“You’re worried that my dog will have peed on your seats, aren’t you?”

“The thought has occurred to me.”

“Xena will still be asleep, believe me, and she doesn’t pee in cars. You go talk to whoever you have to talk to, I’ll have a walk around and I’ll meet you out front in, what, twenty minutes?”

They split up, and she passed through the nearest door, found herself in a corridor just as the bell rang and students swarmed out, filling the spaces and jostling Valkyrie as they squeezed by. She sighed with irritation, kept her elbows down and didn’t hit anyone. After another few seconds, the crowd started to thin and she could walk without tripping over anyone.

Four kids with green ties stood in a group ahead of her. They started whispering. Valkyrie kept her head down and her eyes on the floor as she passed them. Out of the corner of her eye she saw them glance her way, and when they were behind her the whispering picked up again.

Valkyrie turned to face them. “What?” she snapped. “What is it that’s so fascinating about me? What?”

The kids froze. They actually looked scared. One of them snapped out of it, hurried away, and the others quickly followed. Valkyrie glared at them until they had disappeared round the corner. Then she started to feel stupid for overreacting.

She turned again, just as a young woman dressed all in black strode up to her with an arm outstretched.

“Hello!” the young woman said, and Valkyrie was shaking her hand before she knew what was happening. “It’s very good to meet you! I’ve heard so much about you, naturally, but it’s so good to finally meet you in the flesh!”

She was Scottish, had long red hair, a few freckles and the brightest smile Valkyrie had seen in a long time.

“You’ll have to forgive the students,” the woman said, lowering her voice slightly. “It’s not often they meet someone famous.”

Valkyrie took her hand back. Gently. “I’m not famous.”

“Ah, well, infamous, then.”

Valkyrie took a moment to work it out, then she sagged. “Oh, right. Darquesse.”

“They’ve seen all the pictures,” the redhead said, “all the videos. And there are plenty of videos of Darquesse tearing the place up. They don’t mean anything by staring, really they don’t.”

“It’s fine,” Valkyrie replied. “Amazingly, I kind of forgot that people would associate me with her, even though we shared the same face. Just another thing to feel bad about, I suppose.”

“Mmm,” said the redhead, because she obviously couldn’t think of a way to salvage this topic of conversation. Then she brightened again. “I’m Militsa Gnosis. I teach Magic Theory.”

“You’re a Necromancer?”

“Guilty as charged,” Militsa said, and then suddenly stopped smiling. “Which is probably not the best phrase to use when most of your Order plotted to kill billions of people. If it makes any difference, though, I didn’t know anything about the Passage or what the Clerics were planning.”

“So you’re a good Necromancer?”

“Yes,” Militsa said, beaming once again. “I was going to store my magic in a ring like you did, but I didn’t want you to think I was copying you, even though I so would have been, so I keep it in this instead.” She pulled back her sleeve, revealing a thick bracelet. “It’s pretty cool, I think.”

“Yeah.”

Militsa’s smile faltered. “Oh, no.”

“What?”

“I’m being lame, aren’t I?”

“Sorry?”

“I’m being so lame right now,” Militsa said, her chin dropping. “You think I’m a complete idiot, don’t you?”

“Do I?”

“You must.”

“I don’t think so.”

“But I’m babbling. I’m just a babbling idiot that ran up to you and started babbling. This is so embarrassing. Why do I have to be so lame?”

“I … I don’t think you’re lame.”

“That’s just because you’re a nice person.”

“I’m not that nice,” Valkyrie said. “Really, I’m not. I’m quite rude.”

“You’re not rude.”

“I am,” Valkyrie insisted. “Before this conversation is done, I bet I’ll have been rude to you by accident.”

Militsa looked up. Her eyes were huge. “You mean it?”

“I do. And you’re not lame and you’re not an idiot. You’re just being friendly. You’re a friendly Necromancer, which is kind of unique.”

“We’re not known for being friendly, I’d have to agree,” Militsa said, brightening.

“So you’re a teacher here?”

“Yep. I guide students through their options, as far as choosing a discipline goes. I never meant to be a teacher, to be honest. It’s not something I ever saw myself doing, but it combines two of my favourite things – talking about magic and … and, well, reading about magic, I suppose. I don’t have a very wide range of interests.”

“Maybe you should get out more.”

“That’s what my mum says, but then she’s three hundred years old. I think she has unrealistic expectations when it comes to me. I’m just a normal girl. Give me a good book and a sofa and I’m happy, you know?”

“Can’t beat a book and a sofa.”

“If I wasn’t a teacher, I’d probably be a researcher, maybe be a part of Project Torchlight. Have you heard of it?”

“I haven’t, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, no matter. My point being, I specialise in the Source – which is another reason I’m so pumped to be meeting you.” Militsa hesitated, her eyes sparkling. “Could I see your magic? Could I see what you can do?”

“Uh …”

“Just a little bit, I swear. You’re incredible to me, that’s all. You’re connected to the Source of all magic like nobody else. Your magic is … it’s pure. Unfiltered.”

“I’m not very good at controlling it,” Valkyrie confessed.

“I’m not surprised,” said Militsa. “I’ve got theories about it, if you’d like to hear them.”

“Uh, maybe. I’m a little busy right now …”

“Oh, of course,” Militsa said, laughing at her own stupidity. “Of course you’re busy, you’re Valkyrie Cain! But if ever you wanted to talk about it, just knock on my door. I will literally drop everything to talk to you. Literally. Everything.” She brushed her hands together. “Dropped.”

“OK,” said Valkyrie. “Well, I might do that.”

“Or if you just want to hang out,” Militsa said. “You haven’t been to Roarhaven much, have you? Again, I’m not a stalker, I just … I’d have heard if you were in town a lot. I could show you around. There’s actually a pretty good arts scene here. Bizarre, I know, but there you go. Might be fun, if you’re into that kind of thing. Or we could go for a coffee. Or a drink. Or dinner. Would you like to go to dinner?”

“No thank you.”

“Right, of course, you’re busy, I get it.”

“It’s not that I’m busy,” said Valkyrie. “It’s just that I don’t want to.”

Militsa blinked. “Oh. Well, I mean, OK. That’s cool.”

Valkyrie’s face soured. “And now I’m being rude, just like I knew I would.”

“You’re not rude, no.”

“It’s just I’m not looking for a friend right now.”

Militsa blinked. “Ohh. OK.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to offend you, but I’m trying to stay away from people until I get my head straight.”

“Gotcha,” Militsa said. “No explanation needed. You’ve been through a lot and the last thing you need is someone to talk to.”

