First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2013

Reissued in this edition in 2017

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

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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 2013

Illuminated letters copyright © Tom Percival 2013

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.

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Source ISBN: 9780007489237

Ebook Edition © ISBN: 9780007489244

Version: 2019-04-15

This book is dedicated to you.

Whether you are a Minion or a Skuttlebug or just, you know, a normal person, it’s because of you that I get to do what I love and laughingly call it work.

I know some of you by name and some of you by sight (and some of you by smell, but let’s not get into that) but there are still countless others I have never met, and to all of you I say thank you for your support, your passion, and your lunacy.

Now please, for the love of whatever god you pray to, leave me alone.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Five Years Ago

Three Months Ago

Chapter 1: The Witches

Chapter 2: Back in Roarhaven

Chapter 3: The Big Day

Chapter 4: The Secret Origin Of …

Chapter 5: Unfair Advantage

Chapter 6: Stark Realities

Chapter 7: Saracen

Chapter 8: Searching the Aisles

Chapter 9: Roarhaven’s Number One Public House

Chapter 10: The Thirteenth Floor

Chapter 11: Big, Tough Man

Chapter 12: The Deadline

Chapter 13: Eye for an Eye

Chapter 14: Seeing the Future

Chapter 15: Spilling Blood

Chapter 16: The Supreme Council

Chapter 17: Muffins

Chapter 18: Regis

Chapter 19: Laken Cross

Chapter 20: Off to War

Chapter 21: Making Plans

Chapter 22: Staying Out of Trouble

Chapter 23: The Dark and Stormy Knight

Chapter 24: Stagnant Water

Chapter 25: The Old Gang Back Together

Chapter 26: The Pursuit Begins

Chapter 27: Mantis

Chapter 28: The Stick

Chapter 29: Tanith’s True Love

Chapter 30: Dead Men’s Tales

Chapter 31: Wolfsong

Chapter 32: The Ghost Town

Chapter 33: Monster Hunters and Me

Chapter 34: Rude Awakening

Chapter 35: Sneaking In

Chapter 36: Losing Blood

Chapter 37: Charivari

Chapter 38: The Keep

Chapter 39: Enemy Combatants

Chapter 40: Wolves at the Door

Chapter 41: Gunning for Ode

Chapter 42: Misdirection

Chapter 43: Undercover

Chapter 44: The Call to Action

Chapter 45: Under Attack

Chapter 46: The New Captain

Chapter 47: Ajuoga

Chapter 48: Assassins

Chapter 49: Intimidation Techniques

Chapter 50: The Battle at the Keep

Chapter 51: The Man with the Golden Eyes

Chapter 52: A Reasonable Reaction

Chapter 53: In Her Head

Chapter 54: Stephanie Edgley

Chapter 55: Refuge

Chapter 56: The Documentary

Chapter 57: Sunburn

Chapter 58: The Brides of Blood Tears

Chapter 59: The Rise

Chapter 60: One Little Word

Chapter 61: The Real Girl

Chapter 62: Roarhaven Revealed

Chapter 63: The Trap

Chapter 64: The Trap is Sprung

Chapter 65: The Warlocks

Chapter 66: The Siege at Roarhaven

Chapter 67: Wraiths

Chapter 68: Black Smoke, White Flame

Chapter 69: Quiet Moments

Chapter 70: Supercharged

Chapter 71: In the Sanctuary

Chapter 72: Rescue

Chapter 73: War Despondent

Chapter 74: The Thick of It

Chapter 75: Uneven Odds

Chapter 76: China’s Final Act

Chapter 77: The Sacrifice

Chapter 78: After the War

Chapter 79: The Package

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The Skulduggery Pleasant series

About the Publisher

he camp was dark and quiet, and the Warlocks slept.

Up on the hill, watching them, a man with golden eyes pulled the collar of his coat tighter in a vain attempt to stave off the cold. His fingers and toes were already numb. His teeth were starting to chatter. How many times had he been in similar circumstances, enduring discomfort while he waited for the perfect time to strike? More than he could remember, that was for sure. It was worth it, of course. It was always worth it.

There was movement behind him, but he didn’t turn. He recognised the footsteps. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

The old man stopped beside him, cupped his hands and blew into them to warm them. “I had visitors,” he said. His voice was rough. Words scraped from his throat. “The Skeleton Detective and a girl. She has old blood in her. Ancient blood, I reckon. She’s dangerous.”

“She’s thirteen years old. She’s a child.”

“She won’t stay a child. A few more years and she’ll be a threat, you mark my words.”

“Consider them marked,” said the man with the golden eyes. What had Madame Mist said about the Torment? Once upon a time, he’d been formidable, he’d been dangerous, but he was an old man now, a good blade that had lost its edge. Maybe she was right.

“These plans of yours,” the Torment said, “the plans you’ve made with my fellow Children of the Spider. These are good plans. They will suffice.”

“You’re onboard, then? What changed your mind?”

The Torment’s lined faced was half hidden by the long grey hair and all that beard, but he didn’t look like a dulled blade any more. He looked suddenly sharp. “My visitors. Their arrogance has stirred me from my apathy. The mortals they protect have run this world long enough. It’s past time we took over.”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” said the man with the golden eyes. “In that case, there are some Warlocks down there in need of killing, if you’re in the mood …?”

The man with the golden eyes approached the camp from the south, the Torment beside him, while the mercenaries closed in from all around. Mortals, in dark military clothing. Heavily armed. Not a sound was made, and yet one of the Warlocks stirred, woke, sat up, looked out into the night, a night that was suddenly lit up by the bright flashes of gunfire.

The three Warlocks leaped up, caught in the crossfire. Notoriously hard to kill, even they couldn’t survive the relentless barrage of bullets. Light spilled from every wound as they jerked and fell and stumbled, and then the light faded and they toppled.

Silence followed, broken only by empty magazines being replaced.

The Torment put his gun away. He didn’t like using mortal weapons. He didn’t like having to work by their side. But he was going to like what came next.

The mercenaries walked into camp, made sure that the Warlocks were really dead.

“You three,” said the man with the golden eyes, “take the jeep and go. I’ll be in touch to arrange payment.”

Three mercenaries faded into the darkness. The other two stayed close, waiting for orders.

The Torment grabbed the taller one’s head, twisted till the neck broke. The smaller one stumbled back, going for his weapon, but the Torment took it from him and used it to beat him to death.

While the mercenary was being killed, the man with the golden eyes surveyed the scene. The other Warlocks would return to find their brothers slaughtered, and they would find the bodies of two of the soldiers who did it. Mortal soldiers, wearing no uniform, with no insignias or identification.

“Why did you let the others live?” the Torment asked when he was done. “They can identify us.”

That was half right. The other mercenaries could identify the Torment, but the man with the golden eyes was already fading from their memories. “For this to work, they need to be able to boast about their missions. The three I let go have the biggest mouths. Their boasts will eventually reach the right ears.”

The Torment scowled. “There is a faster way to do this.”

“No,” said the man with the golden eyes. “We’re not ready yet. But we will be. Soon.”

f its estimations were correct – and of course they were correct, they were never wrong – then the Engineer was going to make it. From the instant that warning ping had sounded in its head, it had had exactly four weeks to implement the shutdown procedure before catastrophe became somewhat inevitable. It used the caveat ‘somewhat’ because of course nothing was inevitable, not really. There were always hidden clauses to every eventuality. This the Engineer had learned in its travels, in what it called ‘life experience’. That the Engineer was not, technically, alive, mattered not. It existed, and it had sentience, and as such it had life experience. Moving on …

If it had been where it was supposed to be when the ping had sounded, the four-week countdown would have mattered not one jot. Unfortunately, the Engineer was not where it was supposed to be. A regrettable unfolding of events, to be sure. The Engineer felt most bad about that. Not that it was the Engineer’s fault. No one could possibly lay the blame at the Engineer’s mechanical feet. Had it not stood guard for almost three decades? Had it not fulfilled its duty for the most part? Was it really the fault of the Engineer that its advanced programming, a wonderful mixture of technology and magic, enabled it to experience the human phenomenon of ‘boredom’? Was it really the fault of the Engineer that it had decided to go for a walk, or that when the ping sounded, when the Engineer was finally needed to leap into action, instead of being right there, ready to help, it was on a beach in Italy looking for unusual shells?

No, the Engineer thought not.

It was making good time now, though. The magical symbols carved into its metal body erased it from the memories of mortals the instant they saw it, allowing the Engineer to travel in broad daylight, through busy city streets. The Engineer smiled (internally, for of course it had no mouth). It was feeling good. It was feeling optimistic. Moving at its current speed, it would arrive back in Ireland in plenty of time to shut everything down before a series of overloads and power loops inevitably led to a sequence of events which would, in turn, eventually lead to the probable destruction of the world. The Engineer wasn’t worried.

And then the truck hit it.

War is the business of barbarians.

—Napoleon Bonaparte

he sky was clear and the stars were bright and Gracious had fallen asleep on the grass. Donegan nudged him and he murmured and came round.

“You were supposed to be keeping an eye on the place,” Donegan said.

“I was,” Gracious yawned.

“You were asleep.”

“I was resting my eyes.”

“You were snoring.”

“I was exercising my lungs.”

“Get up.”

Grumbling, he got to his feet and stretched. He didn’t have to stretch very far. He wasn’t that tall. Still, what Gracious O’Callahan lacked in height he made up for in muscle and cool hair. “Hi, Valkyrie,” he said.

“Hi, Gracious.”

“So is this your first time meeting a witch?”

She nodded.

“You’ll do fine, don’t worry. Witches are more afraid of you than you are of them.”

“I thought that was bees.”

He blinked. “You might be right. Yes, you are right. Bees are fine, witches are horrible. Always get those two mixed up.” He was wearing baggy jeans and a faded Star Wars T-shirt. Valkyrie imagined that he had a special nerd room at home where he kept all of his weird clothes that referenced old movies, and she imagined him standing in the middle of that room for hours, slowly rotating on the spot, an unsettling smile on his face. By contrast, Donegan Bane, a tall and slender Englishman, favoured sports coats and narrow ties with his skinny jeans.

He glared at Gracious. “I can’t believe you fell asleep.”

“I didn’t fall asleep.”

“Then do you know if she’s home or not?”

“I haven’t a clue,” Gracious admitted. “I fell asleep.”

Valkyrie had first met them only a few months earlier, but she felt she knew them well enough by now to know that, if given the opportunity, they would stand on this hill and bicker for hours. So she turned and walked down to the cottage, and after a moment they followed her.

They arrived at the door and Donegan knocked three times. They waited and the door was opened by a frowning girl.

“Hello,” Donegan said with a smile she didn’t return.

“Do you know what time it is?” the girl asked. Valkyrie judged her to be around her age, maybe seventeen or eighteen. She had pale skin and full lips and luxuriant red hair that framed her face.

“Why no,” Donegan replied as if it were a game. “What time is it?”

She scowled. “What do you want?”

“My name is Donegan Bane and this is my colleague Gracious O’Callahan – we’re Monster Hunters. We’re here with our associate Valkyrie Cain, and we were wondering if your grandmother was home.”

“You’re Monster Hunters?”

“Indeed we are. You’ve probably heard of us. Writers of Monster Hunting for Beginners,The Definitive Study of Were-Creatures, and The Passions of Greta Grey, our first work of romantic fiction.”

“And you want my grandmother?”

“If your grandmother is Dubhóg Ni Broin, yes.”

“Are you going to kill her?”

“I’m sorry? Oh, no! No, nothing like that. We just want to talk to her.”

“So you’re not going to kill her?”

“No,” Donegan said with a laugh. “I assure you, she’s quite safe.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“We came here unarmed,” Donegan said cheerfully, and Gracious looked at him.

“You’re unarmed?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes,” Donegan said. “Aren’t you?”

“Well, I suppose so. Apart from my gun.”

Donegan glared at him. “What? Why did you bring a gun? I told you to come unarmed.”

“I thought you were joking.”

“Why would I be joking?”

“I don’t know, I thought that’s what made it funny.”

Donegan looked like he might strangle his partner, but then forced the smile back on his face and turned once again to the girl.

“I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t catch your name …?”

“Misery,” the girl answered, suspicious.

“Misery, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My friend here has many problems; he’s quite bright in his own way, but likes taking guns to inappropriate places. Let me assure you that we mean your grandmother no harm. We just want to talk to her.”

“Why?”

Valkyrie stepped forward before either of the Monster Hunters could make the situation worse. “We’re looking for a friend of ours. Maybe you’ve seen him? Tall? Skinny? Wears nice suits? Also he’s a skeleton? His name’s Skulduggery Pleasant and he’s wandered off on his own and we think your gran might know where he is.”

“Why would my grandmother know that?”

“Because he came to see her, and that’s the last we heard of him.”

“We don’t have much to do with sorcerers,” Misery said. “They don’t like us and we don’t like them. I don’t recall seeing your friend, either. What did you say he was? A zombie? A mummy?”

“A skeleton.”

“A skeleton, yeah. No, haven’t seen one of those in ages.”

“I think you’re lying,” Valkyrie said.

Misery smiled coldly. “What if I am? What are you going to do about it?”

“Whatever I have to.”

“Ah, there it is, the arrogance that my grandmother is always talking about. And what kind of sorcerer are you, then? Let me guess. Standing here, dressed all in black … Are they armoured clothes you’re wearing? They are, aren’t they? And that big ugly ring on your finger – that’s from that death magic thing, isn’t it? Necromancy? But you … you’re my age. You’re too young to have had the Surge. You’re probably still experimenting with your little sorcerer disciplines, like a good little girl. So I’d say you’re an Elemental. I’m right, amn’t I? See, witches don’t have disciplines. Real magic isn’t about choosing one thing over the other. Real magic is about opening yourself up to everything.”

“Yeah,” said Valkyrie. “That’s really interesting. Is your granny home? Could we talk to her?”

“She’s home,” said Misery. “She’s busy, though.”

“Doing what?”

“Witchy things.”

“Could we come in?”

“Nope.”

“We’re coming in, with or without your permission.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“No, you really wouldn’t.”

“I think,” Gracious said quickly, “that the wrong foot has been gotten off of. Misery, you seem to me to be a lovely girl, and I sense a sort of kindness in your eyes which reminds me of a newborn fawn, or the noble hedgehog. We’ve been looking for your grandmother for days now, and yesterday our dear friend Skulduggery went missing. We’re very worried, as you can imagine, and some of us, without naming any names, might be a little more short-tempered than usual.”

“I’m not short-tempered,” said Valkyrie.

“Then how did you know I was referring to you?”

“Because you pointed.”

“Getting back to the subject at hand, Misery, we would really appreciate it if you’d let us in. Please?”

Misery looked at him, but didn’t respond.

“Um,” said Gracious, “hello?”

“Quiet,” she said, “I’m thinking.” She chewed a plump lip, then sighed. “I don’t really get along with my grandmother. She’s stuck in her ways and … I look at her and she’s all withered and stuff and I don’t want to end up like that, you know? I don’t want to live in a cottage in the middle of nowhere for the rest of my life. I want to live in the city. I want to wear high-heeled shoes every once in a while and do things that don’t all revolve around being a witch.”

Gracious nodded. “I understand and sympathise with everything you’ve just said, apart from the bit about the high-heeled shoes, which I wouldn’t know about.”

“Can you promise me you’re not going to hurt her?” Misery asked.

Valkyrie frowned. “Why would we hurt her?”

“Because she has your friend trapped in the cellar.”

Valkyrie stepped through the doorway. “He’d better be OK.”

Misery held up her hands. “He’s fine, he’s fine. From what I can hear they’re just talking. If you can promise me you won’t hurt her, I’ll show you how to get down there. Deal?”

“I’ll defend myself,” Valkyrie said. “If she attacks me, I’ll defend myself. But … we promise to go easy on her if it’s at all possible.”

“That’s really the best deal you’re going to get,” Gracious added, a little apologetically.

“Fine,” said Misery, after a moment’s consideration. “Come on in. Wipe your feet.”

The cottage was dark and weird and smelled funny, like boiled cabbage and wet dog. Valkyrie could see why Misery didn’t like living here. She couldn’t see a TV or even a radio. It was lit by oil lamps, and there was a brazier in the corner. In the winter, she imagined this place would get very cold.

Misery pulled back a rug and lifted a heavy trapdoor. She put her finger to her lips, and Valkyrie nodded.

The cellar was bigger than she’d expected, but about as gloomy. Valkyrie and the Monster Hunters walked down the stone steps, then crept through the tunnel towards a flickering light, following the sound of Skulduggery’s voice and another, a woman’s. The nearer they got, the more distinct the words became.

“—see what this has got to do with me,” said the woman. “I’m just an old witch living out her life with an ungrateful granddaughter. What would I know about the affairs of Warlocks?”