“When you say it like that,” Valkyrie said, “it sounds stupid.”

“Not at all. This is totally my fault – I just feel like I know you already. I’ve asked Fletcher so many questions.”

Valkyrie raised an eyebrow. “You know Fletcher Renn?”

Militsa looked surprised. “Well, of course. He’s a teacher here.”

Valkyrie couldn’t help it – she grinned. “Fletcher? Seriously? What does he teach? What does he know well enough to teach?”

Militsa grinned with her. “Teleportation. He’s only got three students, and only one of them can actually teleport, but he’s pretty good. I think you’d be impressed.”

“That’s hilarious,” said Valkyrie. “Is he all strict and stuff?”

“Very. He has a teacher voice.”

“Oh, wow.”

Valkyrie’s phone buzzed with a message from Skulduggery, saying he’d be delayed another ten minutes. As she slipped it back into her jeans, she noticed Militsa glancing at her watch.

“You probably have work to do,” Valkyrie said.

Militsa nodded. “I’m supposed to be teaching a class right now. If this was a mortal school, the kids’d be tearing up the place, but Corrival students tend to be so boringly well behaved that they’re probably cleaning the windows. The coffee offer will remain open, by the way, for as long as you need it to be. Or, you know, dinner. Whatever.”

“Thank you. Really. I appreciate the gesture.”

“No problem,” Militsa said, and beamed another smile. “It was so nice to meet you, Valkyrie. I hope we can get to know each other better.”

Valkyrie smiled back, and Militsa turned with a swirl of her cloak and walked off. She wore a cloak. Valkyrie hadn’t known very many people who wore cloaks. Not even Skulduggery wore a cloak. What an odd girl. Valkyrie liked her.

She left the school, with its magnificent arches and grand staircases, and walked the wide streets. Plenty of time to double back and meet Skulduggery. There was a guy on the corner, barefoot and dressed in sackcloth, holding a sign that warned her that the end was nigh. To reinforce the point he was making, he shouted it at anyone who was passing.

“The end is nigh!” he screeched to Valkyrie, shaking the cardboard sign. “The end is nigh!”

“Isn’t it always?” she asked, and left him shaking the sign resentfully.

She made a note of the street names as she went by. Gorgon Street. Titan Street. Bellower Road. She crossed Meritorious Square and took the narrower streets now, away from the staring, whispering people. She walked down Blood-drenched Lane, took a right on to Decapitation Row. At least they were easy to remember.

She smelled food and her tummy rumbled, so she followed the smell and then abruptly lost it in a dead end that went by the charming name of Putrid Road. She turned, and stopped.

Three people stood there – two men and one woman – staring at her with a special kind of look in their eyes. Valkyrie had seen that look before. She was well used to that look.

That look meant that, at some point in the next few minutes, they were going to try to kill her.

10

Sebastian watched it all from the rooftop.

He watched the three of them follow her away from the crowds, away from anyone who might step in. He would have expected more from Valkyrie Cain. He would have expected her to be a lot more alert. But there she was, in jeans and a T-shirt instead of her usual black, walking like a zombie, just going where the streets took her, like she had a thousand different things on her mind and she didn’t want to think of a single one of them. He watched her reach the dead end and turn, and freeze.

He crouched low, and bit his lip beneath his mask. He had his mission. He shouldn’t be wasting his time on things like this.

Below him, Valkyrie waited for the three people to say something. When they didn’t, she spoke. “I’m not Darquesse.”

Sebastian’s ears were covered, but he heard her perfectly.

“You look like Darquesse,” said the woman. “You look the way she did when she killed my family. Except you’re not smiling. Darquesse was smiling.”

Valkyrie hesitated. “I’m not her.”

The man on the left was packing some extra weight, but he looked strong, like those clenched fists would hurt. “Darquesse killed my daughter,” he said. “Burned her to nothing. I doubt she even noticed she’d done it.”

“My brother tried to fight her,” the second man said. “I begged him not to, but he thought if he could sneak up behind her, while the Skeleton Detective and everyone was distracting her, he could snap her neck before she knew what was happening. My brother, who had never snapped a neck in his life. He never even got close.”

“I’m sorry for your pain,” Valkyrie said slowly. “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, and for what your loved ones went through. But I’m not Darquesse.”

“We know,” the woman said. “We know you’re Valkyrie Cain. We know all about you. We know Darquesse was your true name, and we know she inhabited the body of your reflection. We know all this. Everyone does. Everyone knows that none of it would have happened if it weren’t for you.”

“Sensitives had dreams about her for years before she showed up,” the second guy said. “They warned you. All that time, you knew what would happen if you kept going. But you didn’t want to go back to a mortal life, did you? You wanted to be one of us. A sorcerer.”

“So you let it happen,” the first man said. “You allowed it to happen just like the Sensitives predicted it would, because you were having too good a time going off on all your adventures.”

“Nothing to say?” the woman asked, walking forward. Sebastian tensed. “For a girl with a reputation for being a smart-mouth, you’re awfully quiet.”

“Leave me alone,” Valkyrie said.

“You shouldn’t have come back.”

“Leave me alone. Please. I don’t want any trouble.”

The woman sneered. “Begging didn’t save my family. It’s not going to save you.”

The woman slapped her. Hard. Sebastian’s own cheek tingled in sympathy, but Valkyrie just stood there.

Obviously of the opinion that a simple slap wasn’t going to do the job, the first man stepped up and swung a punch that sent Valkyrie spinning to the ground. Sebastian readied himself to jump in the moment Valkyrie retaliated – but she just stayed down, propped on her elbow, holding a hand to her face. The woman kicked her in the shin, ended up hurting herself as much as she hurt Valkyrie.

Slowly, Valkyrie stood back up.

The first man looked at the second, who hesitated, then nodded and clenched his fists also. These were not warriors, Sebastian saw. These were just ordinary sorcerers. Ordinary, angry sorcerers.

The second man hit Valkyrie, a light punch to the shoulder.

“Come on!” said the first guy. “Harder!”

The second man stared at Valkyrie, his lips curling as he cultivated his anger, and he hit her again, this time in the face. Valkyrie took a few steps back before she regained her balance. Blood dripped from her bottom lip. Still she did nothing.

The punch was followed by another, and another, fists fuelled by pent-up rage, by loss and love and hate, all that pain finally finding an outlet in the infliction of pain on another. Valkyrie was doubled over by a shot to the belly and then sent to the ground again. A low, tortured moan escaped her as she struggled to breathe.

And, once more, she got to her feet.