Valkyrie peered round the corner. Dubhóg Ni Broin looked remarkably like the witches in fairy tales. She was old and small and stooped, with tangled grey hair and a long chin with a wart on it – an actual wart. She was wearing a black shawl over a shapeless black dress but, disappointingly, no pointy hat. Still, Valkyrie wouldn’t have wanted her to slip fully into caricature. That would have been silly.

Facing Dubhóg, his back to Valkyrie, Skulduggery Pleasant stood in a chalk circle. She knew enough about symbols and sigil magic by now to know that the circle was binding his powers, but there were other symbols there she didn’t recognise. Seeing as how he didn’t just step out of the circle, though, she guessed they were there to keep him in place.

“Witches and Warlocks get along like a house on fire,” he said. He was wearing the grey suit he’d been in the last time she’d seen him. His hat was on the table in the corner, and the lamplight flickered off his skull. “You shop at the same stores, use the same recipes … If anyone would have heard what the Warlocks are up to, it’d be a witch.”

“Maybe those other witches,” Dubhóg said, somewhat resentfully. “Maybe the Maidens or those Brides of Blood Tears with their exposed bellies and their veils and their long legs … Is my belly exposed, Mr Skeleton? Am I wearing a veil? Are my legs long and shapely?”

“Uh,” said Skulduggery.

“There are different sorts of witches and Warlocks,” Dubhóg continued, “just like there are different sorts of sorcerers. There are male witches and female witches, just as there are male Warlocks and female Warlocks. There are all kinds. But we keep to ourselves. The business of others does not interest us.”

“But the business of others does interest me,” Skulduggery said. “I’ve been hearing rumours, Dubhóg. Disquieting rumours. I just thought you might be able to allay my fears.”

“And that is why you attacked me?”

“I merely knocked on your front door.”

“Then you attacked my door.” Dubhóg squinted at him. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? With your Sanctuaries and your rules. You think everyone should be like you. Well, I’m not like you. Witches aren’t like you. Warlocks aren’t like you. Why would we want to be? You live your lives restricted by rules. Even your magic is restricted. Sorcerers treat magic like science. It’s disgusting and unnatural. It twists what true magic is all about.”

“Control is important.”

“Why? Why is it important? Magic should be allowed to flourish in whichever form it takes.”

“That way madness lies.”

“For the weak-minded, perhaps.”

“Tell me what Charivari is up to.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Dubhóg. “I’ve never met the man. Why would you think I know anything about any of this?”

“A little over a year ago, you were seen talking to a Warlock who went on to try to kill me and my associate.”

“A year? How can I be expected to remember that far back? I’m eight hundred years old. I get confused about the little things – who said what, who did what, who tried to kill who … My days are devoted to my granddaughter and my nights are spent making multiple trips to the toilet. I don’t have time for anyone’s grand schemes.”

“So Charivari has a grand scheme?”

Dubhóg frowned. “I didn’t say that.”

“Actually, you sort of did.”

“Oh, I see,” said Dubhóg. “You’re one of those, are you? You like to play around with words to try and get the better of me. Well, it’s not going to work. With age comes wisdom, you ever hear that?”

“I did, but I’ve found that wisdom has a cut-off point of around one hundred and twenty years. Once you reach that, you’re really as wise as you’re going to get.”

“Well, I’m wise enough to say nothing more on the subject.”

“So you know more on the subject.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Again, you implied that you did. The Warlock you spoke to had been hired by the Necromancers to kill us – he said he owed them a special favour. Why?”

Dubhóg shrugged. “Why does anyone do anything?”

“What did the Necromancers do for the Warlocks? Did they give them something? They did? What was it – an item, an object, a person? Was it a thing, was it information, was it—? It was information? OK.”

Dubhóg stepped back, horrified. “What are you doing? Are you reading my mind? No one can read my mind. Witches’ minds cannot be read.”

“I’m not reading your mind,” Skulduggery said. “I’m reading your face. What information did the Necromancers give them? A strategy? A place? A name?”

Dubhóg screamed and covered her face with her hands.

“A name, then,” Skulduggery said.

“You don’t know that!” Dubhóg cried. “I have my face covered!”

“So that’s what the Warlock wanted from the Necromancers, but what did he want from you? This will go easier for you if you just tell me what I want to know.”

“Never!”

While Dubhóg reeled dramatically with her face covered, Valkyrie stepped out from hiding and approached the circle. Skulduggery gave her a little wave. She could have wet her finger and smudged the chalk, but instead she decided to put all those hours of practice to good use. Crouching by the edge of the circle, she put her hand flat on the ground and pushed her magic into the concrete until she was almost part of it, until she was cold and hard just like it was. And then she wrenched her hand to the side and the ground cracked, splitting one of the lines of chalk.

Dubhóg whirled at the noise, and stared at Valkyrie as Skulduggery stepped out of the circle. “How did you get in? Did you harm my granddaughter?”

“She’s fine,” Valkyrie said, straightening up.

“If you hurt her …”

“We didn’t.”

Dubhóg’s face contorted in fury. “You will pay!”

“I told you,” Valkyrie said, frowning, “we didn’t hurt—”

But it was too late.

Dubhóg flew into the air, the space around her crackling with an energy that made her long hair stand on end. She hovered there, looking like an electrocuted cartoon character, her face twisted in anger. Gracious leaped at her, and a stream of sizzling light caught him in the chest and sent him hurtling backwards. Donegan rushed in, his hands lighting up, but Dubhóg caught the energy stream he sent her way and responded with another one of her own. The air rushed in around Valkyrie and she shot towards Dubhóg, the shadows bunching round her fist. Dubhóg grabbed her by the throat, her grip strong, and Valkyrie clicked her fingers, summoning a ball of flame into her hand, and prepared to ram it into the witch’s face.

“Granny,” Misery called. “Granny, stop that. Gran. NANA!”

The battle froze, and Dubhóg looked round. “Misery? You’re OK?”

“They didn’t hurt me, Nana,” Misery said, somewhat crossly. “Now put her down before you embarrass me even more.”

Dubhóg drifted to the ground and let go of Valkyrie, who stepped back, rubbing her throat.

“Terribly sorry,” Dubhóg said, her hair returning to normal, that ferocious power leaving her as quickly as it had arrived.

“That’s quite all right,” Skulduggery said, walking forward. “We all make mistakes, isn’t that right? No harm done.”

In the corner, Gracious moaned.

“Tell them what they want to know,” Misery said, “then come upstairs. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Misery turned, walked away, and Dubhóg cleared her throat and smiled at Skulduggery.

“I’m a constant source of embarrassment to her,” she explained. “I can’t do anything right, really. All I want to do is protect her from the everyday cruelties of life, but I always do something wrong. I say the wrong thing, or I attack the wrong people …”

“Kids,” Skulduggery said, sympathising.

“She’ll miss me when I’m gone,” Dubhóg said.

“So, the Warlock …”

“Oh, yes, him. I don’t know what information the Necromancers gave him. He mentioned he’d been talking to one of them, a man with a ridiculous name.”

“Bison Dragonclaw,” said Valkyrie.

“Dragonclaw, yes,” said Dubhóg. “That was it.”

“And why did he come to see you in the first place?” Skulduggery asked.

“He thought I’d be able to convince my sisters to join with Charivari. But we Crones use magic differently from even other witches – it doesn’t keep us so young. We are old women, and so I told him no.”

“Join Charivari to do what? What are the Warlocks planning?”

“War,” said Dubhóg. “They’re planning on going to war.”

hastly Bespoke returned to Roarhaven with a sense of overwhelming dread. It wasn’t danger he dreaded, or battle, or confrontation or arguments. It was meetings. It was endless, monotonous meetings.

The last few days he’d spent at his old shop in Dublin, working on various items of clothing. Repairing, modifying, making from scratch. He had been content there. Happy. Alone with this thoughts, alone with the needle and thread, with the fabrics, his mind had been allowed to settle, and it had been wonderful.

But his vacation was over, and here he was, being driven back into the squalid, bleak little town of Roarhaven and all that anxiety he’d left behind was quickly building up again inside his chest. They drove through Main Street, drawing a few cold glances from the townspeople. There was a single, sad little tree planted in a square of earth on the pavement. For as long as he’d been here, he had never seen it with leaves. Here they were in August and it was just as thin and skeletal as it had been in winter. It wasn’t dead, though. It was as if the town were keeping it alive purely to prolong its torture.

They approached the dark, stagnant lake and the squat building that rested beside it, all grey and concrete and uninspiring. The Administrator, Tipstaff, was waiting for him as he thanked the driver and got out of the car.

“Elder Bespoke, welcome back. The meeting is about to start.”

Ghastly frowned at him. “It’s not scheduled till two. They arrived early?”

“In their words, they are ‘eager to negotiate’.”

Ghastly walked out of the warm sun into the chill Sanctuary, Tipstaff beside him. “Who’s here?”

“Elder Illori Reticent of the English Sanctuary plus two associates, an Elemental and an Energy-Thrower.”

“That’s all?”

“We’ve been tracking them since they flew in this morning, and we’ve been keeping an eye on all known foreign sorcerers in the country. It would appear that these three are the only ones in the vicinity. Elder Bespoke?”

Tipstaff held a door open and Ghastly grumbled, but went inside. In here, his robe was waiting. He pulled it on, checked himself in the mirror. His shirt, his waistcoat, his tie, his trousers, all those clothes he’d made himself, all of them were covered up by this robe. His physique, honed by countless hours of punching bags and punching people, was rendered irrelevant by this shapeless curtain he now wore. The only thing that wasn’t covered up was the one thing he’d spent his life trying to draw attention away from – the perfectly symmetrical scars that covered his entire head.

Tipstaff brushed a speck of lint from Ghastly’s shoulder, and nodded approvingly. “This way, sir.”

Ghastly could have walked to the conference room blindfolded, but he let Tipstaff take the lead. There was Ghastly’s way of doing things and there was the proper way of doing things, and if there was one thing Tipstaff liked, it was procedure.

They reached a set of double doors guarded by two Cleavers. At Tipstaff’s nod, the warriors in grey banged their scythes on the floor in perfect unison and the doors opened. Tipstaff stood to one side as Ghastly walked in.

Grand Mage Erskine Ravel sat at the round table and scratched at his neck. The robes could be particularly itchy against bare skin, which was why Ghastly had lined his with silk. He hadn’t offered to line Ravel’s, though. He found it quietly amusing to watch his friend suffer.

Beside Ravel sat Madame Mist, her face covered by that black veil she always wore. He’d often wondered if her features were as unsightly as his own, but decided that no, the veil was probably some piece of tradition that the Children of the Spider had chosen to keep alive.

Across from Ravel and Mist, Illori Reticent sat patiently. A pretty woman with a beautiful mind, Illori’s smile grew warm when she saw him.

“Elder Bespoke,” she said, rising to meet him, “so good to see you again.”

“Elder Reticent,” said Ghastly, shaking her hand. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re not late, we’re early, which in some circumstances can be twice as rude as being late.”

Ghastly glanced at the man and woman standing behind her, their backs to the wall and their expressions vacant. “You only came with two bodyguards, I see.”

“Of course,” Illori said, smiling innocently. “I’m not in any danger, am I? I am among friends, yes?”

“Indeed you are,” said Ghastly, smiling back at her. “It’s nice that you remember. So many of your fellow mages seem to have forgotten that fact.”

“Well, they’re not here, and I am, so I have been granted the honour of speaking for the whole of the Supreme Council. And I have some things I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Then let’s get started,” Ghastly said, and took up his place at Ravel’s side.

Illori looked at them all before speaking again. “The Irish Sanctuary has been at the forefront of the battle against oppression and tyranny for the last six hundred years, ever since Mevolent’s rise to power. We recognise that, and we appreciate that. Until recently, your Council of Elders was the most respected Council of any territory in living memory.”

Ravel nodded. “Until recently.”

“That’s no secret, surely. The death of Eachan Meritorious was a great loss to us all, but for Ireland it signalled the beginning of a rapid slide into uncertainty, aided no doubt when Thurid Guild’s brief time as Grand Mage ended with his imprisonment. Again and again, the Irish Sanctuary has been battered by enemies from without and within.”

“And again and again we have triumphed,” said Ghastly.

“Indeed you have,” said Illori, “thanks to some exemplary work by your operatives. But your Sanctuary has been weakened. When the next attack comes, you may not be strong enough to prevail. So I have come to you with a solution, should you be agreeable.”

“This’ll be interesting,” Ravel muttered.

“Before the Sanctuaries, there were communities. Each of these communities was ruled by twelve village Elders. Each of these twelve would oversee a different aspect of village life, but, when the time came to make important decisions, all twelve votes were counted equally.”

“We know our own history,” said Ravel. “We also know that when the Sanctuaries were established, the unwieldy twelve was cut down to a more practical three. Even the communities that are around today haven’t kept up with the old ways.”

“Even so,” Illori said, “lessons can be learned. We propose the establishment of a supporting Council of nine – five mages of our choosing, four of yours – to help you in the running of your affairs. This would leave you with a majority of seven to five, and it would mean you had more sorcerers, more Cleavers, and more resources. Your Sanctuary would remain under your full control and it would be returned to its former strength.”

Ravel looked at her. “I’m curious as to why you think we would possibly say yes to this.”

“Because it’s a fair proposal. You retain full control—”

“We retain full control now,” said Mist. “Why would we change?”

“Because the current situation is not acceptable.”

“To you,” said Ravel.

“To us, yes,” said Illori. “There are members of the Supreme Council who view you as dangerous and reckless and they continually call for action against you. Every mage paying attention is expecting war to break out at any moment. Why would you risk hostilities if the situation can be resolved amicably?”

“There’s not going to be a supporting Council, Elder Reticent.”

“Why not?”

“Because the Supreme Council does not tell us what to do.”

Illori shook her head. “Is that what this is? A matter of pride? You won’t accept our terms because you don’t like being told what to do? Pride is wasted breath, Grand Mage Ravel. Pride is you putting your own petty concerns over the well-being of every sorcerer in your Sanctuary. More than that, it’s putting your petty concerns over the well-being of every mortal around the world. If war breaks out, it’s going to be so much harder to keep our activities off the news channels. If that happens, it’s on your heads. But we can avoid it all if you’d just listen to reason.”

“The Supreme Council has no right to dictate to other Sanctuaries how to conduct their business,” said Mist. “In fact, the Supreme Council itself may even be an illegal organisation.”

“Ridiculous.”

“We have our people looking into it,” Mist said.

“Don’t bother,” said Illori. “We’ve already had our own experts combing through the literature. There is no ancient rule or obscure law that says Sanctuaries cannot join forces to combat a significant threat. It’s what we did against Mevolent, after all.”

“We are a significant threat, are we?” asked Ravel.

“You might be,” Illori answered, then shook her head. “Listen, I didn’t come here to threaten you. We are standing on the precipice and the Supreme Council isn’t going to back away. They’re angry and they’re frightened, and the more they think about this, the more angry and frightened they become. They’re hurtling towards war and you’re the only ones who can stop them.”

“By agreeing to their demands.”

“Yes.”

“We’re not going to do that, Illori.”

“Do you want war, Erskine? Do you actually want to fight? How many of us do you want to kill?”

“If you’re looking to calm things down, calm down those making all the noise. We will not be intimidated and we will not be bullied.”

Illori laughed without humour. “You keep painting yourselves as the aggrieved, like you were just minding your own business and then the Supreme Council came along and tried to steal your lunch money. You are at fault, Erskine. Your Sanctuary is weak. You’ve made mistakes. We are not the bad guys here. We have gone out of our way to treat you with respect. We released Dexter Vex and his little group of thieves, didn’t we?”

“What does that have to do with us?” asked Ghastly. “Vex’s little group of thieves, as you call it, consisted of three Irishmen, an Englishman, an American and an African. It was an international group affiliated with no particular Sanctuary, who sought approval from no one before embarking on their mission.”

“An international group that was led by Dexter Vex and Saracen Rue,” Illori said, “two of your fellow Dead Men. They may not have told you what they were planning, but where would they have brought the God-Killer weapons had they succeeded in stealing them, except back to you?”

“Vex wanted them stockpiled in order to fight Darquesse.”

“A more suspicious mind than mine might wonder if Darquesse was merely the excuse he needed.”

“All of this is a moot point,” Ravel said. “Tanith Low and her band of criminals got to the God-Killers before Vex and she had them destroyed.”

“And you had her,” said Mist. “Briefly.”

“What was that?” Illori asked.

“You arrested her,” said Mist. “The woman who assassinated Grand Mage Strom. You arrested her, chained her up, and she escaped.”

“What’s your point?”

“There are those who say Strom’s assassination was the breaking point,” said Mist. “It was his death that has propelled us to the verge of war. He was assassinated here, of course, in this very building. For this, you blame us, even though Tanith Low is a Londoner. But when you finally arrest Miss Low, when you have the chance to punish the killer herself for the crime she committed … she mysteriously escapes.”

“Are you saying we let that happen?”

“It has allowed you to refocus your blame on us, has it not?”

“I haven’t heard anything so stupid in a long time,” said Illori, “and I’ve heard a lot of stupid things lately. We don’t know how she escaped or who helped her. The investigation is ongoing. There are those in the Supreme Council, by the way, who think this Sanctuary had something to do with it.”

“Of course they do,” Ravel said, sounding tired.

“They believe both Vex’s group and Tanith Low’s gang were taking orders from you,” Illori said. “Two teams going after the same prizes, independent of each other – doubling the chances of success.”

“Well,” said Ghastly, “it’s nice to see the Supreme Council thinks we’re so badly co-ordinated as to organise something as incredibly inept as that.”

“Illori, go home,” Ravel said gently. “Tell them you approached us with this proposal and we politely declined. Tell the Supreme Council that, before he died, Grand Mage Strom agreed that their interference was not necessary. He would have recommended no further action if Tanith Low hadn’t killed him. You and your colleagues have nothing to fear from us.”

“But that’s not strictly true, is it?” Illori asked. “You have the Accelerator. We’ve heard what it can do. Bernard Sult witnessed its potential. He saw the levels to which it can boost a sorcerer’s power. If you so wanted, you could boost the magic of every one of your mages and you could send them against us. Our superior numbers would mean nothing against power like that.”

“That’s not something we’re planning on doing.”

“Then dismantle it. I’m sure that would go a long way to placating the Supreme Council.”

Ravel shook his head. “The Accelerator is powering a specially-built prison cell – the only cell in existence capable of holding someone of Darquesse’s strength. We need it active.”

“Then give it to us as a gesture of good faith.”

“As a gesture of naivety, you mean. We’re not giving you the Accelerator. We’re not dismantling it. We’re not turning it off. We’re not even sure if it can be turned off. If that makes the Supreme Council nervous, then that is unfortunate. Please make it clear to your colleagues that we do not intend to use the Accelerator against them as part of any pre-emptive strike.” Ravel sat forward. “If, however, the Supreme Council launches any kind of attack against us or our operatives, and if we feel significantly threatened, then using the Accelerator to even the odds is always an option.”

“They’re not going to be pleased to hear that.”

“Illori, at this point? I really don’t give a damn.”

esmond Edgley threw back his head and sang, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, you look like a monkey, and you smell like one, too!” and laughed like a drain as Valkyrie blew out her candles. It had been the same lyrics every year since she was old enough to know what a monkey was. She had grown up and matured. Her father had not.

Her mum and baby sister clapped and Valkyrie sat back down, grinning. Faint trails of smoke rose, twisting, from eighteen candles, and were quickly dispersed by her mother’s waving hand.

“Did you make a wish?” her dad asked.

She nodded. “World peace.”

He made a face. “Really? World peace? Not a jetpack? I would have wished for a jetpack.”

“You always wish for a jetpack,” her mum said, cutting the cake. “Have you got one yet?”

“No,” he said, “but you need to use up a lot of wishes to get something like a jetpack. On my next birthday, I’ll have wished for it forty times. Forty. I’ll have to get one then. Imagine it, Steph – I’ll be the only dad in town with his own jetpack …”

“Yeah,” she said slowly, “I’ll be ever so proud …”

Her mum passed out the plates, then stood and tapped her fork against a glass. “I’d like to make a toast, before we begin.”

“Toast,” said Alice.

“Thank you, Alice. Today is a big day for our little Stephanie. It’s been a big week, actually, with the exam results and the college offers. We’ve always been proud of you, and now we’re delighted beyond belief that the rest of the world will be able to see you the way we see you – as a strong, intelligent, beautiful young woman who can do whatever she puts her mind to.”

“Toast,” Alice said wisely.

“You’ve been in our lives for eighteen years,” her mum continued, “and you have brightened every single day. You’ve brought joy and laughter to this house, even when times were tough.”

Her dad leaned in. “It is not easy being married to me.”

“And today is also the day that Gordon’s estate passes into your name. You are now the sole custodian of his books, the owner of his house, and the spender of his money. And even though you’ve known that this was coming since you were twelve years old, you never slackened off. You never took anything for granted. You finished school, you got excellent results, and you made sure you faced the future on your own terms. We couldn’t be prouder of you, honey.”

Before her mum could start crying, Valkyrie’s dad stood up. He cleared his throat, pondered a bit, and then began. “It is no secret that I always wanted a son.”

Valkyrie howled with laughter and her mum threw a napkin at her husband, who waited until things had calmed down before continuing. “I thought that having a daughter would mean there’d be pink everywhere and I’d have to take her to ballet lessons and when she was old enough to have a boyfriend I’d be really weird around him. Thankfully, none of this turned out to be the case.”

Valkyrie blinked. “You were extraordinarily weird around Fletcher.”

“No, you’re misremembering. I was cool.”

“You kept touching his hair.”

“I have no recollection of that ever happening.”

“Des,” her mum said, “you were really, really weird to that boy.”

“Can I be allowed to finish my speech? Can I? Thank you. So, to recap, I never wanted daughters. But when Stephanie was born I looked into her big eyes and I was so overcome by both her cuteness and the baby fumes that I decided to let bygones be bygones, and start over. It was a noble and selfless act by me, but you were only two days old so you’re probably too young to remember it.”

“Probably,” said Valkyrie.

“And now look at me!” her dad said. “Eighteen years on and I have two daughters, and the smaller one can barely walk in a straight line, let alone do ballet. What age are you, Alice? Four? Five?”

“Eighteen months,” said Valkyrie’s mum.

“Eighteen months and what have you to show for it? Do you even have a job? Do you? You’re a burden on this family. A burden, I say.”

“Toast,” Alice responded, and squealed as her dad scooped her up and did his face-hugger walk round the kitchen.

“I’m pretty sure that when that speech started it was about you,” Valkyrie’s mum said, “but then he kind of got distracted. Des. Des, don’t you think it’s time to give Steph her birthday present?”

“Present!” Alice yelled, as her dad held her over his shoulder by one ankle.

“Fair enough, wifey. I suppose it can’t be put off any longer. Steph, now that you have large sums of money, you can of course buy one of these brand-new if you so wanted. But I like to think that a second-hand one, bought by your parents, would have a sentimental value that you just wouldn’t be able to get in a—”

Valkyrie sat up straight. “You got me a car?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She stood. “Oh my God, you got me a car?”

“Again, I didn’t say that. It might not be a car. It might be a drum kit.”

“Is it a drum kit?”

“No. It’s a car.”

“Toast!” Alice yelped.

“Ah, yes, sorry,” Valkyrie’s dad said, setting his youngest daughter back on the ground. She wobbled and fell over and started laughing.

“You are so dumb,” her dad murmured.

Valkyrie ran to the front door, yanked it open, and froze. There, in the driveway, was a gleaming Ford Fiesta. And it was orange.

She’d been in an orange car before. One of Skulduggery’s spare cars had been orange. But this … this …

She couldn’t help herself. “It looks like an Oompa-Loompa,” she blurted.

“Do you not like it?” her mum asked at her shoulder.

“I asked for the colour specially,” her dad said. “The salesman said it wasn’t a good idea, but I thought it might be extra safe and there was a possibility it could glow in the dark. It doesn’t, though.” He sounded dejected. “If you want a different colour, we can take it back. I mean, the salesman will probably laugh at me, but that’s OK. He was laughing enough when I drove off in it.”

Valkyrie walked up to the car, traced her fingertips along the side. The interior was dark green. Just like an Oompa-Loompa’s hair. She looked back at her parents.

“You got me a car. You got me a car.”

Her mum dangled the keys. “Do you like it?”

“I love it!”

Valkyrie caught the keys and slipped in behind the wheel. Her car had a very nice dashboard, and a very nice smell, and her car was very clean. She adjusted her rear-view mirror in her car and slid her seat back in her car and it was her car. It wasn’t the Bentley and apart from the colour it wasn’t very flashy, but it was her car. “You are the Oompa-Loompa,” she said, patting the dash, “and I love you.”

She put on Pixie Lott as she got ready, sang along as she danced round her bedroom, doing the hip-grinding thing in the mirror whenever the chorus popped up. The white dress tonight, she reckoned, laying it out on the bed. Tight, white and strapless – her dad was going to have a fit when he saw it. But this was her night, and she was going out with her friends, and she was going to wear whatever the hell she wanted. She was eighteen, after all.

As she sang into the hairbrush, she realised that she was actually looking forward to spending time with Hannah and the others. A girls’ night out – the first girls’ night out since school had ended. It was going to be fun. The fact that she had butterflies struck her as weird, though, until she tried to remember whether or not she’d actually met all of her friends, or if some were friends the reflection had made and then simply transferred the memory to Valkyrie’s mind. She laughed at the oddness of her life, and then her phone rang and she paused the music.

“Happy birthday,” Skulduggery said.

“Thank you,” she grinned. “Guess what my parents got me.”

“An orange car.”

Her grin faded. “How did you know?”

“I’m looking at it.”

“You’re outside?”

“We got a call. You’re not doing anything, are you?”

She looked at her dress, at her shoes, and felt the butterflies slowly stop fluttering. “No,” she said, “not doing anything. I’ll be out in a minute.”

She hung up, and sighed. Then she tapped the mirror in her wardrobe and her reflection stepped out.

“I know,” Valkyrie said. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”

“You deserve a different kind of fun,” the reflection said.

Valkyrie pulled on her black trousers, hunted around for some socks, and grabbed her boots. “It’s fine. Most of them are your friends anyway. I’ve never talked to them. What would I even say?”

“You’re really going to use that excuse?”

“I’m going to use whatever excuse I have to. Where’s my black top?”

“I put it in the wash.”

“It was clean.”

“It had blood on it.”

“Yeah, but not mine.”

The reflection held up a spaghetti-strap T-shirt.

“That’s pink,” said Valkyrie.

The reflection pulled it on. “It looks cute on you.”

Valkyrie raised an eyebrow. “It does look cute on me. Wow. I look hot in that. Where did I get it?”

“I bought it last week,” the reflection said, giving a twirl.

“OK, you’ve convinced me.”

The reflection threw it to her and Valkyrie put it on, then zipped up her jacket.

“Do me a favour, OK?” said Valkyrie. “Have a good time tonight.”

“I’ll do my very best,” said the reflection, and smiled. “You try to do the same.”

Valkyrie opened the window. “I’ll be with Skulduggery,” she said. “No trying involved.”

She slipped out as Pixie Lott started playing again, and she jumped.

Right before they reached the hotel, Skulduggery’s gloved fingers pressed the symbols on his collarbones, and a face flowed up over his skull.

Valkyrie raised an eyebrow. “Not bad.”

“You like this one?”

“It suits you. Can you keep it on file, or something?”

He smiled. “Every time I activate the façade, the result is random, you know that.”

“Yeah, but you’ve had it for a few years now. It might be time to start thinking about settling down with something a little more permanent.”

“Are you trying to make me normal?”

“Heaven forbid,” she said, widening her eyes in mock horror. He opened the door for her, followed her through. They walked into the lobby, passed the reception desk and went straight to the elevators. Skulduggery slipped a black card into the slot, and pressed the button for the penthouse. The doors slid closed.

“So …” said Valkyrie.

“So.”

“It’s my eighteenth.”

“Yes it is.”

“The big one eight. I’m an adult now. Technically.”

“Technically.”

“It’s an important birthday.”

“Well, you’re doing fine so far.”

She laughed. “Did you … y’know … Did you get me a present?”

Skulduggery looked at her. “Did you want me to get you a present?”

Her smile dropped. “Of course.”

The elevator stopped with a ping, and the doors opened. She was the first out, walking quickly.

“I see,” he said, following her. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“I think you know me well enough by now to figure it out for yourself.”

“You’re mad at me.”

“No I’m not.”

“Despite my handsome face, you are.”

She stopped before they reached the penthouse and turned. “Yes, I’m mad at you. People buy presents for people who are important to them. After all this time, I didn’t think I had to tell you to buy me a present.”

“And I didn’t think I had to buy you a present to prove that you’re important to me.”

“Well … I mean … you don’t, but … but that’s not the point. It’s not about proving it, it’s about showing it.”

“And a gift is an accurate measurement? Your parents got you a car. Does this mean you are as important to them as a car is? Do they love you a car’s worth?”

“Of course not. A birthday present is a token gift.”

“A token gift is like an empty gesture – devoid of any kind of value.”

“It’s a nice thing to do!”

“Oh,” Skulduggery said. “OK. I understand. I’ll get you a present, then.”

“Thank you.” She turned back, and knocked on the door. “Who are we here to see?”

“An old friend of yours,” Skulduggery said, and for the first time she noticed the edge to his voice.

She didn’t have time to question him further. The doors opened as one and Solomon Wreath smiled at her.

“Hello, Valkyrie,” he said.

Before she knew what she was doing, she was giving him a hug. “Solomon! What are you doing here? I thought you were off having adventures.”

“I can’t have adventures in my home country every once in a while? This is where the real action is, after all. Come in, come in. Skulduggery, I suppose you can join us.”

“You’re too kind,” Skulduggery muttered, following them inside and closing the doors behind him.

The penthouse was huge and extravagant, though Valkyrie had been in bigger and more extravagant when she dated Fletcher. Back then, he’d spend his nights in whatever penthouse suite was available around the world, and all for free. Such were the advantages of being a Teleporter, she supposed, though these days all that had changed. Now he had a nice, normal girlfriend and he was living in his own apartment in Australia. He was almost settled. It was kind of scary.

She glanced back at Skulduggery, who had already let his false face melt away. He took off his hat and didn’t say anything as Wreath came back with a small box, wrapped up in a bow.

“Happy birthday,” Wreath said.

Valkyrie’s eyes widened. “You got me a present?”

“Of course,” Wreath said, almost laughing at her surprise. “You were my best student in all my years in the Necromancer Temple. No one took to it quite like you did, and although we may have hit a few bumps along the way—”

“Like you trying to kill billions of people,” Skulduggery said.

“—you have always been my favourite,” Wreath finished, ignoring him. “Open it. I think you’ll like it.”

Valkyrie pulled the bow apart and the wrapping opened like a gently blooming flower. There was a wooden box within, and she opened the lid and raised an eyebrow. “It’s, uh, it’s an exact copy of my ring.”

“Not exact,” said Wreath. “Inside, it is different indeed. When students begin their training, they are given objects like the ring you have now – good, strong, sturdy, capable of wielding an impressive amount of power. But after their Surge, they need something stronger, something to handle a lot more power.”

“But I haven’t had my Surge yet.”

Wreath smiled. “I know, and yet you need an upgrade already. In this, as in so many other ways, you are exceptional, Valkyrie. Your ring, please?”

He held out his hand. She glanced at Skulduggery, then slid it from her finger and passed it over. As Wreath walked out of the room for a moment, she took the new one from the box, put it on.

Wreath returned, carrying a hammer. “Now for the fun part,” he said, and put Valkyrie’s ring on the table and smashed it. A wave of shadows exploded from the flying shards, twisted in the air and went straight for the ring on her finger. The ring sucked them in eagerly, turning cold, and Valkyrie gasped.

“Do you feel it?” Wreath asked. “Do you feel that power?”

“Wow,” she said, regaining control of herself. “I do. Wow. That’s … that’s …”

“That’s Necromancy.”

It was startling. It was distracting. It was amazing. “Thank you,” she said.

Wreath shrugged. “Turning eighteen is a big day for anyone. But I am well aware that you did not come to see me for gifts and hugs.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, getting her mind back on track. “Why are we here to see you?”

“Your unusually silent partner here has been in touch. It seems you’ve been investigating the events surrounding that Warlock trying to kill you last year.”

“He told us he was doing you Necromancers a favour,” Skulduggery said. “It was in exchange for information. A name.”

“First of all,” said Wreath, “I was kept out of that particular loop. It was not my idea to include the Warlocks in any of our sordid schemes, because I am neither stupid nor deranged. That was all Craven, by way of that idiot Dragonclaw.”

“So what did Dragonclaw tell the Warlock?” Valkyrie asked.

“Please,” Wreath said, “take a seat. What do you know about the Warlocks?”

Valkyrie settled herself on the couch, the ring sending slivers of sensation dancing up and down her arm. “Just the, uh, you know, the usual stuff. They’re not … wow, this ring is cool … they’re not like the rest of us. They have their own culture, their own traditions, their own type of magic …”

Wreath nodded. “A type of magic that, quite frankly, we don’t understand. And all of that is fine because there aren’t very many of them and they keep to themselves. Or at least they did.”