The woman pushed her way to the front, clicking her fingers and summoning a ball of flame into her hand. This changed things. Valkyrie shifted her balance slightly as she watched the woman, waiting to see what she would do. Waiting to see if she’d cross the line.

For a moment, the woman seemed to reconsider. Sebastian had a good view of her face, and he saw the conflict there. The emotion. The flames dimmed, looked like they were about to go out.

But then something – a memory, an urge, a flash of ruthlessness – flared the flames in her hand and she moved her arm back, preparing to throw, and Valkyrie leaped at her, smacking her hand down and driving her elbow into the woman’s jaw. The woman crumpled and the fire went out.

The first man snapped his palm against the air and the space rippled, but Valkyrie was already lunging at the other guy. She rolled under his punch and grabbed him, twisted him, threw him over her leg and he went tumbling.

The first guy charged, too angry to use magic. Valkyrie met him head-on. She crashed into him, using her elbows as a battering ram. He staggered back, clutching his chest, trying to get his breath back. She let him fall to one knee, gasping, and turned to the smaller man as he rose. Again, she closed the space between them, refusing to give him a chance to throw a punch or use his magic. She slapped him so hard Sebastian winced, and wrapped her arm around his throat as he spun. She kicked out his leg and crouched with him, tightening her stranglehold. He struggled, tried to pull her hair, but she stayed calm and just kept squeezing.

The first guy was getting his breath back, and he was attempting to stand, clicking his fingers at the same time. Any moment now his hands would be filled with fire.

Sebastian leaped, crashing into him from above. The big guy went down as the other guy lost his battle to stay awake. Valkyrie laid him on his side, turned and observed Sebastian as he stood there.

For a long, long moment, nothing was said. Sebastian allowed himself to think that maybe Valkyrie was overawed. Maybe she was intimidated.

“You look so dumb,” she said.

“Do I?”

“Did you fly, or jump?”

“Oh,” he said. “I jumped. I was up there.” He pointed above him. “And now I’m, you know … down here.”

“That’s a good story,” Valkyrie said.

“I, uh, I feel like I haven’t made the best first impression.”

“How could you possibly think such a thing, wearing a mask as ridiculous as that? Do you have a name?”

Sebastian smiled beneath his mask. “Names,” he said, “are power.”

“Fine,” she said, wiping blood from her lip. “I’ll call you Mr Beakface.”

He stopped smiling. “No, don’t call me Mr Beakface. Call me the Plague Doctor.”

“Mr Beakface is easier to remember.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

She peered closer. “Are you an actual doctor?”

“I’m here to fix things.”

“So no.”

He sighed. “Not a doctor as such.”

“And why are you wearing a mask?”

“It came with the suit.”

“It makes your voice sound funny.”

He frowned. “Does it?”

“You don’t hear that? It echoes.”

“Oh,” he said. “I don’t know. I didn’t know it echoed.”

She stepped over the unconscious body at her feet. “What do you want?”

“Like I said, I’m here to help.”

“By arriving at the last minute when the fight is just about done? You’re handy.”

“I mean, from now on,” Sebastian said. “I’m here to help from now on.”

“What are you going to help with? Has the Black Death come back?”

“Well, no. But bad things are coming.”

“Why do people keep saying that like it’s a surprise?”

“I’m a friend, OK? That’s all you need to know.”

She looked at him. “I’ve just had this conversation with someone else. I’m not looking for any more friends. Do yourself a favour and stay out of my life.”

She walked by. For a moment, he thought she was going to lunge at him, to tear off his mask and reveal his face … but she passed him like she couldn’t be bothered with anything any more.

“Valkyrie,” he said.

She turned. Waited.

“Why did you let them hurt you?”

“They caught me by surprise,” she said.

“No, they didn’t.”

“Believe what you want. I don’t care.”

“One other thing? I, uh, I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about this.”

She frowned. “Sorry?”

“Skulduggery,” Sebastian said. “Anyone else. It would be better if they didn’t know about me. Not yet.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you. Please, for now, keep this between me and you.”

She put her hands on her hips and looked down, like she was counting to ten. She raised her head. “Listen, Mr Beakface—”

“Plague Doctor.”

“—I’m not comfortable keeping any secrets from Skulduggery, even the important ones. I wouldn’t view meeting you as important.”

“Valkyrie, please. When I can explain myself, I will. I know it’s asking a lot, but … trust me.”

She sighed. “Fine,” she said, and walked away.

11

Two minutes later, the Bentley pulled up by the side of the road and Valkyrie got in.

“A guy in a stupid mask asked me not to tell you he exists,” she said, reaching back to pet Xena.

Skulduggery nodded. “Fair enough.”

12

They drove east through the city, parked and went walking. Xena, on a leash but without a muzzle, investigated every stray scent. Valkyrie hadn’t been to this part of Roarhaven since it had been rebuilt. The apartment blocks were big – the apartments within them small. The streets, though new, had already developed potholes. Mostly uninhabited, with little in the way of shops, the few people they passed there either stared at Valkyrie in shock or actually crossed to the other side to avoid her.

“This is not doing my self-esteem any good whatsoever,” she muttered.

“Maybe they’re afraid of the dog,” Skulduggery said.

“They’re afraid of something.”

Skulduggery took off his hat and placed it on her head. “Is that better?”

“I look stupid.”

“Not everyone can pull off a hat like this, it’s true.”

She tugged the brim low, shielding her face as they approached a mother and small child. The kid pointed at Skulduggery, ignoring Valkyrie and Xena altogether. She kept the hat on.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“There’s a bar somewhere around here,” Skulduggery answered. “From what I’ve heard, it’s rife with anti-mortal sentiment.”

“You think the bad guys drink there? What’s it called?”

“The Mage’s Lament.”

“What’s he lamenting,” she asked, wincing slightly, “not ruling the world? Bit of a long shot, isn’t it, checking out a bar the bad guys might frequent?”

“I am merely aware that my twenty-four hours with you are slipping away, so I thought we may as well try a few long shots while we’re together. Are you feeling OK? You’ve gone quite pale.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just have a headache starting up.”

“Probably from all the punching you’ve recently undergone.”

She shrugged. “People don’t like me here. I have to get used to it.”

“So you’re not going to alert the City Guard, have these people arrested?”

“They attacked; I defended. It’s over. Besides, it’s not like the City Guard would take me seriously. They’re probably looking for any excuse to slap the shackles on me.”

“Perhaps you’re right. I suppose I should just be thankful that this mysterious stranger showed up in time to rescue you.”

“He literally landed on the guy’s head. He didn’t rescue anyone. Stop saying that.”