“What’s happened?”

“Someone’s been attacking them,” Wreath said. “Provoking the Warlocks is not a wise move at the best of times, but there seems to be a group of people who are determined to do just that. In the past five years, dozens of Warlocks have been killed. They’ve been isolated from the others, hunted down, and executed. Now there is only a handful left.”

Valkyrie frowned. “The one who attacked us, he said they’re growing stronger every day.”

Wreath smiled. “Warlocks are known for never showing weakness. It’s what I like about them.”

“So what name did he want from Dragonclaw?”

“An associate of mine, Baritone, actually one of the Necromancers who were killed during the battle at Aranmore, was travelling through France a year or so before he died and happened to come across a group of mortals in a bar who were boasting of a job well done. Naturally, he pretended to be a mere mortal just like they were and, from what he gathered, they were ex-Special Forces, funded by secret government money and directed to—”

“Wait,” Skulduggery said. “You’re talking about Department X.”

“Who are they?” Valkyrie asked.

“They don’t exist,” Skulduggery said. “There have always been rumours of mortal governments forming death squads to go out and exterminate sorcerers. Department X was supposedly a British and Irish joint task force, shrouded in mystery and conspiracy. Except, as I said, they don’t exist. Any time someone in power starts to ask questions, we send people like Geoffrey Scrutinous in to convince them they’re being silly.”

“That may be so,” said Wreath, “but these mortals admitted to Baritone that they had just taken out, in their words, the most dangerous targets they’d ever hunted. They told Baritone he wouldn’t believe the whole story if he heard it – they said the targets they killed bled light. Sound familiar?”

“Sounds like Warlocks,” said Valkyrie.

“And that’s all Dragonclaw gave the Warlock in question?” Skulduggery pressed. “A sorcerer’s urban legend?”

Wreath shrugged. “It’s the only juicy little titbit concerning the Warlocks that we possess. I can’t imagine what else it could have been. Obviously, word got out that we knew something and Charivari sent his little friend to investigate.”

“And there’s nothing else we should know?”

“Nothing else of value. The only other item of interest was that one of the soldiers mentioned their orders had been given by an old man with a long grey beard and another man he couldn’t identify.”

Valkyrie ignored the ring, and frowned. “What, he didn’t know him?”

“No,” said Wreath. “Baritone was under the impression that the soldier couldn’t even remember him.”

“All of this,” Skulduggery said, “strikes me as something you could have told me over the phone.”

Wreath laughed. “Now that is very true, Skulduggery. However, we don’t like each other very much, so I wasn’t about to tell you anything. And how else was I going to see my favourite student on her special day without popping up uninvited outside her window? Such behaviour strikes me as being vaguely unhealthy, wouldn’t you agree?”

“A visit from you strikes me as very unhealthy,” Skulduggery said.

Valkyrie got to her feet. “I’m going to cut this short before you start hitting each other. Solomon, thank you for your help and thank you so much for the present – it was really nice of you.”

“My pleasure,” he said, coming forward and kissing her cheek. “Happy birthday again.”

Skulduggery put on his hat and walked out. Valkyrie caught up with him at the elevator, right before the doors slid closed. They started their descent.

“What do you think it all means?” she asked.

Skulduggery didn’t respond.

She sighed. “Are you sulking?”

“Me? No. I don’t sulk.”

“You sound like you’re sulking.”

“I’m just waiting for the violent urges to subside.”

“Why don’t you like Solomon? He’s really not that bad.”

“I’ve known him a lot longer than you have.”

“Fine. Be like that. So this mystery man giving orders, the one who couldn’t be remembered … We’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”

Skulduggery activated his façade as they reached the ground floor. The face was plain, the expression grim. They walked to the exit. “Three years ago, Davina Marr was enlisted to destroy the Sanctuary in Dublin by a man she couldn’t remember clearly. A similar man turns up five years ago and is revealed to be behind some Warlock killings. Sean Mackin, that lovable teenage psychopath, was released from his Sanctuary cell three months ago by a man he can’t quite remember. It would appear that this is the same man, and he has a significant connection to Roarhaven.” They left the hotel, walked to the Bentley.

“So …” said Valkyrie. “Department X is killing Warlocks, except Department X doesn’t exist. But if the Warlocks think it does exist, then … what does that mean? Are they going to go after mortals in revenge? How does framing ordinary people help our mystery man achieve whatever it is he wants to achieve?”

“I don’t know. But practically every mage in Roarhaven believes that sorcerers should be running the world.”

“So that’s his plan? To get the Warlocks to kill some mortals? That’s kind of a stupid plan. I mean, as soon as we find the Warlocks, we’re going to stop them, right?”

“Unless there’s a war on to distract us.”

“You think the mystery man has something to do with what’s happening with the Supreme Council?”

“I don’t like coincidences, Valkyrie. They’re ugly and annoying.” He glanced at her. “How do you like your ring?”

She couldn’t help it. She beamed. “It is awesome.”

t wasn’t easy, being a woman in a man’s world.

It was even less easy to be a man in a woman in a man’s world. And who says it’s a man’s world anyway? Such outdated notions of sexism had no place in the mind of Vaurien Scapegrace. Not any more. Not since the … mistake.

Once he had been the Killer Supreme. Then the Zombie King. Then a head in a jar. That was probably the low point. But he’d been given a chance, an opportunity to turn it all around. He’d been shown a body, a perfect physical specimen, and he knew that this empty vessel would be the ideal place for his transplanted brain to rest. He could live again. He would live again. He would be a living, breathing man once more. No rotting flesh for him. No decomposition. No ridicule. He would have respect. Finally, he would have respect.

Instead, his brain got put into the body of a woman, and his idiot zombie sidekick got the body of the tall, handsome man with all those muscles.

Life had sucked when Scapegrace was alive. Then death sucked. And now life was sucking all over again.

Living in a new body was hard, but living in a woman’s body was even harder. Every time he spoke, he heard a voice that wasn’t his, and for the first few weeks he kept looking round to check if there were someone else in the room. He didn’t even know how to walk without looking stupid. And then there was the whole trauma of looking into the mirror and seeing a face that was not his own.

It was a pretty face, he wasn’t denying that. The woman had been very attractive. Early twenties, with auburn hair and green eyes. Six feet tall and in excellent physical condition. If Scapegrace had met her in other circumstances, he liked to think he would have swept her off her feet. Or he’d have considered it, at the very least. She would probably have laughed at him if he’d tried. Women this attractive usually did.

He frowned. Where was he going with this train of thought? He had no idea.

He looked at his reflection as he frowned. The woman even looked good when she did that. Or rather, he did. He even looked good when he did that. It was all very confusing.

“Are you looking at your reflection in that blade?”

Scapegrace whirled, the sword held out in front of him. The old man who had spoken stood there with his hands pressed together like he was praying. Grandmaster Ping was the kind of old that you just didn’t see a whole lot of any more. He was a small Chinese man with a grey wispy beard that sprouted from his chin like a trail of hairy smoke. His skin was like parchment paper that had been crumpled up, tossed in a bin, then taken out and half-heartedly flattened. It was full of wrinkles, basically. Ping was dressed in what he called the traditional robes of his ancestors, but Scapegrace was fairly certain that the bathrobe was new.

“You must be ready at all times,” Ping said in that heavy Chinese accent. “How can you see your enemies clearly when you cannot even take your eyes off yourself?”

Scapegrace didn’t answer. He was pretty sure that was a rhetorical question.

Ping’s hands moved like flowing water, and he stepped back into a deep fighting stance. “Come,” he said. “Attack me.”

“But you don’t have a sword,” Scapegrace said.

Ping smiled. “That does not mean I am unarmed.”

Scapegrace let out a yell and ran forward, slashing his sword at the air, and then he leaped, spun, landed and twisted his ankle. He cried out, dropped the sword as he stumbled to one knee in front of Ping, who looked down at him and punched him on the nose.

“Ow!” Scapegrace yelled.

Ping brought his hands together again, and he bowed. “Ask yourself, my student, how did I beat you?”

“You hit my nose!”

“Exactly. If you can hit your opponent’s nose more than he can hit yours, you too will taste victory.”

“I’m bleeding!”

“You might need a tissue.”

Thrasher came forward, a box of tissues in his big, stupid, masculine hands. Scapegrace yanked a handful free and held them to his face as he glared at Ping. “When will I be ready?”

“Soon, my student.”

“You keep saying that. How soon is soon?”

“Soon is when the moment passes,” Ping answered.

Scapegrace was certain that made no actual sense, but he knew better than to press it. Thrasher helped him to his feet. The idiot’s new body was all muscle and chiselled jawline – a chiselled jawline that should have been Scapegrace’s own.

“You seem frustrated,” Ping said.

“Of course I’m frustrated,” said Scapegrace. “I have one way of gaining the respect of the people who have mocked me all my life – to become the greatest warrior the world has ever seen. You were supposed to teach me the deadly arts, but all you do is hit me when I fall down.”

“I see,” said Ping. “You do not think you are learning, is that it? Tell me something, my student. Have you ever seen The Karate Kid? The original, starring Ralph Macchio, not the remake, starring the son of Will Smith. Have you seen it?”

“Of course.”

“In that movie, Daniel-san does not believe he is learning, either, does he? And yet Mr Miyagi is teaching him without him even being aware of it. That is sort of what I am doing.”

“So what am I learning?”

“When the time comes, you will know.”

Scapegrace narrowed his eyes. “In that movie, Mr Miyagi has Daniel doing all these mundane tasks like painting the fence and waxing the car, then later Daniel does the same moves and finds out it’s karate. You have me doing all of these fighting moves … if I find out later that what you’re actually doing is teaching me how to paint fences and wax cars, I’m not paying you, you understand?”

Ping chortled. “Very funny, you are, Miss Scapegrace.”

“Mr!” Scapegrace roared. “I am a man!”

“Of course,” Ping said, bowing. “Of course you are. Our lessons begin again in the morning.” And with that, he stepped backwards into the shadows, and silence settled like autumn leaves falling from the trees.

Thrasher peered closer. “Are you still there?”

From the shadows, the aforementioned silence. Then, “No.”

“You are,” said Thrasher. “I can see you.”

Scapegrace could see Ping, too, but he didn’t say anything as the wise old grandmaster shuffled sideways until he reached the doorway, then went down on his hands and knees and crawled out. A few seconds later, the back door opened and closed. Thrasher murmured something.

Scapegrace glared. “What? What did you say?”

Thrasher sighed. “I just don’t see why you have to become a warrior, Master. Why put yourself in harm’s way? We have healthy new bodies and new lives to live and, OK, your body might not be ideal, but who cares about what we look like? It’s who we are inside that counts.”

“Tell me something – when Nye was putting your brain in that head, are you sure he didn’t drop any on the floor?”

“Oh, Master, please don’t be mean.”

“Don’t be mean? Don’t be mean? You’re an idiot! My new body isn’t ‘ideal’? It’s not even the same gender as my old one! Do you know what it’s like to be one gender trapped in another gender’s body?”

“I … I might,” said Thrasher.

“You have no idea! Look at you! You’re an Adonis! You walk down the street and people stare in admiration! But when I walk down the street …”

“Well, maybe if you started wearing underwear …”

“Underwear?” Scapegrace screeched. “Underwear? You think that’s the solution? Everything I wear is either too tight or too loose! I have pains in my back, did you know that? Do you know how hard it is to even stand upright in this body? How do women do it?”

Thrasher cleared his throat. “Well, sir, not all women are as … physically impressive as you are.”

Scapegrace narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you be getting any ideas.”

“Sir?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

Thrasher looked horrified. “Master, no! I assure you, I do not find your present body to be attractive in the slightest!”

“Oh, really? You think you could do better?” Scapegrace sagged, turned away. “What am I saying? Of course you could do better. Look at you. You could have any woman you want.”

“But I don’t want any woman, Master.”

“You say that now …”

“I’ll say that until the end of time, sir. I’m yours.”

Scapegrace turned slowly, looked Thrasher in the eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Uh,” said Thrasher.

“That was an odd thing to say.”

“Was it?”

“Very.”

“Oh.”

“Very odd.”

“We could ignore it, if you want.”

Scapegrace looked at him. Thrasher was acting weird. Even weirder than usual. He appeared to be blushing, for God’s sake. Scapegrace frowned. “What was I saying before?”

“Becoming a warrior, Master.”

“Yes. Soon, I will unlock the secrets of the deadly arts and I will become the greatest warrior the world has ever known.”

Thrasher looked at him. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why become a great warrior? What are you going to do afterwards?”

Scapegrace sneered. “You ask an awful lot of questions.”

“I just … I was just wondering what—”

“I don’t pay you to wonder.”

“You don’t pay me at all.”

“I am a sorcerer, Thrasher. Among the many things that separate us, that is but one. There is no magic in you, but in me? Magic seethes within me. And now that I’m no longer a zombie, I can feel it again. It is reawakening.”

“What kind of magic is it? I’ve always wanted to ask.”

“But you haven’t asked, have you? Not until right now. Why is that, I wonder? Is your new body giving you confidence, Thrasher?”

“What? No, Master!”

“Is it filling you with self-worth? With self-respect?”

“Never! I swear to you!”

“Because if I find out it is …”

Thrasher fell to his knees. “Master, I hate my new body. I do. Granted, it’s perfect in every physical way, but it’s … it’s not the body you attacked and killed on that warm September afternoon, those few short years ago. It’s not the body you bit. It’s not the body that came back, that opened its eyes and saw you, gazing at it …”

“This is getting weird again,” Scapegrace muttered.

Thrasher stood up. He was so tall and good-looking it was stupid. “Master,” he said, “we’ve been through a lot, you and I, and if I could switch bodies with you I would. I really would. Maybe then you could see me the way I see you.”

Scapegrace tried to ponder that one and quickly gave up.

“You are the only important thing in my life,” Thrasher continued, “and I … sir, I …”

“This conversation is boring me,” Scapegrace announced. “Take out the rubbish bins.”

Thrasher sagged. “Yes, Master.”

While Thrasher trudged out with the bins, Scapegrace picked up his fallen sword and returned it to its sheath. Back in olden times, a Samurai would never put his sword away until the blade had tasted blood. But that was the olden times, back when they didn’t understand things like basic hygiene. These days, Scapegrace was sure, a Samurai would much rather break this nonsensical little rule than risk a variety of unfortunate infections.

He heard a scream and, before he knew what he was doing, Scapegrace was running for the door, his sword once more in his hand.

Thrasher was struggling with something in the gloom behind the pub, his back jammed up against the wall while he tried to keep the creature at bay. It was big, as big as a Doberman but with longer hair, and it had a snout and sharp teeth and it snarled and snapped and Thrasher squealed.

“Hey!” Scapegrace shouted, because he could think of nothing else.

The creature turned its head, its eyes flashing. From this angle, the face almost looked human. Then it leaped at Scapegrace and Scapegrace slipped on fallen bits of rubbish and the creature impaled itself on the sword as he fell.

Scapegrace blinked as the creature gave a last rattling breath before it died. He pushed it off him and got to his feet.

Thrasher looked up at him. “Master!”

“What?”

“You saved me!”

“No I didn’t.”

“You rescued me!”

“It was an accident.”

“You saved my life!”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Thrasher bounded to his feet. He was so happy he looked like he was about to cry. “Master, you have no idea how much this means to me. I am a pathetic mortal, not worthy of being saved—”

“I know.”

“—and yet you saved me anyway. You risked your life, which is vastly more important than mine—”

“Vastly.”

“—and you rushed into danger, into the jaws of death … I don’t know what to say. I don’t have the words to … Oh, sir, forgive me, I may cry.”

“Well, do it somewhere else,” Scapegrace said, scowling. “What the hell is that thing anyway? Some kind of dog?”

Thrasher was too busy crying to answer.

Scapegrace pressed his foot against the creature’s body, rolled it into the light. “That’s no dog,” he said. “It looks like a monkey and a dog fell in love and had babies and this is the ugly one they didn’t want.” He crouched down. “Maybe it’s an alien. Maybe we’re being invaded by aliens.”

“Oh, I hope not, sir,” Thrasher sobbed.

“Shut up. Look at that face. It’s definitely an alien. Maybe. It’s not from here, that’s for sure.”

Thrasher sniffled. “Maybe it’s from an alternate dimension.”

“From a what?”

“An alternate dimension, Master. You know, like the one Valkyrie Cain was pulled into.”

Scapegrace stood up. “What the hell are you blubbing about?”

“Last April, sir, when we were waiting for these bodies, there was all this drama going on with Valkyrie being in a parallel dimension and this gentleman called Argeddion running around and … you missed all of this?”