“I just find it amusing that you’d need to be rescued.”

“First of all, I didn’t need anything of the sort. Second, what are you talking about? You used to rescue me all the time.”

“That was different. That was the natural flow of events. I’d rescue you, you’d rescue me, it’s how we worked. It’s how we work still. We’re there for each other, aren’t we? Until the end?”

“I suppose.”

Xena stopped walking, started whining. Valkyrie crouched, ruffling her fur. “What’s wrong with you, huh? What’s wrong with my baby?”

Skulduggery looked around. “I think we’re going the wrong way,” he said, and turned. Valkyrie followed as he walked back the way they came, Xena trotting happily ahead of her.

“It’s not like you to get lost,” Valkyrie said.

“I have many things on my mind. And, judging by the long periods of silence you sink into, so do you.”

“I don’t have to be talking every moment we’re together, do I?”

“No,” he said. “But that’s never stopped you before.”

She shrugged. “The world is a scary place, and it’s only getting scarier. The American president is a narcissistic psychopath. Fascism, racism, misogyny and homophobia are all on the rise. We’ve ruined the environment. Animals are going extinct faster than I can name them. Bullying is everywhere. Nobody talks to anyone who doesn’t share their views. Everyone hates. Everyone shouts. Everyone cries. There is literally no escape for the human race unless someone steps in and orders them to be better. But the only people who could do that are sorcerers, and that would bring about the war with the mortals that Cadaverous Gant and these anti-Sanctuary nutjobs so desperately want. So … y’know. Rock and a hard place.”

“You think cheery thoughts, don’t you?”

“Can’t help it. I’m a naturally optimistic person.”

They reached the Bentley and it unlocked with a beep.

“How’s the headache?” Skulduggery asked.

“Fading,” Valkyrie said. “Are we not sticking around? I thought we had to find The Mage’s Lament.”

“I’ve decided that I don’t like long shots. They’re annoying, and rarely work out. Besides, it’s the middle of the day – I doubt there’s anyone interesting there right now. A better use of our time might be to take a drive up to Cassandra Pharos’s cottage.”

Xena jumped in the car and Valkyrie got in after her. “You really want to take a detour?”

“You never got a chance to say goodbye when you left for America,” Skulduggery said, shutting the door and starting the engine. “Maybe some of your reluctance about committing to coming back stems from a lack of closure.”

“Wow.”

“What?”

“Closure. Wow.”

They pulled out on to the road and started driving. “Closure is important,” he said. “You moved to Colorado and assumed that people like Cassandra and Finbar would be here when you got back. You never said goodbye.”

“You think I feel guilt about that?”

“You don’t?”

“No,” Valkyrie said, giving him back his hat. “And the only people who should are the people who killed them.”

The morning after the Night of Knives, Skulduggery had called Valkyrie in Colorado to let her know what had happened. She’d spoken to him while wrapped in a towel. The house was quiet apart from the faint splashes coming from the shower. By the time she’d hung up, the water had been turned off and the shower door was opening. She sat on the edge of her bed, tears in her eyes. She didn’t go to the funerals.

They rolled up to Cassandra’s cottage a little after 2 pm. Valkyrie had mixed feelings about the place. On the one hand, Cassandra had always reminded her of the grandmothers she’d lost when she was a kid. She’d been warm, and funny, and fascinating. She’d had stories to tell about each and every facet of her life. Just to be in her company had brought a glorious feeling of being welcome. Of coming home.

But the cottage had a cellar, and in that cellar there was a floor that was a metal grille over a bed of coals. And when the steam swirled and Cassandra played her visions out in 3D, like holograms, the warmth vanished, despite the rising heat, replaced by the cold dread of the horrors to come. It was in those steam clouds that Valkyrie had first seen the rubble of Roarhaven during Devastation Day, and her own face, mere moments before she went on to kill her baby sister.

Valkyrie let Xena roam, and eyed the cottage. “Why are we really here?” she asked.

“I have a theory that needs to be tested,” said Skulduggery. “No more questions. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

He found the key beneath an old pot and opened the front door, and Valkyrie took a dry leaf from the battered packet she kept in her jeans, popping it into her mouth as she stepped through. The cottage was just as she remembered – the comfy sofa, the faded rug, the guitar on a stand in the corner – but the dream whisperers which had hung from the rafters were gone. Valkyrie was glad. They were creepy little things.

“Are you OK?” Skulduggery asked.

The leaf had started to dissolve on her tongue, but she chewed the rest to get rid of it faster. They were great for numbing pain, be it from a broken leg, a gunshot wound, or a mere headache, but no one had yet bothered to make the damn things taste better. “Another headache,” she said as she wandered over to the guitar. “Nothing to worry about.” She picked it up.

Skulduggery’s head tilted. “Perhaps.”

She strummed. Badly. “Perhaps what? It’s a headache. People get headaches all the time. Especially after they’ve been punched in the face.”

Skulduggery took a small bag of rainbow dust from his pocket, held out his hand and let it sprinkle through his gloved fingers. It fell as golden particles. “Do you remember what gold means?”

“Gold means psychic. Which is to be expected, right? Even though Cassandra’s been dead for two years?” She played the first few bars of ‘Stairway to Heaven’, got it wrong and tried again.

“You are quite correct,” he responded, sealing the bag and putting it away. “This cottage contains an abundance of residual psychic energy, enough so that anyone with Sensitive tendencies would be vulnerable to their influence.”

“OK. So?”

“We were nearing Testament Road when you got the headache earlier,” he said. “The part of town where Sensitives can’t go.”

Valkyrie laughed. “Oh, wow. This is your theory? You think I’m a Sensitive?”

“I think it’s a possibility. The full range of your abilities has yet to be explored. Most sorcerers are restricted to one discipline – I’m one of the rare exceptions, being both an Elemental and a Necromancer. But you? You might be something else entirely.”

“I think I’d know if I was a psychic, though.”

“Would you?” Skulduggery asked, and took the guitar from her hands. He walked away from her, playing ‘Heroes’ by Bowie. “Tell me something – have you experienced anything unusual recently?”

“You mean apart from you? Listen, I don’t have clairvoyance. I can’t read people’s minds or see into the future.” She faltered on the last word, then shook her head. “This is silly. I’m not a Sensitive.”

“You don’t know what you are,” he said, turning and starting to sing.

Xena wandered in and he sang to her while she sat, head cocked to one side, and when he was done he twirled the guitar and thrust it away from him, and it floated back to the corner to settle into its stand. The show over, Xena got up, wandered back outside.

“I didn’t know you played,” Valkyrie said.