“I was a head in a jar,” Scapegrace said. “I had other things on my mind.”

“Yes, sir, of course. But maybe this creature is from an alternate dimension just like that one. Maybe someone shunted back and brought that with them accidentally.”

“Shunted?”

“That’s what they call it, sir. The Shunter who caused all the trouble for Valkyrie was a man called Silas Nadir.”

“Nadir,” Scapegrace said. “Where have I heard that name before?”

“From what I gathered, he is a rather notorious serial killer, sir.”

Scapegrace’s eyes widened. “A serial killer? Where is he now? Did they catch him?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. He escaped the cells and—”

“He was in the Sanctuary?” Scapegrace interrupted. “So he escaped the cells, disappeared, and a few months later there’s a … thingy …”

“Shunter.”

“… Shunter, active in Roarhaven?”

Thrasher paled. “Oh, sir. You don’t … you don’t think he’s still here, do you?”

Scapegrace turned away from him, eyes on the street. “I know the criminal mind, Thrasher. I know the mind of a murderer. Once upon a time, I was the Killer Supreme. I was the Zombie King. But I have changed my ways since then. I will now channel my inner darkness into fighting evil, not being evil, in an epic tale of redemption and quiet dignity. And if there is one thing I know, if there is one thing of which I am certain, it is that Silas Nadir has never left Roarhaven, and this town needs a protector. Which makes it two things I know.”

“Should we call Skulduggery?”

“No. We should call me.”

“You?”

“This town cries out for a hero.”

“You?”

“Let Pleasant and Cain save them from obvious threats. Let them stand in the spotlight. I will stand in the shadows. I will fight in darkness.”

“You’ll need a torch, sir,” said Thrasher, rushing over to stand beside him. “Please – let me hold that torch.”

“You can be my sidekick.”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“I will be this town’s champion, its unsung hero, its Dark and Stormy Knight.”

“Yes, sir!” Thrasher squealed, clapping his hands.

Scapegrace narrowed his eyes. He could practically smell the evil. “We’ll need masks.”

f it hadn’t been for his mother, Ghastly reckoned he’d have taken to running instead of boxing. The bare-knuckle champion of her age, she had taught him everything she knew as he was growing up. To the taunts that followed him wherever he went, to the bullying that came soon after, his fists were his responses. They were the only words he needed.

He’d valued every moment he spent with her when she was alive, and he cherished every memory he had of her when she was gone. Along with his father, she was responsible for the man he became, for the man he was now. A fighter.

But fighting takes its toll. It took its toll on his mother. She’d entered into a fight she hadn’t a hope of winning. And all this fighting, all this arguing and confrontation and playing politics, it was taking a toll on Ghastly now, too. He’d needed his few days off. He’d needed a lot more.

He wondered sometimes what person he would have been if he had chosen running instead of boxing. He could have run from the bullies, then, instead of turning and fighting them. He could have left their taunts far behind. He could have tuned the world out and just focused on his breathing and the rhythm – not of fists on leather, but of feet on track. If he’d been a runner, would he have fought in the war? Would he have become a Dead Man? Would he have lost a year of his life as a blank, unthinking statue? Would he have lost Tanith Low to a Remnant, and then lost her again to a killer?

Ghastly put his head down and ran.

The Sanctuary had so many long, winding corridors in its depths that he could run here for an hour and not see one other person. That’s the way he liked it. Up there, where the corridors were brighter and warmer, he was Ghastly Bespoke the Elder, who had to wear that damn robe and appear respectable at all times. Down here, he was Ghastly Bespoke, the scarred tailor, the man who put on a tracksuit to go running and could sweat and push himself as hard as he damn well wanted.

He ran until he wasn’t thinking of the Supreme Council. He ran until he wasn’t thinking of the Warlocks. He ran and ran and tried to outrun the idea of Tanith Low and Billy-Ray Sanguine, but it caught up with him, ran alongside, and he lost his rhythm and his feet became clumsy and he slowed to a graceless stop.

He stood there, bent over, hands on his knees, sucking in air, and then he straightened, controlled his breathing, started walking. He shook out his arms and legs with each stride. No one would miss him for another twenty minutes or so. Plenty of time to cool down, shower, and pull on that stupid … robe …

He stopped, waiting for the air around him to settle. Once it had fallen back to its natural pattern, he concentrated on the currents and the draughts against his skin, and felt something else, a slight nudging, almost too gentle to notice. Someone was reading the air, keeping track of him. Someone skilled.

Raising his hands, Ghastly formed a vacuum, roughly the size of his own body, and pressed it outwards. Staying very, very still, he sent it rippling down the corridor at walking pace. The gentle nudging moved away from him, following the human-sized disruption. Once the Elemental, whoever he was, was satisfied that the threat had passed, he withdrew his probing little tentacles of awareness.

Ghastly took the stairs slowly down, both hands out to subdue the ripples he was making in the air and to prevent the sounds of his footsteps from travelling. In Ireland, running shoes were called runners. In Britain, trainers. In America, sneakers. The American term was the most sinister, in his opinion, but definitely most appropriate for this situation. At the bottom of the stairs there was a man, standing with his back to him. Now it was Ghastly’s turn to read his surroundings, but he made sure to do it at an even gentler level than the Elemental had managed. Slowly, he used the air to reach past this man with the silenced pistol in a shoulder holster, then round the corner, and down the corridor. He ignored the open spaces he passed, the doorways, and focused on who was standing in the corridor itself. One person, halfway down. Big. Probably male. Another one, at the end, moving around. Fidgeting. Nervous.

Well, OK then.

Ghastly stepped up and wrapped his right arm round the Elemental’s throat, gripped the bicep of his other arm and pressed his left hand against the back of the man’s head. All of this in an instant. All of this before the man could even make a sound, let alone react physically.

Ghastly pulled him back away from the wall so that he couldn’t kick out, make a noise to alert his friends. The man didn’t go for his gun. He didn’t even try to use magic. He just panicked and grabbed Ghastly’s arm and tried to pull it away. But of course he couldn’t, and all Ghastly had to do was tighten up and a moment later the man was unconscious.

Ghastly laid him on the ground. Nothing in his pockets. No ID. No money. Nothing. Ghastly took the pistol, removed the silencer and moved to the corner. He knelt and peeked round.

The big man in the middle of the corridor was looking into the Accelerator Room, the only room that had a light on. Plenty of activity in there, it seemed. Beyond him, at the junction at the other end of the corridor, a second man couldn’t seem to stand still. He had a sub-machine gun on a strap hanging from his shoulder. Like the Elemental’s, it too was silenced. Ghastly stood, stuck the pistol into the pocket of his tracksuit, and stepped into the corridor.

The Big Man was at the midway point, roughly fifty metres away. The Fidgeter was at the end. That meant a hundred-metre dash with two opponents to dispatch without alerting anyone inside the Accelerator Room. Ghastly tried to stop the grin from spreading, but failed miserably.

He gripped the air around him, and broke into a run. He dived forward, brought his hands in and out in front, shot down the corridor like a bullet. The Big Man turned and Ghastly took him off his feet, one hand clamped to his mouth and the other arm wrapped round him, and he piled on the speed. The Fidgeter didn’t even get to look round before the Big Man’s head cracked against his. Both men went down and Ghastly twisted away from them, found himself hurtling towards the far wall. He brought the air in, formed a cushion, bounced off and stumbled only a little when he landed. His first thought was that he had just come close to smashing every bone in his body. His second thought was not to mention that part to Skulduggery, or else the flying lessons would start to concentrate on how to stop instead of how to go faster.

As he knelt by the men, his eyes were on the Accelerator Room door. No one ran out. No one shouted an alarm. His luck was holding. He checked that both men were unconscious, then took the sub-machine gun, made sure it was loaded and ready to fire, and crept back up the corridor. He could hear voices now, snippets of what was being said. Three different people, two male, one female. American accents. One voice he recognised – the one issuing the orders.

He reached the Accelerator Room, and peered in. The man in charge was hidden by the Accelerator itself. The other was tall and thin and Ghastly didn’t know who he was. He’d seen the young woman before, though. She was a Necromancer. What was her name? Adrasdos, or something? He’d seen her with Vex, decades ago, back when everything was nice and friendly between Sanctuaries. She was attaching something to the right side of the Accelerator while the thin man did the same on the other side. They had duffel bags open all around them. Explosives. The man in charge stepped into view, trailing wires behind him. Bernard Sult.

“Nobody move,” said Ghastly.

Naturally, they moved. They spun in shock, but managed to hold still when they saw the gun pointed at them. That was wise.

“Put it down,” said Ghastly, stepping inside. “All of it. Very slowly, very gently, put it all down on the floor. You, too, Bernard. We wouldn’t want any of this to go off, now would we?”

Sult’s face was tight, but he obeyed, and rested the loop of wires at his feet. He straightened, hands up, and the other two did the same. They were all armed with silenced pistols. Ghastly raised his free hand and those pistols floated from their holsters to land gently behind him.

“You kill anyone getting in here?” Ghastly asked.

“We had to render one or two of your people unconscious,” said Sult, “but we don’t take lives if we can help it.”

“Terrorists with principles,” said Ghastly. “I like it.”

“You’re the terrorists,” said Adrasdos, glaring at him with fire in her eyes. “You’re the ones terrorising the world with your casual ineptitude and gross indifference to—”

“Adrasdos,” said Sult, “don’t bother. Elder Bespoke has heard it all before and he remains unmoved.”

Ghastly gave a little shrug. “So what’s the plan here, Bernard? Destroy the Accelerator and vanish before anyone knows you paid us a visit? You weren’t even going to say hi, after everything we’ve been through? You were there when we joined forces to take down Argeddion’s psycho teenagers. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“No, Elder Bespoke, it doesn’t, because I was also here when you allowed Grand Mage Strom to be decapitated in his own quarters.”

“By an English mage.”

“By your would-be girlfriend.”

“Who is possessed by a Remnant. And yet you lot still manage to blame that on us.”

“Oh, it’s not just that, Elder Bespoke. It’s also the fact that you had falsely imprisoned the Grand Mage to keep him from reporting your mistakes back to the Supreme Council. These are not the actions of Elders who can be trusted to run the most volatile country in the world.”

“Mistakes were made, I freely admit that. But no laws were violated. No rules were broken. But this … Breaking into a foreign Sanctuary, assaulting Sanctuary operatives, attempting to destroy Sanctuary equipment … Adrasdos, I know you don’t like the word, but these are acts of terrorism. And you’re all under arrest.”

“I’m afraid we can’t allow that to happen,” said Sult. “And we can’t allow anyone to find out we were here. We’re going to have to kill you, Elder Bespoke.”

Ghastly gave him a little smile. “I’d like to see you try.”

Adrasdos and the thin man rushed him. Ghastly waved his hand and Adrasdos crashed into the wall, but the thin man was too close. Ghastly pulled the trigger. The bullets riddled the thin man’s shirt, but bounced off his skin, and a single push sent Ghastly hurtling back into the corridor. He hit the wall, fell to the floor, left the gun there as he scrambled up. He ducked under the thin man’s punch, and sent a left hook to the body in return. As expected, it was like hitting a boulder. He dodged a wild swipe and curled his fingers, felt the air forming battering rams around his knuckles, and when he punched again he sent a column of air into the thin man’s jaw.

The thin man staggered.

Ghastly hit him again, and again, those battering rams crunching into the thin man’s ribs enough times to make him cover up, and then Ghastly went for the head. The thin man was too used to being the strongest person in the room. He’d never bothered to learn to fight. Ghastly went for the chin and then punched at the knee, and while the thin man was trying to work out what the hell was happening he snapped his palms against the air and the space between them rippled, and the thin man flew backwards.

Ghastly reached for the fallen sub-machine gun, but a shadow lashed at him, curled round his wrist and yanked him off his feet. He rolled, glimpsed Adrasdos running at him, shadows pouring from something she was holding. He lunged at her and they went down. She cracked an elbow into his nose and his vision went blurry. He found her right hand, keeping the weapon away from him as they rolled. He couldn’t even see what it was. It looked like a knife handle.

Adrasdos wriggled out from underneath him, went to kick him as she got to her feet, but he grabbed her foot, held it as he stood. The shadows writhed round the knife handle, grouping together to form a machete. She swung and he stumbled, letting go of her, barely dodging the black blade. The more shadows that writhed, the longer the blade got, and it nicked his shoulder and cut his arm and it was going to end up in his head if he didn’t stop this. She swung and he stepped in, trapped her arm under his and fired a right cross into her jaw. She collapsed, the blade of shadows melting away as the handle skittered across the floor.

Sult was pressing the last of the explosives against the Accelerator when Ghastly returned to the room.

“Not one more step,” the American said, holding out a grey box. His thumb rested against the silver switch. “There are enough explosives in this room to take out this machine five times over. You do not want to make me twitch.”

Ghastly kept his hands down by his sides. “We haven’t even completed our study of the Accelerator,” he said. “We know it supercharges sorcerers, we know it’s a source of energy, but we don’t know how to properly harness it yet. We don’t know what else it can do. And you want to destroy it?”

“I admit this sounds incredibly childish,” said Sult, “but if we can’t have it, then you can’t, either. It’s too unpredictable. And, let’s face it, the supercharged sorcerer aspect would give you an unfair advantage if hostilities were to give way to all-out war.”

Ghastly laughed. “Practically every Sanctuary in the world, apart from those in Africa and Australia, is on your side – and you want to talk to me about unfair advantages? We’re outnumbered so greatly that it’s not even worth calculating.”

“This is very true,” said Sult. “So let the Supreme Council come in. Form a partnership. You can still run your country as normal, for the most part. We’ll just be here to ensure that you’re making the right decisions.”

“I seem to remember that we’ve had this discussion before. It didn’t work out for either of us.”

“Sadly, I must agree with you there.”

“If you flick that switch, you could start a war.”

“Only if they have proof it was me.”

“Still plan to kill me, do you? You brought four sorcerers with you and they all have concussions. I’d say your plans are foiled – unless, of course, you’re planning on doing it yourself …?”

Sult smiled, and laid the grey box on the floor. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

“Me, too,” said Ghastly, and took the gun from his pocket and fired. He hit Sult twice in the chest and Sult dropped.

The grey box floated to Ghastly’s free hand, but before he closed his fingers around it he glanced at the silenced pistols at his feet, the ones he’d taken from their holsters. Only two of them. But there were three when he’d—

The bullet hit him in the shoulder and Ghastly spun, stumbled, fell, the grey box falling. The harsh whisper of the missing silenced pistol accompanied another bullet that whistled by his ear and now Ghastly was returning fire, his gun barking loudly in the confined space of the room. Sult dived for cover and Ghastly scurried backwards, firing all the time. Sult kept moving. Ghastly ran out of bullets and Sult popped up and the gun shot from Ghastly’s hand into Sult’s face. Sult staggered, blood pumping from the cut on his forehead.

Ghastly used the air to launch himself across the room. They collided. Sult threw an elbow and brought his gun up. Ghastly grabbed his wrist and the gun barrel, twisted the gun from Sult’s grip and slammed it into his face. Sult punched Ghastly’s shoulder, and the pain from the bullet wound lanced through him. He dropped the gun and almost sank to his knees. Sult hit his shoulder again and the world darkened, and then an elbow hurtled towards him and the dark world tilted and spun. The ground bounced into his side and he rolled against it, pushed away from it, everything moving too fast with the sound muted.

Sult hit him, again and again. Ghastly’s left arm went numb. His right was OK, so he threw it, caught Sult just as he was coming in with another shot. It wasn’t perfect but it’d do. Ghastly fired another into the ribs, but felt the body armour beneath Sult’s shirt. Now Sult was pushing against him, tangling his legs, and they fell with Sult on top. The blood from his forehead splashed on to Ghastly’s cheek. Two punches came down, but Ghastly moved his head just like his mother had taught him all those years ago. One of the punches clipped his ear. The other missed altogether, hit the ground instead. Sult cursed in pain, pulled his hand back, and Ghastly heaved him sideways.

They wrestled there for a moment. Ghastly hung on and didn’t let go. Again, just like his mother had taught him.

When you’re rocked, hang on for dear life until you can see straight. Then let go and let him have it.

Ghastly pushed Sult away and they got to their feet at the same time. The world spun, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been. Keeping his left arm tight to his side, Ghastly whipped out a right jab, followed it with another, feinted with a third and went low with a hook that lifted Sult. Gasping, Sult backed off, his knees shaky, holding his hands out to ward off Ghastly as he closed in.

Sult came to a stop by stepping on the grey box. His heel crunched down on the silver switch. There was a small device attached to the explosives on the Accelerator. It beeped.

Sult’s eyes widened.