“Cassandra taught me,” he responded, and looked around like he’d just realised she wasn’t here any more.

Valkyrie let the silence continue for a bit, then broke it. “So we’re here,” she said. “Remembering Cassandra. Singing. She really would have liked that. What’s next? We head back to Dublin and get matching tattoos in honour of Finbar?”

“If you like,” he said. “But, since we’re here, we may as well go downstairs.”

“Why would we want to do that?”

But he was already opening the narrow door beside the cupboard. “Come on,” he said, and went down.

Valkyrie hesitated a long moment before following.

It was dark down there. Cold. Old pipes ran up the bare walls. A straight-backed chair stood in the middle of the metal floor.

“I’m not sure what you’re hoping to achieve with all this,” she said.

He clicked his fingers, summoning flame into his hand. “Your, what do you call it, your ‘aura-vision’ is a psychic ability. How do you know that it doesn’t go deeper? Indulge me this once.”

“I’m always indulging you.”

“Then indulge me once more.” He dropped the ball of fire to the floor. The flames lit the coals beneath and heat immediately started to rise.

“What do you think is going to happen here?” she asked. “I’m suddenly going to have a vision? I don’t have visions.”

“Not yet, but the energy all around you could trigger something, and, if it does, we’ll be able to see it played out in the steam.”

“Or we’ll just be standing here getting a cheap sauna that will wrinkle your suit and ruin my hair.”

“Nothing will wrinkle this suit,” said Skulduggery. “Ghastly made sure of it.”

“We saw him in Cassandra’s vision,” Valkyrie pointed out. “We saw Ghastly with Tanith. We saw them kiss on Devastation Day – only he died before that could happen. Even if I did have a vision, so what? Ghastly’s death proves that visions of the future mean nothing.”

“No,” Skulduggery replied, taking a yellow umbrella from a hook on the wall and passing it to her. “His death proves that the future can be changed if you know what’s coming. And we have no idea what’s coming. We don’t even know who we’re up against, not really, so we don’t know what we have to avoid. Try, Valkyrie. At least try.”

She sighed, then sat in the chair. It was quickly turning hot in here. When the first bead of perspiration formed on her temple, she opened the umbrella as Skulduggery turned the red wheel. Water rushed through the pipes, gurgling like the belly of a ravenous beast. The sprinklers started up, tapping a growing applause on the umbrella. Steam rose, getting thicker, becoming mist, becoming fog. She lost sight of Skulduggery, but heard the wheel turn again, and the water cut off. She collapsed the umbrella, shook it and laid it on the floor before standing.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Now focus,” Skulduggery said. “Or don’t focus. Empty your mind, or maybe fill it.”

“You’re a great help.”

“I don’t really know how this works.”

“Hush,” she said.

She stood there, eyes fixed on the empty space in front of her. She tried to relax her thoughts, but they were in as big a jumble as ever. Her head buzzed. The headache was coming back.

“I don’t think this is working,” she said.

And then something moved ahead of her.

13

A shadow in the billowing steam. Valkyrie narrowed her eyes. “Did you see that?”

“I saw something,” Skulduggery said.

“What was it? It looked like—”

Something flared in the distance, a sudden fire or explosion. Valkyrie walked towards it.

“Careful,” said Skulduggery, but he sounded so far away. “There’s a wall in front of you.”

She knew that. Behind the steam and the shadows, she knew there was a solid wall. She knew she was still in the cellar. She knew what was real and what wasn’t.

Only there was no wall. Frowning, she kept walking, hands out in front, and with each step she expected to come into contact with the wall and yet each step brought her deeper and deeper into the steam. She turned, looked back.

“Skulduggery?” she called.

He didn’t answer. She couldn’t see him.

She heard something, though. Someone whistling a tune. A familiar tune. Something old. Sweet yet sad. ‘Dream a Little Dream of Me.’ It moved from right to left. She went to investigate, but something about the tune made her pause, and she realised she didn’t want to know who the whistler was. She stayed still, listening to the tune fade.

A line of people trudged out of the nothingness, walking right into her, dissipating upon contact. She watched them, their heads down, their footsteps heavy. Men and women and children, bags on their backs, bags in their hands. Faces tired and anxious. Scared, even. A continuous line. So many of them.

The steam stole the people away, and she turned and there were flames all around her. A town was burning. Screams mixed with car alarms. Before her, two figures, side by side. She recognised Omen Darkly, his face older, and bleeding. Beside him, a handsome boy, clutching his injured shoulder. She became aware of figures behind her and she turned, saw their forms without faces, felt their anger, their hatred, their aggression. Omen and the other boy, his brother perhaps, clicked their fingers and summoned fire into their hands.

“You actually think you’re going to win?” somebody asked, and she turned, saw the Plague Doctor a moment before the steam stole him away. She looked back and the burning town was gone and Saracen Rue was dead on the ground, his throat torn open.

Valkyrie held her hand over her mouth. “Skulduggery!” she called. “Skulduggery, where are you?”

Cadaverous Gant emerged from the steam, holding a rag doll in his left hand, a rag doll in a blue dress. He walked so quickly that she put out a hand to stop him and his image broke apart, and beyond him she saw Tanith Low, her blonde hair cut to above her shoulders, backing away from something, fear in her eyes.

She turned, the clouds swirling, and she glimpsed China Sorrows lying in a field of broken glass, blood drenching her blouse, her eyes open and unseeing. Valkyrie turned away to shouts, to jeers, and saw a stream of energy blast through the chest of a girl, saw her fall back, hair covering her face, and when Valkyrie went to catch her the images swirled away and Valkyrie could see herself, on her knees, tears running down her face. Defeated. Alone.

And she knew she was watching her own death.

Valkyrie’s legs gave out and she collapsed. She didn’t try to get up again. She stayed where she was, her eyes tightly shut, hands over her ears.

“Make it stop,” she muttered. “Make it stop.”

A fingertip, under her chin.

This was real. This reassured her. Valkyrie breathed, calming, and opened her eyes, but it wasn’t Skulduggery crouching before her, it was a woman with silver hair, and Valkyrie jerked away, fell back, and the woman laughed.

“All this pain,” the woman said. “All this death and destruction. It’s because of you, my dear. All because of you.”

“You’re … you’re not real.”

“I will be,” the woman said, and smiled. “You will make me real. I know who you are. I know your secret.” The woman stood. “I am the Princess of the Darklands, and I’m coming for all of you.”

Her image drifted away on the thinning steam, and Skulduggery plunged through, scattering it completely.

“Did you see that?” Valkyrie asked.