The device beeped again and again and faster and faster and now it was one long continuous beep and Ghastly reached out with the air and yanked Sult off his feet. The moment Sult passed him, Ghastly pressed both hands against the air to form a shield and then the room was filled with fire and thunder and the shockwave hit the shield and Ghastly was launched backwards into the corridor. Sult hit the wall and Ghastly hit Sult and they collapsed in a tangle and Ghastly sprawled to a stop.

Eyes blinking. Eyes. Blinking.

Alarms. Shouts.

Alarms.

Hands gripping him, pulling him up, Ghastly sitting now, smoke everywhere. People and Cleavers. Ravel, in front of him, shaking him, speaking words.

“—hear me? Ghastly? Can you hear me? I need a doctor over here! My friend’s a vegetable!”

Ghastly felt his mouth twitch into a smile.

“Oh, good,” said Ravel. “He’s not completely gone. Where’s all this blood coming from? Ah, he’s been shot. Of course he has. Typical.”

Doctor Synecdoche hurried over, knelt by him, pressed something against his wound. “Elder Bespoke,” she said, “can you hear me? Can you tell me what day it is?”

“I don’t know,” Ghastly mumbled, “I’m sorry …”

“We need to get him to my lab as quickly as possible,” said Synecdoche. “He needs a CAT scan and a—”

Ghastly shook his head. “No, I mean, I don’t actually know what day it is. It was easier keeping track of days when I had my shop, but ever since I became an Elder …”

“The days become a blur,” finished Ravel, nodding. “He’s OK, Doc. I’ve seen him walk away from bigger traumas than this. Help me get him standing.”

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Grand Mage,” said Synecdoche. “He could still be suffering from—”

Ravel sighed, grabbed Ghastly’s right arm and pulled him to his feet. “See?” he said while Synecdoche quietly freaked out. “Not a bother on him. Although you should probably call round to see him later for some private consultation.”

Ghastly did his best to smile at her. “Doctor, thank you, I’ll make my way to the Medical Wing in a moment. Maybe you could treat some of our prisoners while you’re here?”

“Of course, Elder Bespoke,” she said, and was immediately lost in the crowd of Sanctuary personnel.

“She likes you,” Ravel whispered.

“Do not start,” Ghastly responded. He turned as Sult was hauled to his feet by a pair of Cleavers, his hands shackled behind his back.

“Bernard Sult,” said Ravel. “I take it you’re responsible for this mess?”

Sult glared at them both. “I have Level 4 mindguards in place. We all do. Your Sensitives will get nothing from us.”

“We don’t really need anything,” said Ravel. “The fact that you’ve been caught red-handed trying to destroy Sanctuary property will be enough of an embarrassment to the Supreme Council, believe me.”

The defiance in Sult’s eyes diminished somewhat. “What do you mean,” he said, “trying to destroy?”

Ghastly frowned, too. “The Accelerator is salvageable after a blast like that?”

“See for yourselves,” Ravel said.

Ghastly limped to the doorway and Sult came after him, his arms held by the Cleavers. Sanctuary Elementals worked to clear the acrid smoke from the room. The Accelerator stood tall and proud where it had always been. A little scorched, maybe, but definitely in one piece. One of the Elementals placed a hand to the scorch mark and wiped it clean. Just a little soot. Astonishing.

“When they built it,” Ravel said from behind them, “they built it to last.”

o see such a thing as shock register on the face of the most beautiful woman in the world was a rare treat, and Valkyrie found herself enjoying it more than she really should have. China Sorrows’ pale blue eyes were wide and her perfect lips were parted. Her hair, black as sin and just as luxuriant, was longer than Valkyrie remembered. She wore a bathrobe, silk, tied with a sash.

“Hi,” said Valkyrie.

China looked at her for a few more moments. “Hello, Valkyrie,” she said at last, composure quietly regained. “I must admit, I didn’t expect to see you on my doorstep. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’ve been meaning to stop by. You told me about this place ages ago, mentioned all the horses. It’s beautiful around here.”

“My refuge,” said China. “I run to my country house to lick my wounds and bathe in self-pity. Is that … is that your car?”

Valkyrie glanced back at the Oompa-Loompa. “Yep. Isn’t she beautiful?”

“She is remarkably orange. Would you like to come in?”

China stepped to one side, and Valkyrie passed through. A marble staircase swept from a marble floor. Dark paintings in Gothic frames hung from the walls. Twisted sculptures sat on bone-white plinths. Through the windows the old stone yard was in full view, with the horses in their stables and, beyond them, the fields and meadows and the forest that bordered the land.

China led her into a large room with a rich carpet and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase that took up an entire wall. There was an old-fashioned writing desk that Valkyrie barely got a glance at before China closed the lid, and at China’s invitation Valkyrie dutifully sat.

“Can I get you anything?” China asked. “Tea or coffee?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

China sat in the armchair opposite and crossed her legs. Her feet were bare. “What can I do for you?” she asked, but Valkyrie wasn’t ready to answer that. Not yet.

“Impressive bookcase,” she said instead. “Not as impressive as the library, but …”

“But then I have far fewer books,” finished China. “Rebuilding my collection will take time, I’m afraid. Rebuilding it completely will be impossible – some of the works lost were truly one of a kind. Irreplaceable. The truly valuable books, of course, were kept here and not in the library, so that is a blessing, I suppose.”

“Are you going to reopen?”

“I think not. As I said, I’ve been feeling very sorry for myself. My library was frequented by many patrons whom I viewed as loyal – and yet, when Eliza Scorn burned it to the ground, not one of them came to my aid. Don’t get me wrong, Valkyrie – I am quite used to being a pariah. I just didn’t think it would happen again quite so soon.”

“So you’re not joking, then? You really have been spending all this time feeling sorry for yourself?”

A smile, as sad as it was faint. “Not all this time. I spent a few days recovering from my injuries. The physical wounds healed and left not a bruise. The injury I suffered to my pride, however … well. Once I was back on my feet, I had nothing but revenge in mind, so I began preparing.”

“And what happened?”

“Eliza is nothing if not thorough. My holdings in America, in Switzerland, in Italy … all destroyed. My employees, the ones who haven’t died in terribly suspicious accidents, are missing. The mortal men and women who tend to my horses are the only ones left unharmed. I am alone, Valkyrie. Without allies, without friends.”

“I’m … I’m sorry.”

“Nonsense. This is exactly how it should be. Nothing less than what I deserve after the things I’ve done.”

“What about your assistant? The man with the bow tie?”

“Dead, the poor man. Strangled.”

“Oh, China …”

China waved her hand dismissively. “I am allowed to pity myself, Valkyrie. You are not. So tell me how you have been.”

“You don’t know?”

“These days I only hear whispers about the impending war between the Sanctuaries – nothing fun. My sources and informants now report to Eliza and her Church of the Faceless. I have been deprived.”

Valkyrie gave a little shrug. “Well, I’m doing grand. I’m doing OK. So is Skulduggery. We visited an alternate reality, did you hear that?”

China raised an eyebrow. “When was this?”

“Just a few months ago, around the beginning of May.”

“Weren’t you dealing with Argeddion back then?”

“This was part of it.”

“You have been busy. What was it like, this alternate reality?”

“Horrible,” said Valkyrie. “Mevolent is still alive over there, and from what I saw he basically rules the world. Mortals are slaves. Serpine’s still alive, too. So was Vengeous – until he died.”

China sat forward. “Oh, you lucky thing. That must have been astonishing.”

“We met you over there.”

China clapped her hands and laughed with delight. “Another me! Tell me, what was I like?”

“You led the Resistance.”

“I did? Me? I’m sorry, I’m one of the heroes over there?”

“You were,” said Valkyrie. “Kind of. You betrayed us a few times, and then you died.”

China’s face fell, and she sat back. “Typical. Who killed me?”

“Serpine.”

“That sneaky little toerag.” She went quiet for a moment, then looked up. “My brother?”

Valkyrie shook her head. “Mevolent had killed him a long time ago.”

“Dead in both dimensions, then. That’s unfortunate. How did Skulduggery handle talking to me?”

“Honestly? He was fine. He got on with the job.”

“And what is his attitude towards me? This me, I mean. Not that me.”

“His attitude towards you is … unknown. We don’t talk about you much. He doesn’t insult you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Insults are one of the lesser things to worry me, my dear. So are you going to tell why you’ve visited, or are we going to keep skipping around it?”

“Oh, yes, of course. We’re after a guy that nobody can quite remember. They don’t remember his name, his face, anything about who he is. Do you know anyone who could make you forget who they were?”

“I know a few Sensitives who could dislodge some things in your memory if given enough time.”

“No, I get the feeling this is an instant thing. Like, you’re talking to him and then you walk away and you can’t quite remember who he was.”

“Interesting,” said China. “There is a German mage, a Sensitive again, whom you forget the moment you lose sight of her. Myosotis Terra.”

“Never heard of her.”

“The only other thing I can think of is a type of amethyst crystal with certain psychic properties. I’m sure if treated correctly it could induce that level of amnesia. I’d need my books to make sure but, unfortunately, I no longer have them.”

“So it’s not a discipline of magic, then? Anyone who holds that crystal could be the person we’re looking for?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Valkyrie sagged. “Wonderful. Any ideas where a person might find such a crystal?”

“Most of them have been locked carefully away. There used to be one in the Repository of the old Sanctuary, if I remember correctly. It might even have survived the relocation to Roarhaven.”

“I see. Well, thank you, China. That’s very helpful.”

“Oh, think nothing of it,” China said, smiling. “Now then, what’s the real reason you’re here?”

“Sorry? What do you …?”

At China’s raised eyebrow, Valkyrie faltered, then took a deep breath, and settled back. “I need advice.”

“On what subject?”

“My future.”

China waited for Valkyrie to continue.

“My parents expect me to go to college. I did really well in the exams – or rather, my reflection did really well – and now I have all these offers from places I don’t want to go to. I thought once school was over I wouldn’t have to run around like this any more. I have everything that Gordon left me so I don’t have to do anything, but then my folks are going to think I’m just taking the easy way out.”

China nodded. “And you’ve come to me because obviously I know your parents really well.”

Valkyrie had to smile. “I came to you because Skulduggery’s being weird about it. I don’t think he wants to influence me one way or the other.”

“That’s probably wise. Where you go from here should be your decision and yours alone.”

“But this is what I want,” Valkyrie said. “I want to keep working for the Sanctuary and doing everything we’ve been doing. This is where I belong. But at the same time, I don’t want to end up like every other sorcerer.”

“And how do we end up?”

“Isolated. I don’t want to cut myself off from ordinary people. I don’t see why I should have to.”

China smiled sadly. “It’s inevitable, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t accept that.”

“They have a name for it these days. They have a name for everything these days. They call it Second Lifetime Syndrome, and it happens when a sorcerer watches her family and friends age and die around her. You’ll latch on to other mages from that moment on, because what’s the point of going through all that pain again? Valkyrie, there are some stark realities you have to face. You’re going to look the way you do for the next eighty years. In two hundred years, you’ll look twenty-five. You won’t be able to form attachments to mortals. They will start to notice something is different about you when they’re lined and saggy and you’re still young and perky. You’re going to have to say goodbye to your parents before they start to ask questions.”

“Or I … I could just tell them.”

The smile left China’s lips. “That is never advisable.”

“Why not? They wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Your job as a sorcerer is to protect them from the truth, not share it with them to make your life easier.”

“I can’t just walk away from them. They’re my parents. They’d come looking for me. And what about Alice? I can’t just abandon her.”

“You fake your own death.”

“No,” Valkyrie said. “No way, I’m not doing that to them.”

“You don’t have to do it today, Valkyrie. But you will have to do it.”

“What’s wrong with telling them? I’d make them understand and they’d keep the secret.”

“Is that why you’re really here? You’re trying this out on me first before mentioning it to Skulduggery? He’ll react the same way. If you tell your family the truth, you’ll torture them. Their mortal lives will be shattered. They’ll jump at every shadow. They’ll grasp at religion or superstition to fill the sudden void they’ll create for themselves. I’ve seen it happen. You will change who they are because you’re too selfish to live without them.”

“Not if I do it right.”

“And that’s not even taking into account how worried they’ll be about you,” China continued. “Every hour that passes when they don’t hear from you is another possible death. You fight monsters, Valkyrie. Some in human form, and some not. Are you going to tell them about vampires? Are you? Will you tell them about Caelan? Will you tell them about the things you’ve done?”

Valkyrie’s phone beeped. Grateful for the interruption, she took it out, read from the screen, and frowned.

“Something wrong?” China asked.

“Bernard Sult’s been arrested at Roarhaven,” Valkyrie said.

“The Supreme Council will not be pleased.”

Valkyrie stood. “I have to go.”

“Of course. Duty calls.” China walked her to the door. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the answers you were hoping for.”

“There’s still a way to do it right,” Valkyrie said. “I just have to figure it out.”

“Many have tried. Practically every sorcerer alive has been in your shoes.”

“What about you?”

China smiled. “You forget. I was born into a family that worshipped the Faceless Ones. I hated mortals before I’d even taken my first breath. Sometimes that kind of dysfunction can work in your favour. Drive safely, Valkyrie. And happy birthday.”

t took Valkyrie a little over two hours to get to Roarhaven. Knowing the route from the passenger seat was one thing – being able to remember every turn from behind the wheel was quite another. Added to that, there were no signs for the town, and the road that led to it was hidden from the prying eyes of the public. Aside from people who knew the way, only the very determined or the very lost could ever hope to stumble upon it. In the end, Valkyrie gave in to how lost she was, and fifteen minutes later she was pulling up outside the Sanctuary.

There were Cleavers in the streets, which was a rare sight to see. The townspeople stayed away from all the fuss, scowling at Sanctuary personnel from their doorways and behind their curtains. Valkyrie was let through without being searched, and she found Ieni, a young mage from Cork, arguing with an older sorcerer. He was called away and Ieni turned to Valkyrie as she approached.

“You all right?” Valkyrie asked.

“They’re saying this is my fault,” Ieni said, her eyes glistening. “I was at my post and someone came up behind me and … They’re saying it’s my fault Sult got in. But I’m not the only one they got.”

“You’ll be fine,” Valkyrie said. “Everyone’s just confused right now. What was Sult trying to do?”

“They set off explosives on the Accelerator. It wasn’t damaged, though. Elder Bespoke took them down.”

“Right,” the older sorcerer said, striding back to Ieni, “you can consider yourself under investigation, you hear me? I can’t believe anyone could be as incompetent as you claim to be, which leads me to believe that you were working with the enemy.”

“No,” Ieni said, her eyes widening, “I swear I wasn’t.”

Valkyrie was about to interject when a man in a good suit stepped out of the room beside them.

“Leave the girl alone,” he said, making the order sound like a suggestion. He wasn’t quite as tall as Valkyrie and he was carrying a few extra pounds around the midsection, but his smile was easy and his vibe was laid-back. “She got taken unawares by professionals. It happens to the best of us.”

The mage glared. “I don’t know who you are, but I’m fairly certain that this is none of your business.”

“You don’t know who I am?” the man said. “Really? I know who you are, Mr Dacanay. Newly-appointed sheriff of Roarhaven, am I right? You even have a little badge and ID card that you’re suddenly embarrassed about, tucked away in your pocket there.”

Dacanay loomed over him. “I don’t like psychics picking through my head.”

“Good thing I’m not a psychic, then. My name is Saracen Rue. I know things.” At the mention of Saracen’s name, Dacanay backed down considerably. “I know, for example, that you’re going to walk away from this conversation within the next five seconds. Four … three … two …”

Dacanay scowled, turned to Ieni. “I’ll be watching you.”

As he stormed off, Saracen leaned in. “He might be the law in Roarhaven, but not in the Sanctuary. You don’t have to worry about him.”

“Thank you,” Ieni said.

“Did you have a doctor look you over? That probably wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

Ieni nodded and hurried away, and Saracen turned to Valkyrie, stepped back to look her up and down, and smiled. “Valkyrie Cain. You are exactly what I expected.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that good or bad?”

“Good,” he said, shaking her hand. “It’s great to finally meet you. Come on, everyone’s meeting in the conference room.”

“Is Ghastly OK?” she asked as they started walking.

“He’s fine,” said Saracen. “A headache and a few mild burns. Hey, well done on saving the world that time.”

“Which time was that?”

Saracen laughed. “Take your pick. I haven’t been home in years – this morning was the first time I’d set foot on Irish soil in the last decade – but I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Likewise,” Valkyrie said. “Although Skulduggery never mentioned what discipline you studied.”

Saracen’s smile turned to a grin. “I know things.”

“But you said you’re not a psychic.”

“You don’t have to be a Sensitive to know things.”

“So … that’s your magic? Knowing things is your power?”

“Knowing things is a result of my power.”

“OK. No offence, but that vagueness is really annoying.”

“I know. Dexter has been trying to figure out what I can do for over three hundred and fifty years. Seeing the annoyance in his eyes is just about the most hilarious thing I’ve ever experienced.”

“Does anyone know what your power is?”

“Erskine,” said Saracen. “About twenty years before the war with Mevolent ended, I was poisoned. I was dying. I was on my sickbed and Erskine was the only friend I had in the place, and in a moment of weakness I told him what I could do.”

“But you survived.”

“The next morning I started to recover. Dexter likes to say that it was the burden of this secret that was killing me, and only when I told someone was that burden lifted. I think that’s the reason we’re still friends. He wants to be around if I ever get sick again.”

“And do you know … everything?”

“Not even close,” Saracen said. “After you.”

The Cleavers opened the doors for them and they joined Skulduggery and the Elders just as Tipstaff was handing Ravel a note. Valkyrie looked at Ghastly. He caught her eye and winked, and she smiled.

Ravel took a moment to read the note, then looked up. “All right, then,” he said, “before we get on to Bernard Sult and what this means, I have to ask Skulduggery and Valkyrie if Tyren Lament or any of his sorcerers ever mentioned anything about the Engineer?”

Valkyrie frowned. “What engineer?”

“The Engineer,” said Ravel. “The Sensitives were able to get a few snippets of information out of the mind of one of Sult’s people before the psychic block went up. The Supreme Council has been doing a little research into the Accelerator, it seems, and they came across a mention of this ‘Engineer’.”

“So who is he?” Skulduggery asked.

“Not who – what. It’s a machine. Apparently it’s the only way to deactivate the Accelerator.”

“And where is it?”

“No one knows. It wandered off.”

“How can it wander off? It’s a machine.”

“It’s humanoid, has an independent brain and is most likely sentient in a—”

Valkyrie’s eyes bulged. “It’s a robot?”

“Well … yes.”

Excitement bubbled inside her. “There’s a robot out there? That is so cool! Can it transform into anything?”

Ravel hesitated. “No.”

“Really?” Valkyrie said, suddenly disappointed. “Wow. You’d think if someone went to the trouble of building a robot, they’d at least make one that transforms.”

“Yes,” said Ravel slowly, “that was my first thought, too. Anyway, it was supposed to stay with the Accelerator, but obviously it wandered off. I can only assume that when the Supreme Council couldn’t find it, they decided to cut out the middleman, plant a few bombs and just hope for the best. Luckily for us, Ghastly was on hand to save the day.”

“Ghastly’s my hero,” said Saracen.

“But before I interrupted them,” Ghastly said, ignoring Saracen, “Sult did manage to transmit an energy reading to the American Sanctuary. If the Accelerator and the Engineer were built together, and we have every reason to believe they were, then the energy reading of one could theoretically be used to track down the other.”

“What does all this matter?” Valkyrie asked. “We’re not going to use the Accelerator anyway, right?”

“The Supreme Council doesn’t know that,” said Ghastly. “All they know is that we have a weapon that we could deploy at any time. It’s our nuclear deterrent: it stops them from doing anything too stupid. But if we no longer have the option of supercharging our sorcerers …”

“They’re free to be as stupid as they like.”

“Sadly, yes.”

Skulduggery looked back to Ravel. “What has been their reaction to Sult’s arrest?”

Ravel gave a shrug of exasperation. “The Supreme Council is demanding Sult’s release, as you can expect. The interesting thing is that they haven’t even attempted to lie about what he was doing here.”

“So they don’t think they owe anyone an explanation,” Skulduggery said. “Then they’ve already decided on war – now they’re just waiting for the instigating moment.”

Ravel sat heavily into his chair. “It would appear so. In response to our refusal to release him, they’re rounding up Irish mages all over the world, accusing them of spying and putting them in shackles. We’ll use whatever contacts and resources we can to smuggle our people back to us, but we don’t have a number yet on how many have been taken. And there’s something you all should know – Dexter Vex was one of the first arrested.”

“Do we know anything further?” asked Saracen.

“Only that he didn’t resist, which is probably a good thing.”

“And what are we doing about foreign agents on Irish soil?” Ghastly asked.

Ravel hesitated. “We’re asking them to leave, and we’re making sure they do. We can’t afford to be as brash as the Supreme Council. If their sorcerers, people we know and have fought beside, see how respectfully we’re treating them despite Sult’s attack, then maybe they’ll have second thoughts about the part they’re playing in all this.”

“Weakness,” said Madame Mist.

Ravel looked at her. “Excuse me?”

“You’re worried about being rude, and so we tiptoe where we should stride. Our enemies will see this as a weakness.”

“They are not our enemies.”

“Of course they are. Friends become enemies in times of war. If we enter into this with timid hearts, we will be crushed. We must stride, we must bellow, we must be merciless. That is how we win.”

“What are you talking about?” Ravel asked, frowning at her. “Win? What might we win? If we defeat the Supreme Council, then what? Do we take over? Do we run every Sanctuary around the world? Why would we even want that? We’re not in this to win. We’re in it to survive. We defend ourselves. If we have to go to war, we strike at key strategic points. We weaken the Supreme Council and we chip away at their support. Then, when their rank-and-file sorcerers have had enough, we withdraw and let them sort it out among themselves.”

Mist looked at him a moment longer, then sat back. “How … noble,” she said, distaste curling the word.

“We don’t want a war, Elder Mist,” Ravel said. “If you find fault in our tactics, I invite you to offer alternatives. If you don’t have any, we may as well work with what we have. Valkyrie, I see you’ve met Saracen. Only believe half of what he tells you. Skulduggery, you’ve been looking deeper into these Warlock rumours. Any progress?”

Skulduggery took a moment to answer. “Our investigation is ongoing,” he said.

“Do you know something you’re not telling us?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Well, at least someone knows something. That’s a nice bloody change.”

he Repository in the old Sanctuary had been much better. Its ceilings were higher, its aisles were longer, the various magical artefacts were spaced out more. But here, in the Roarhaven Sanctuary, the ceiling was low, the aisles were short and uneven, and all of these wonderful and rare objects were crammed together on the shelves, which made finding one teeny-tiny box all the more difficult.

“Can we interrogate Bernard Sult?” Valkyrie asked as they searched.

“Why would we want to?” Skulduggery murmured, his gloved fingers rifling through a large box of smaller boxes.

“Because we might get a confession out of him.”

Skulduggery put the large box back on the shelf, and kept looking. “We don’t need a confession. Ghastly caught him red-handed.”

“But a confession might make the Supreme Council back off.”

“Only if they were denying his mission, which they’re not.”

She frowned. “I still think we should interrogate him.”

“Why?”

“To get the truth, the facts … also to gloat.”

Skulduggery got to the end of the aisle, and started down the next one. “Gloating is unbecoming of you.”

Valkyrie trailed after him. “You gloat all the time.”

“Because when I do it it’s admirable and funny. Bernard Sult is a political prisoner. The situation must be handled with great care and sensitivity – neither of which are your strong points.”

“Did … you just insult me?”

He stopped, and looked back. “Not that I am aware. Let others be caring and sensitive, Valkyrie. You concentrate on being effective. It’s what you’re good at.” He resumed his search.

“I can be effective while I’m being caring and sensitive,” she said to the back of his head. “You’ve seen me with Alice. You’ve seen how caring I can be. I’m the most caring person in the world when I’m with her. I’m almost too caring.”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

She glared. “I care. And I’m sensitive. You need to be sensitive in order to be a good big sister.”

“I’ve clearly struck a nerve.”

“No you haven’t. It’s not a nerve. It’s just a thing. I’m a good big sister, and I’m going to keep being a good big sister while she grows up. I’m going to give her advice on school, on clothes, on boys … I’m going to make sure she’s happy and safe and nothing bad ever happens to her.”

Skulduggery turned. “This conversation has shifted.”

“Has it?”

“It has. Who have you been speaking to?”

Valkyrie hesitated.

“Ah,” said Skulduggery. “It was something you were discussing with China. I see. And what did China say that has you so confrontational?”

“I’m not confrontational.”

“You think there’s an argument coming so you’ve started arguing early. It’s what you always do.”

“Fine. OK. Yes, there’s an argument coming. Oh, look, it’s already arrived. Big deal.”

“And may I ask what it is we are arguing about?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Maybe not, but I think it would probably be useful nevertheless.”

Valkyrie sighed, and put some irritation into it to hide her own uneasiness. “I was talking to China about the Second Lifetime Syndrome, and about maybe telling my parents the truth.”

Skulduggery looked at her with his empty eye sockets.

It was very quiet in the Repository. She could hear her own breathing, and every slight rustle her clothes made as she stood there.

“Hmm,” Skulduggery said.

“China’s not in favour,” Valkyrie said quickly. “Just in case you think she’s talked me into anything.”

He nodded. “Hmm,” he said again.

“She gave me loads of reasons why I shouldn’t, so you don’t have to. I haven’t even decided. I just mentioned it. It’s a possibility. I don’t want to lose my family. Is that so wrong?”

He didn’t answer, and her eyes widened.

“I mean … I’m sorry, I didn’t … That was a dumb thing to say.”

“Why?” he asked, and tilted his head. Then he clicked his fingers. “Oh, yes, because my family is dead. I’d completely forgotten.”

The warmth in his voice made her smile. “You’re such a moron. Sorry, though.”

He waved her words away. “If people had to apologise to me every time they made some random comment about dead families, I’d never get any work done. As for your dilemma, I’m not going to tell you what to do. I want you to be happy and for your parents and sister to be happy and safe. Whatever way you can achieve that is fine with me.”

“Thank you.”

“So long as you take into account all the possible repercussions of your actions before you do anything, I’m confident you’ll make the right decision.”

Her smile soured. “Cheers. Are we going to find this crystal or not?”

“Already have,” Skulduggery said, and held up a small, felt-covered box. He opened it and withdrew a purple crystal the size of a peanut.

“Hmph.”

He tilted his head. “Hmph?”

Valkyrie shrugged. “It’s not very impressive, is it? I was expecting … I don’t know what I was expecting, but I was expecting something less … meh.”

“I have never admired your professionalism more than right at this moment. Anyway, this is the amethyst crystal China told you about – though, to be honest, I didn’t know it could be used to affect the memory in such a selective way. It’s usually wielded with such clumsiness, used to wipe a mind clear. Whoever our mystery man is, he knows what he’s doing.”

“If they’re so powerful,” Valkyrie said, “it couldn’t be easy getting your hands on one.”

“It’s not – certainly not one as loaded with power as this is. A lot of them have been destroyed. Most of the others have been locked away in vaults and Repositories around the world.”

“So our mystery man has a crystal of his very own,” said Valkyrie.

Skulduggery nodded slowly. “Either that or he uses this one.”

She looked at him. “Are you being serious?”

“They’re really not easy to get hold of.”

“So he borrows this one whenever he needs it, then puts it back when he’s done? But then … I mean, if that’s true, then we’ve probably passed him in the corridor a hundred times.”

“Maybe.”

“So we’re pretty sure now that not only is he a Roarhaven mage, he’s also a Sanctuary mage. That means he’s one of us.”

He looked at her. “Yes.”

“Well … that’s just creepy. Can we take fingerprints or something?”

“Crystals of this nature don’t hold any oily residue,” Skulduggery said, “and the box is covered in felt. We’ll have someone go over the CCTV footage for this room, but I doubt we’ll find anything useful. The one lead we have, though, that we didn’t have before, is the description of the old man with the long grey beard. Take that description, combine it with Roarhaven, and who springs to mind?”

“The Torment.”

“That being the case, what do you think our next move should be?”

Valkyrie smiled. “Scapegrace.”

hen they walked into the pub, it was empty except for Thrasher behind the bar and Scapegrace sweeping up. Scapegrace brightened when he saw them. When she saw them. He saw them. God, this was confusing.

Scapegrace threw the sweeping brush away and came forward, clasped Skulduggery’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “My friend,” he said. “It is good to see you again.”

“Uh,” Skulduggery said. “Right.”

“And Valkyrie,” Scapegrace said, turning to her, smiling broadly. “How goes the fight?”

She had to look past the impressive figure, the pretty face, the dazzling smile, and remember the brain that lurked within that head. “What fight would that be?”

“The fight against evil,” said Scapegrace. “How goes it? Does it go well?”

“Sure,” Valkyrie said, a little doubtfully.

“I heard there was an explosion in the Sanctuary. Do you have any leads?”

She frowned. “Yeah.”

“Any suspects?”

“The people who set the bomb were arrested at the scene.”

Scapegrace nodded thoughtfully. “I see, I see. Convenient. A little too convenient, wouldn’t you say? Almost as if they wanted to be caught.”

“I don’t think so …”

“Well, maybe not, I know nothing about it. But if you need our help, just give us the sign. We’ll need to work out a sign. Then you can give it, and we’ll come and help. Some kind of signal, or alarm, or, I don’t know, maybe I could give you my phone number, or you could pop by, I suppose. We’re only up the road from you, so that’d probably be handiest.”

“You feeling OK?”

Scapegrace laughed, and stepped back. “Me? I’m fine. Better than Thrasher, that’s for sure.”

Thrasher walked up, a sheepish look on his handsome face. “Hi, Valkyrie. Hi, Skulduggery.”

“You’re not feeling well?” Skulduggery asked.

Before Thrasher could answer, Scapegrace did it for him. “He’s constipated.”

“Master!” Thrasher said, horrified.

“Oh, shut up. We’re all friends here. We can talk about these things. It’s just like Doctor Nye told us. We each got a blast of magic to reanimate these bodies, and that magic has been keeping us going for the past few months. But now our own biological processes are starting to reawaken and take over.”

“I got hungry for the first time on Tuesday,” Thrasher said, somewhat guiltily. “So I ate something.”

Scapegrace grinned happily. “But while his stomach has reactivated, his bowels are still asleep.”

“It’s very uncomfortable,” Thrasher confessed.

“As zombies, we didn’t feel anything,” Scapegrace said, “but now that we’re human again, something like constipation is a real problem. For some of us.”

Thrasher blushed and Scapegrace’s grin widened. Valkyrie felt the need to step in.

“How about you?” she asked. “Have all of your biological processes reawakened yet?”

Scapegrace’s grin faded immediately. “Not yet,” he said. “I can feel my magic beginning to reawaken, but the biological processes are … taking their time. But it … it should be fine. I have a book about it. About what to expect. Actually, now that you’re here, I was wondering … If I have any questions about, you know, certain aspects of womanhood, could I ask you?”

“No,” she said.

“But just a few tips—”

“Under no circumstances. God, no. No way.”

“Oh,” he said. “Fair enough. I suppose … I suppose, OK, let’s keep this professional.”

“Professional is a good way to keep it.”

“It’s just … I don’t have any other female friends.”

She frowned. “We’re friends?”

“What about Clarabelle?” Skulduggery said. “Have you asked her?”

“I have,” Scapegrace said. “She tried to help, but then she started laughing, and she wouldn’t stop. She was laughing so much she couldn’t catch her breath, and she passed out.”

“She did,” said Thrasher. “I was there.”

“It’s all so confusing,” Scapegrace said, sitting down. “I don’t even know what size clothes to wear. I got a big bundle of clothes from a charity shop, but I don’t even know how to wear most of it. This top, the top I’m wearing now, it took me fifteen minutes to work out how to do it up.”

“It’s on backwards,” Valkyrie said gently. “It’s got a scoop neckline. That shouldn’t be on your back.”

“How am I supposed to know that? That’s ridiculous!”

“Also, yellow is not your colour.”

“I told him that,” Thrasher murmured.

Scapegrace jumped to his feet. “Now I have to figure out what my colour is? How is any of this fair?”

“It can’t be all bad,” Valkyrie said, trying for a reassuring smile. “You’re healthy, aren’t you? You’re alive. That’s something.”

“Yeah,” Scapegrace said, face in his hands. “I suppose.”

“And from what I’ve heard, the pub is doing really well.”

At this, Thrasher’s face soured. “It’s just a pity our clientele couldn’t be a bit … classier, that’s all.”

Scapegrace glared. “Our?”

“Sorry, Master. Yours.”

“There is nothing wrong with my clientele. Most of them are old friends of mine. Well, not really friends, but … but people I’ve known for years.”

“It’s nice that they’re supporting you,” Valkyrie said.

Scapegrace took a moment. “They treat me differently,” he said. “They’re nicer to me. They laugh now when I say something funny. No one ignores me any more.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes,” he said, and then shook his head. “Oh, who am I kidding? At least when they ignored me, they ignored me for the man I was, not the woman I’m not. Now I’m just an object to them. A pretty face serving them drinks.”