“Some of it,” he said, helping her up. “Not all.”

“Her, I mean. Did you see her? The woman with the silver hair?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t,” he said, guiding Valkyrie to the chair.

She slumped down on to it, her limbs leaden. “She spoke to me.”

“To a future version of you.”

“No, Skulduggery – to me. She was speaking to me, now, just a few seconds ago. She touched my chin. I could feel it.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I know that. But I’m telling you it happened. She said she knew my secret. What secret? Do I even have any secrets? She said she was the Princess of the Darklands and that she’s coming for all of us. You didn’t see her? Hear her?”

“All I saw were the lines of people, the fire, Saracen, and then China. You’re sure she touched you?”

“Yes,” she said. “I mean … I’m pretty sure. I could feel – or at least I think I could feel …” She sighed. “I don’t know. The whole thing was kind of overwhelming.”

“What else did you see?”

“Tanith. She was fighting someone – big surprise. I saw Cadaverous Gant, that Plague Doctor guy, and Omen and another boy – I think it was his brother. You know what that means, don’t you? Omen stays involved. We can’t let that happen. Asking him to keep an eye out for suspicious behaviour is one thing, but actually mixing him up in this stuff is just too much. He thinks this is all a grand adventure, but we’re going to get him killed.”

“Did you see him die?”

“No, but that’s hardly the point, is it? We can’t endanger the lives of two innocent boys.”

“I’m afraid we might not have a choice with Auger. The Darkly Prophecy relates directly to a King of the Darklands – obviously a relation to the woman you saw. He’s already involved, and it’s got nothing to do with us.”

“But Omen isn’t. There’s nothing in that stupid prophecy about Omen, right? Skulduggery, promise me you’ll fix this.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Skulduggery said.

“You need to make sure he stops. He has to understand that we don’t want his help any more.”

“I’ll pay him a visit.”

“Let him down gently, though, OK? He seems … I don’t know. Fragile.”

Skulduggery tilted his head. “Does he?”

“You don’t think so?”

“No, actually. He doesn’t have your strength, but I detected a certain durability about him.”

“He can be durable on his own time, then, because I don’t want him to take one step further into this thing.”

“Very well.”

He watched her take the packet of leaves from her jeans.

“Are you sure you want another of those?”

“My head is splitting.”

“I’m not surprised. But an over-reliance on painkillers is not something you want to develop.”

She folded one, put it in her mouth. “They’re leaves, Skulduggery. I’m not exactly going to get addicted to leaves, am I? It’s not like they make me feel good. They just stop my head from exploding.”

“Non-exploding heads is something we want to encourage,” he admitted, and helped Valkyrie up.

By the time she’d climbed the stairs, her strength had come back to her. She stepped outside and the cold air froze her through her damp clothes. She hurried to the Bentley, let Xena in and got in after her.

Skulduggery slipped behind the wheel. “Congratulations,” he said, starting the engine. “You have looked into the future. You are a bona-fide psychic.”

“Yay,” she said without joy. “I’m not going to start reading people’s minds, am I? I find it unbearable enough reading their faces.”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I’ve never seen such a range of abilities in one person before. We don’t know your limits yet. We don’t even know if you have any. This is actually quite exciting.”

“Then you can be quite excited and I’ll just sit here and worry.”

He turned his head to her slightly. “Did you see anything else?”

“I saw enough,” she said, and looked out of the window.

14

The First Years were playing basketball on the outside court. Omen could see them from his desk. No magic was allowed, though, so it looked like a pretty dull game. He watched Rubic and Duenna walk across the small courtyard, deep in discussion. Not an unusual sight, the principal and vice-principal talking and walking, and certainly not enough to arouse Omen’s suspicions – but what better recruiters could the anti-Sanctuary have than the leaders of the school?

Omen sat back in his chair. The last class of the day was geography. The teacher’s name was Valance. He was an Adept, though Omen didn’t know which discipline he’d specialised in. So far, there didn’t seem to be anything suspicious about Valance’s behaviour. He just talked about geography a lot.

Omen cast a surreptitious eye over his classmates. They all looked pretty normal – bored and impatient for the lesson to be over. Apart from Chocolate, but then Chocolate loved geography. She was weird like that.

He smiled to himself. He liked this. Having a secret. Having a mission. Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain had come to him. Not to Auger, not to anyone else. To him. That meant something. A moment like that, he reckoned, a moment that singles a person out, validates their entire existence, gives their life meaning … Well. Something like that could be the start of something amazing.

“Omen.”

Omen looked up. “Wuh?”

“Did you get all that, Omen?” Valance asked, clearly aware that Omen had not. “Could you repeat it back to me?”

“Uh …”

“I don’t believe that’s a part of it.”

“No, sir,” said Omen. “What I meant was … I didn’t actually catch it, sir.”

Valance nodded. “I see. Which part?”

“Sir?”

“Which part didn’t you catch? Or, to put it another way, what’s the last part you did catch?”

Omen wished he didn’t blush so easily. “Uh …”

“Yes, Omen? Was it the volcanic ash part, or the igneous rock part?”

“Volcanic ash, sir.”

“Ah,” said Valance, and Omen knew instantly that it had been a trap. “Even though I’ve spent the entire class talking about the history of the European Union, the last thing you heard was me talking about volcanic ash, which you would have learned about in First Year. What Year are you in now, Omen?”

“Um, Third, sir.”

“So for the last two years you haven’t caught anything I’ve said?”

Omen lowered his head. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Sorry, Omen, what was that?”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Omen repeated, louder this time.

“I am shocked,” Valance said. “Shocked and appalled. Could you do me a favour, Omen? Could you try to pay attention? Could you do that for me? Or, at the very least, could you try not to be so obvious when your attention wanders? I am a very sensitive educator, and this will not have done my confidence any good whatsoever.”

Everyone else was enjoying this immensely. Omen kept his eyes on his desk. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you,” Valance said, and went back to teaching.

Omen copied down the notes and did his best to listen and look attentive, until the bell rang and he joined the others in filing out into the corridor. He dumped his bag in his locker and went walking, hands in his pockets, head down but eyes up.

Searching for the recruiter.

He passed the main gate, glanced at the street beyond. Only Sixth Years were allowed out after the school day had ended. They could spend their afternoons in Roarhaven and only had to be back for Evening Study. Omen, like everyone else, was stuck in here all day, five days a week. Of course, with his parents being the kind of parents they were, he rarely got to go home on the weekends, either. Not that this was necessarily a bad thing. He much preferred walking the school’s empty corridors on a Saturday and Sunday evening than sitting in his bedroom being criticised by his mum and dad.

He wandered for hours, spying. He passed the staffroom where the faculty watched the Global Link on TV, catching up on news of all things magical from around the world. He followed students, listening in to snippets of conversation, and trailed after various teachers, veering off when they started to notice. He enjoyed trailing after Miss Wicked the most. Of course, she was also the quickest to sense him, and his face burned with the heat of a thousand suns as he panicked and turned abruptly left. He walked into a wall and stayed there, like he’d meant to do it all along.

He got to the fourth floor without uncovering any evidence of enemy conspiracies. He saw Peccant coming the opposite way and dived round the corner. He waited there, back pressed flat against the wall. Students passed, ignoring him. He didn’t care about them. All he cared about was that Peccant should pass by, too.

Peccant turned the corner, stopped suddenly and glared. “Mr Darkly.” His voice was deep, his eyes narrow, his face lined. His hair was grey and his suit was tweed. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Omen stepped away from the wall, and tried smiling. “Yes, sir?”

“Where were you this morning, Mr Darkly? You were supposed to be in my class, were you not?”

“I got mixed up, sir.”

“Mixed up?”

“I got my timetable mixed up, sir. I’m really sorry.”

Peccant loomed over him. “And where were you?”

“In a study class, sir.”

“Supervised by whom?”

“Miss Ether.”

“And do you usually have a study class supervised by Miss Ether on a Tuesday?”

Omen swallowed. “No, sir.”

“Who usually supervises your Tuesday study class?”

“Uh … you do, sir.”

“And did it not strike you as odd, Mr Darkly, that I was not supervising this study class? Did it not occur to you that, maybe, you had got your timetable ‘mixed up’? Or did you think that I had suddenly become younger, and a woman?”

“No, sir.”

“None of that struck you as odd?”

“No, I mean, yes, I mean … I didn’t think, sir.”

Peccant leaned down. “There we have it. The crux of the problem. You didn’t think. That’s how you operate, after all, is it not? That’s how you work your way through life.”

Omen swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir,” said Peccant, mocking his voice. “So polite. So benign. I find it hard to believe you share even the flimsiest strand of DNA with your brother. Even when he’s caught breaking the rules, at least he does it with gusto. There’s no gusto with you, is there?”

“No, sir.”

Peccant took another moment to glare at him, then straightened up. “You have detention tomorrow. Be there on time or you get double.”

Peccant strode away and Omen stood with shoulders slumped.

“He hates you.”

Omen looked up as Filament Sclavi strolled over, hands in his pockets and an amused smile on his face.

“I have seen him take a dislike to people before,” Filament said, “but that was … what is the word, for the thing? That was malicious. It was as if he were gaining personal satisfaction from it.”

Omen didn’t know what to say, so he just said, “Yeah.”

“You are Omen, yes? Auger’s brother? My name is Filament. How is it going?”

“Going fine,” said Omen without thinking. “Well, I mean, apart from the detention I just got.”

“That does suck, yes,” Filament said. He was only a Fourth Year, but he looked older, about eighteen. He was tall and strong and handsome, like an Italian version of Omen’s brother. The only other thing Omen knew about him was that he was a member of the Eternity Institute, a self-help organisation that had posters up all over the school. “Do you play any sports, Omen?”

“Me?” Omen asked, even though it was obvious that it was him Filament was talking to. “No, I don’t. Never really understood it.”

“You have, um, never understood any sport in particular, or just sports in general?”

“In general,” said Omen. “Could never wrap my head around the, y’know, the point.”

Filament grinned. “So, if I suggested that maybe you try to join the rugby team, you would have no interest?”

Omen frowned. “I’d get squashed.”

Filament laughed. “You would not get squashed.”

“I would, though. Those guys are all huge.”

“Not all of them. Not even most of them, actually. I am not huge, am I? Yet I play rugby. There are some positions, in fact, where being a smaller player is an advantage.”

“Yeah,” said Omen, “for the opposite team. So you can squash them. I don’t think, if I did take up a sport, that rugby would be it, to be honest.”

“Ah, very well,” said Filament. “We play against mortals. We pretend to be like them, pretend to be a normal school, and we are not allowed to use magic, obviously … and sometimes we do well, and sometimes we get our asses kicked. I just thought that having a Darkly on the team would boost morale.”

“I’m really not the Darkly you want. Maybe if you ask Auger …?”

“I have,” said Filament, laughing. “He was really nice about it, but there was no way he would ever say yes. He is probably too busy having his adventures, yes? Hey, is it true, what he did last year? He stopped that human sacrifice guy?”

“It’s true,” said Omen. “At least, I think it’s true. He doesn’t really talk about that stuff, not even to me.”

Filament shook his head admiringly. “It must be some life to live, huh?”

“Must be.”

“And it must be a lot to live up to, as the twin brother.”

“You’d imagine so,” Omen said, “but I try not to try too hard. I’d hate to disappoint anyone.”

“That is probably wise, Omen.” There was a shout from down the corridor, and Filament waved, then turned back. “So hey, it was very good to meet you. I have passed you loads of times, but never had a reason to say hi. So … hi.”

“Hi.”

“And if you ever change your mind about the rugby …”

“The only way that’d happen is after a concussion playing rugby, so …”

Filament laughed. “Very well. I will see you around, then, Omen.”

The dinner bell rang, and Omen took one of the smaller staircases down. Never was sitting with his other friends, so Omen sat alone and watched people as they ate in their groups. The Sixth Year boys scared him, so he didn’t spend too long looking at them. The Sixth Year girls intimidated him, so he didn’t spend too long looking at them, either. The Fifth Year girls intimidated him, too, and so did the Fourth Years, so he pretty much stayed away from the girls completely.

His eyes settled on Jenan and his friends. They sat at the table at the far side of the hall, smirking to each other because that’s what they did – they smirked and felt superior. It was their favourite pastime.

It wasn’t a big deal, slagging off mortals. Omen didn’t like it, but it was everywhere, it happened in every part of the school, all the way up through the Years. Even some of the teachers indulged in it for a cheap joke and an easy laugh. But Jenan and his friends – Lapse and Gall, Sabre and Disdain – their comments were made of harder stuff, of sharper words. Their jokes were jagged, edged in bitterness. If a recruiter was to start recruiting in Corrival, Jenan Ispolin would be the obvious place to start.

And they were all part of a history study group, Arcanum’s Scholars, formed by Mr Lilt – a passionate teacher who, now that Omen thought about it, never had a good word to say about any mortal. Lilt sat at the staff table, chatting happily to one of the Combat Arts instructors.

Parthenios Lilt. Omen’s first suspect.

Excitement flared in his belly, as the idea registered with him that he might actually be good at this.

15

“I’m terrible at this,” Valkyrie said, closing the fridge door. Xena cocked her head quizzically. “Doing my own grocery shopping,” Valkyrie explained. “Human is no good at being human.”

Xena offered a whine of agreement.

“Don’t worry,” Valkyrie told her. “I’ve got plenty of food for you. That’s all you care about, isn’t it? As long as you’re fed, that’s all that matters.” She opened a pouch of dog food and emptied it into the bowl on the floor. “Unless I can microwave myself some of yours. It doesn’t look that bad …”

Xena didn’t seem impressed with that notion. She crowded her bowl, shielding it from view as she ate.

“Fine,” Valkyrie said, shrugging into her coat. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Protect the place while I’m gone, OK? And no parties.”

Xena ignored her.

Valkyrie got in the car and drove the fifteen minutes to the Super Saver in Haggard. She picked up the essentials, loaded in a treat or two and took it to the till. As she was waiting to pay, she saw her mother perusing the shelves. Valkyrie stayed very still.

Her mother looked around, eyes low, smiling as Alice came into view. Little Alice, with those dimples and that ever-present smile, showing her mum which box of cereal she’d like. Valkyrie handed over cash, didn’t bother with the change, just grabbed her grocery bags and walked quickly out of the store. To be spotted was to be hugged, was to be showered with love she didn’t deserve. To be spotted was to see the excitement and love in Alice’s eyes – eyes she had seen flutter closed five years earlier, when Valkyrie had killed her in a misguided attempt to save the world. The fact that she had clumsily managed to revive her moments later didn’t change the fact. Killing was killing. Murder was murder.

Valkyrie loaded the bags into the back of the car and got out of there.

She was halfway home when the phone rang. It made her jump. She pressed Answer and Skulduggery’s voice filled the car.

“We have a name,” he said.

“Sorry? A name for what?”

There was a pause from the other end. “You sound like you’re in a bad mood.”

She sighed. “I’m just hungry. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. And the fact that I now have visions has made me hugely grumpy. I don’t want to see the future, Skulduggery, especially if the future looks like that. I’m barely holding it together as it is.”

“What do you mean?”

Her hands tightened on the wheel. “I mean the stress.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. The stress. You know this. I talked about this.”

“You did. But for a moment it sounded like you’ve been going through more than you’ve been letting on.”

“No. Just the stress. So this name you’re talking about – a name for what?”

“For a suspect.”

“Wait, we have a name for whoever’s been recruiting from Corrival Academy?”

“We may have.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And where did we get this name, Skulduggery? Who gave us the name? It was Omen, wasn’t it? It was. For God’s sake, I thought we agreed on this.”

“We do,” Skulduggery said quickly, “and I was planning on talking to him in the morning, breaking it to him in person, and then a short while ago I received his text message. I didn’t expect him to come up with a name so quickly, to be honest. I mean, it’s probably nothing.”

“It’s undoubtedly nothing,” said Valkyrie. “He’s had half a day of being undercover and he has a name for us already? Either Omen is imagining things or he’s the greatest undercover agent in the history of the world.”

“You may be right.”

“So who is it?”

“Who is what?”

“The name.”

“Oh. Parthenios Lilt, a history teacher.”

“And why does our super-spy think the history teacher is a recruiter for the anti-Sanctuary?”

“The history teacher doesn’t like mortals, for one thing.”

“I don’t like mortals.”

“You don’t like anybody.”

“That doesn’t make me the recruiter.”

“Parthenios Lilt leads a study group called Arcanum’s Scholars, a reference to Rebus Arcanum, a supposedly long-dead explorer into Realms Unknown. That’s what he called them. With capital letters and everything.”

Valkyrie stopped at a crossroads as a huge tractor, festooned with lights, rumbled by. “Why is he supposedly long dead and not actually long dead?”

“We never found the body.”

“And what does he have to do with this Lilt guy?”

“Nothing as far as I can see,” Skulduggery said. “That’s just what Lilt calls his study group. Six boys, three girls in all. Omen doubts they do any actual studying – he says they’re just not the type – so the question then becomes what is Parthenios Lilt teaching those students?”

The tractor trundling away, Valkyrie eased out over the crossroads and continued on. “And Omen thinks he’s recruiting them for the anti-Sanctuary.”

“Yes, he does,” said Skulduggery. “I’ve looked into Mr Lilt. I’ve just had a few minutes, but already I’m finding things that lead me to believe he’s led a varied life.”

“He’s a sorcerer. That shouldn’t surprise you.”

“He authored a report for the French Sanctuary on Neoteric sorcerers, nearly forty years ago. He actually coined the term.”

“Then he should have done a better job because it means nothing to me.”

“Neoterics are mages without recognised disciplines,” Skulduggery said.

“Like Warlocks.”

“Not really. Usually, they’re people brought up outside the magical community. They don’t know the rules, so they make their own, and their magic adapts to their personality.”

“So sorcerers who didn’t know they were sorcerers,” Valkyrie said.

“I suppose that’s a fair assessment. From what you’ve told me, Cadaverous Gant is probably a Neoteric. When his magic manifested, it fitted itself around his warped sensibilities and resulted in his unique power. They are relatively rare, thankfully, but usually unstable, unfortunately, so we keep an eye out for them. Most incursions occur because a Neoteric sorcerer has lost control and a mortal is right there to witness it.”

“Jeremiah Wallow was probably a Neoteric, too,” she said, the car going over the humpback bridge on the way to her house.

“Very likely, and Lilt may have had contact with them both. Valkyrie?”

“I’m here.”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah. He may have had contact. So Omen might be right.”

“It’s a possibility. I’m heading back to Roarhaven. The High Sanctuary has a copy of the Neoteric Report and I want to reacquaint myself with it. Can you meet me there tomorrow?”

“Sure,” she said, if the nightmares that she knew were coming didn’t drag her down. If she could get out of bed in the morning. If she could even convince herself that she wasn’t dead.

“Is everything OK?” Skulduggery asked. “You sound … distracted.”

“I’m fine.” I’m not. “Just hungry.” Just nuts. “See you in Roarhaven.”

She ended the call, passed the heavy gates and drove up to her front door. She got out, breathed in the cold air and leaned against the car for a moment with her eyes closed. She wasn’t going nuts. She wasn’t insane. She was as healthy as ever. Everything was perfectly normal.

When she opened her eyes again, Darquesse was sitting on her front step. “You’re late,” she said.

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