Thrasher’s eyes welled up. “They don’t see you like I see you.”

Scapegrace whirled round to him instantly. “Again, kind of an odd thing to say.”

“Sorry, Master.”

“Stop saying odd things.”

“Yes, Master.”

Scapegrace turned back to Valkyrie and Skulduggery. “You need something. Information? I’m your man. Sort of.”

“We’re looking for information about the Torment,” said Skulduggery.

“Ah, the Torment. I haven’t thought about him for years.”

“Who is he?” Thrasher asked.

“He’s before your time,” Scapegrace said, somewhat wistfully. “He was a Child of the Spider, or an Old Man of the Spider, whatever. He didn’t like Valkyrie because he could sense Ancient blood in her, and also he just wasn’t a very nice man. He could turn into a giant spider, though, which was pretty cool. Skulduggery, remember the first time you questioned me? You wanted me to bring you to him. They were good times, weren’t they? I was so different then. I wasn’t a zombie. I wasn’t a woman. I was me.”

“You brought the Torment to Roarhaven,” Valkyrie said. “You let him stay beneath this very pub.”

“And did I get any thanks for that? All the work I put into converting the cellar into a place someone could live – do you know how long that took? I mean, fine, I may have stolen most of the materials, but it was still a huge undertaking.”

Skulduggery tilted his head. “You stole the materials to convert the cellar?”

“Sure I did. There were enough construction supplies coming into Roarhaven to rebuild the town ten times over.”

“What was it all used for?”

“Never did find out. But for ages I thought every house had another house underneath it, because there were just too many people here, you know? Too many people passing through, and I couldn’t see how they’d all fit. That’s how I got the idea to convert the cellar.”

“There are tunnels connecting this building to the Sanctuary,” Skulduggery said. “There might be more. Buildings under buildings, as you said. Streets under streets.”

“Maybe,” Scapegrace said, and shrugged. “I went looking one day, though. Couldn’t find anything. Although that could have just been because I’m rubbish and nobody likes me for who I am.”

“I like you, Master,” Thrasher said.

“You don’t count,” said Scapegrace.

Skulduggery pressed onwards before the conversation derailed. “All of this was happening after the Torment arrived?”

“No, a lot of it was going on before I ever met him. I convinced him to stay here because, you know, I thought it’d make the other mages respect me if I had someone like the Torment as a friend. But he hated me. He talked to other people. Never me.”

“What other people? Who did he associate with?”

“I don’t know. Everyone. He had meetings. I used to call them secret meetings, but they probably weren’t secret. They were just secret from me. People always wanted to talk to him, but I don’t think he was interested, I think he just wanted to retire. But that didn’t stop them. I remember the first time I saw Madame Mist come into town. At first I really wanted to find out what she looked like behind that veil, but then she creeped me out so much that I started to hide until she was gone.”

“Ever hear him mention the Warlocks?”

“Not that I can remember. Whenever Madame Mist was around, I didn’t go near the three of them.”

“Three?”

“Sorry?”

“You said the three of them.”

“Yes. The Torment and Madame Mist and the other guy.”

“What other guy?”

“I don’t know who he was.”

“Do you remember what he looked like?”

“Sure. He was … well, he was regular height. Might have been taller. Or maybe below average. But anyway, his hair was … there. I think. He had a … face …”

“Do you remember anything specific about him?”

Scapegrace furrowed his brow. “It’s like … it’s on the tip of my tongue, but …”

“Don’t worry,” Valkyrie said. “We’ve been hearing a lot of that lately.”

“Would you be willing to sit down with a Sensitive?” Skulduggery asked. “They can enter your mind and might be able to lift that block.”

“My mind?” said Scapegrace. “No. God, no. That’s the only original part of me I have left.”

“We need to know who that man is.”

“Ask Madame Mist. They were always together. But no psychic is going rooting around in my brainspace, you got that? I have a secret identity to protect.”

Valkyrie frowned. “What secret identity?”

Scapegrace went pale. “None. No secret identity.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about?”

Thrasher grabbed something from behind the bar and hurried over. “Um, Valkyrie, I don’t want to distract you or anything but, uh, this came for you …”

He handed Valkyrie an envelope addressed to the pub, but with her name on top. She opened it, unfolded the letter halfway and read.

“It’s from Cassandra Pharos,” she told Skulduggery. “She’s had a new vision. She wants us to go over there tonight. There’s no date, but … when did this arrive?”

“Yesterday,” said Thrasher.

Valkyrie frowned. “So are we late?”

“We’re dealing with a Sensitive who can see into the future,” Skulduggery said. “She knew when you’d read that. She means tonight.”

Valkyrie opened the letter fully. Her frown deepened. “She says say hello to the vampire for her. What does that mean?”

“Oh, yes,” Skulduggery said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you …”

hey didn’t talk about vampires.

That was a rule Valkyrie introduced right after Caelan had tried to kill her. It wasn’t possible to obey it at all times, of course – there were occasions when talking about vampires was sadly necessary – but for the most part they avoided the subject whenever possible. It wasn’t that Valkyrie had developed a phobia about them, either. She wasn’t scared. The fact of the matter was that she’d fallen into the arms of a gorgeous, brooding vampire, and he’d revealed himself to be a possessive, obsessive psycho.

The reason she didn’t talk about vampires wasn’t simply because of the sheer embarrassment of it all.

And now here she was, accompanying Skulduggery to Faircourt Flats, where vampires were all anybody ever talked about.

To the best of her knowledge, the situation here was unique. The ordinary tenants of the flats provided a constant supply of blood for Moloch and his pack, and in return the vampires kept the area clean from drugs and crime. Moloch’s apartment was on the thirteenth floor, and it was barely furnished. Deep grooves carved the walls. Moloch himself sat in the throne that was his couch, wearing tracksuit bottoms and a silver chain around his scrawny neck. His face was pockmarked but his skin was healthy. He must have fed recently. His eyes never left Valkyrie from the moment she stepped in the door.

“You killed Caelan,” he said.

“He died because of me,” Valkyrie clarified. “So what? You would have killed him yourself if it wasn’t for the vampire code.”

“Maybe,” Moloch said, “but I didn’t kill him, did I? You did. And so you’ve officially joined the ranks of the Fearless Vampire Killers, up there with Blade and Buffy and other anti-vampire propaganda. You must be so proud.”

“I didn’t want him to die.”

“I’m sure you did everything in your power to save him,” said Moloch, and looked at Skulduggery. “Is that why you brought her? To send a message or something? Is this your version of a sneaky little threat?”

Skulduggery shook his head. “Sneaky little threats are not my thing. I threatened someone once, but I was too subtle about it, so when it came time to throw him off the cliff, he looked awfully surprised. These days when I threaten someone I do it loud and blatant, just to make sure my point has been taken. It could be argued that Valkyrie is responsible for the death of a vampire, but how many have I killed over the years? Vampires die, Moloch, and it’s usually people like Valkyrie and me who are around to make sure it happens. May I sit?”

“The armchair’s for friends.”

“Do your friends ever wash? That cushion looks like someone congealed into it. I’ve changed my mind – I’ll stand. Thanks for the offer, though.”

“I didn’t offer.”

“But it’s the thought that counts and that’s the important thing. Moloch, you must know why I’m here.”

Moloch chewed on something. Valkyrie didn’t want to guess what it could be. “This war thing.”

“This war thing, exactly. We have a lot of trouble headed our way.”

“What’s this we business, pale-face?”

“We’re all in this together, I’m afraid.”

Moloch laughed. “We don’t have anything to do with you sorcerers. We keep to ourselves, we don’t bother no one, and no one bothers us.”

“And what if the Supreme Council takes over?” Skulduggery asked. “Do you think you’ll be able to continue with your peaceful co-existence? You know who’s one of the driving forces behind the Supreme Council? Grand Mage Wahrheit. And you know how much he loves you bloodsucking types.”

Moloch scratched himself. “Looks like I’ll just have to cross my fingers and hope you wand-waving types save the day at the last minute, then.”

Skulduggery shrugged. “And if we fail?”

“We’re all screwed.”

“You could help make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Moloch laughed again. “This is rich, this is. You people hate us. You despise us. Most of you don’t even rate us as anything above animal.”

“How about we change that? I’ve come to you with a proposition.”

“This’ll be good.”

“We’ll help you with your serum supplies. I know how hard it is these days to find exactly what you need in large enough quantities. We can even manufacture the serum at a consistently safe level.”

“That so? Serum, eh?”

“A lifetime’s supply,” said Skulduggery. “In exchange for your help against the Supreme Council.”

“So we put ourselves in the firing line – and I assume you’d be using us as a first wave of attack kind of thing, not much more than cannon fodder – and as a reward we get all the serum we need to stay human when the sun goes down.” Moloch sat forward, resting his bony elbows on his bony knees. “Do you know how much I hate being human? Do you know how uncomfortable it is at night, being unable to split my skin and emerge? It’s like I have ants crawling inside my flesh. And my skin, it gets so tight it gives me headaches. My gums hurt. They bleed. My teeth want to grow, but they can’t. My fingernails want to lengthen, but they’re held back. All I want to do is lose myself, but my thoughts jingle and jangle inside my head. And you want to give us more serum? No thanks.” Moloch settled back into his couch. “We want more territory.”

Skulduggery tilted his head. “I’m sorry?”

“Look at the good we’ve done for our local community. Crime is down. Vandalism is down. We protect the people and the people protect us. We’ve demonstrated what we can do and we’ve proved that we don’t need you sorcerers looking over our shoulders when we do it. We want more territory.”

“How much more?”

“Another housing estate.”

“Mortal housing estates are not ours to give.”

“We’re not asking you to give it to us. We just want you to not interfere when we make our move.”

“And how exactly would you be making your move? An army of vampires swarming—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Moloch said. “We’d do it slowly, winning over one person at a time. What, you think we haven’t been asked? People see what we’ve done for the residents here. They might not know the full extent of who we are, but they know a good deal when they see it. They want us to spread our influence in their direction. If you agree to that, the vampires will fight on your side.”

“I don’t have the authority to make that kind of deal.”

Moloch laughed. “Like hell you don’t. You might think we’re out of the loop over here, but I have my sources. You may not be an Elder, skeleton, but you run that Sanctuary as much as anyone. They’ll listen to you if you tell them to agree.”

“I’ll inform them of your proposal.”

“You do that.”

Valkyrie followed Skulduggery to the door.

“Oh, girl?” said Moloch, and she turned. He gave her a shark’s smile. “We remember those who have vampire blood on their hands. There’s a stink about them that never quite goes away.”

“Whoever said I wanted it to?” Valkyrie asked, and walked out.

exter Vex didn’t complain when he was shackled. He didn’t complain as he was loaded into the van, or even when he was hauled out. He didn’t complain about all the shoving and pushing and rough treatment as he was escorted into one of the American Sanctuary’s support posts in rural Connecticut. He didn’t complain about any of it. The same could not be said for his companion.

“I’m going to sue every last one of you,” Caius Caviler raged after his head smacked into the wall for a second time. “I’m going to introduce the mortal procedure of a lawsuit into the magical community and then I’m going to sue you and take everything you own.”

The man shoving him was big and broad and not in a very good mood. His name was Grim. He was an English sorcerer who’d been Quintin Strom’s bodyguard the day the Grand Mage had been assassinated. He’d been fired shortly afterwards, and now here he was in America, trying to restore his honour by being as big a jerk as possible.

Vex was in America. He felt it only right to use American insults.

The sorcerer behind Vex was a much calmer fellow. Swain, his name was. Vex had never met him before and, while he was blissfully unconcerned with Vex’s comfort, at least he wasn’t shoving him face first into walls.

“This is an illegal arrest!” Caviler went on. “You can’t put shackles on someone just because of their nationality! We have rights!”

Grim shoved him into another wall. Caviler rebounded, went quiet. He sucked at his bloody lip.

They reached two rows of cells with old-fashioned iron bars in place of walls, and each bar inscribed with a binding sigil.

“In here,” Swain said, nudging Vex towards the nearest one. Vex walked in and Swain locked the door. Grim pushed Caviler into the cell next to him, and Caviler stumbled to his knees beside the bunk.

“Enjoy your stay,” Grim said, and went to leave.

“Big man,” Caviler muttered.

Grim turned. “What was that?”

Caviler got to his feet and looked Grim dead in the eye. “You’re a big man when the other guy’s handcuffed, aren’t you? Big, tough man. I don’t think you’d be so tough if my hands were free.”

“Oh, you don’t, do you?”

“Caius,” Vex said, shaking his head.

“Maybe I should take the cuffs off, then,” said Grim.

Caviler smiled, showing bloody teeth. “By all means.”

Swain took hold of Grim’s arm, tried to pull him out. “Come on, we don’t have time for this.”

Grim shook himself free. “No, no, Mr Caviler here wants a fair go. It’s only right that I should give him the chance.” He took the key from his pocket and threw it at Caviler’s feet. “Well? Come on now. There’s the key.”

“And the moment I go to pick it up you kick me in the face?” Caviler said. “I don’t think so.”

Grim stepped out of the cell. “There. Now you have loads of room.”

Caviler chuckled. “You are smarter than you look. That’s not hard, I’ll grant you, but even so. Once that key is in my hand, you’ll be able to shoot me for attempting to escape. Unfortunately, Mr Grim, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

Grim shrugged, took his pistol from his holster and held it out to Swain.

“What the hell are you doing?” Swain asked. “We have to go. Put the gun away. I’m not taking your damn—”

Grim pointed the gun at Caviler and Swain snatched it off him.

“There,” Grim said to Caviler. “I’m unarmed.”

Swain tried pulling Grim back, but Grim turned, shoved him, his face suddenly red with anger.

“If you don’t walk away with me right this moment,” said Swain, “I’ll bring the Cleavers in here and they’ll drag you out.”

“If that’s what you feel you have to do,” said Grim.

Swain stared at him, then glanced at Caviler and then Vex, and walked away.

Grim stepped into the cell, closed the door, and smiled at Caviler. “Pick up the key.”

“Don’t,” said Vex.

“Go on. Free yourself. Be a man.”

“Caius, do not pick up that key.”

Caviler licked his lips. His hand reached downwards slowly. Grim didn’t move, not even when Caviler lifted the key off the ground and straightened up.

Grim stepped forward suddenly and Caviler flinched back, and Grim laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. Caviler’s eyes narrowed, and he worked the key until the cuffs fell.

“Put them back on,” Vex ordered. “Caius, put the handcuffs back on right now. Do it.”

“Caius doesn’t take orders from you,” said Grim. “Caius Caviler doesn’t take orders from anyone. Look at him. Look how strong he is. He’s going to teach me a lesson and no mistake. When the cuffs were on, I could hit because I knew he couldn’t hit me back, but now … now I’m scared. Look at how scared I am.” Grim’s smile broadened. “What was that you were saying, Caius? Big, tough man, wasn’t it? Well, your hands are free. Time to show me what a big, tough man really is.”

Grim took another step towards him. Caviler backed up.

“Teach me a lesson,” said Grim. “Come on.” He reached out, poked Caviler’s chest. “Let’s go.” He poked again, and again.

Caviler swung a punch that slapped uselessly off Grim’s jaw.

“Good boy,” whispered Grim, and replied with a punch to the ribs that lifted Caviler off his feet.

Caviler fell back, wheezing, and Grim struck him in the face so hard he cracked his skull off the iron bars. Caviler threw himself forward and Grim laughed, shot a knee into Caviler’s gut and tripped him as he staggered.

“That’s enough,” said Vex.

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” said Grim, and he clapped his hands as Caviler got up. “See this? Heart of a lion, this guy! You can hit him, you can kick him, but he keeps on tickin’!”

Caviler went to swing another punch, but Grim stepped in and headbutted him.

“My turn,” said Vex. “Come on, Grim. He’s had enough. You want to beat up someone, beat me up. You’re going to kill him.”

“He should’ve thought of that before he provoked me,” said Grim, twisting Caviler’s arm behind his back. “Say uncle. Come on, tough guy. Say uncle.”

“Uncle!” Caviler cried.

Grim cocked his head. “Sorry, what was that? Didn’t quite hear you.”

“Uncle!”

“Still not hearing right,” said Grim, and he wrenched Caviler’s arm back and Vex heard the snap of bone, and Caviler shrieked and thrashed, but Grim still wouldn’t let him go. “Next time you find yourself arrested,” he said, “keep your bloody mouth shut, you understand me? This here is you getting off lightly.”

Grim released him and Caviler swung blindly, his elbow crunching into Grim’s nose. Grim bellowed, grabbed Caviler again and wrapped his arm round his throat, hauled him back in a vicious sleeper hold.

“Let him go!” Vex shouted. “He didn’t mean it, Grim! Look at him! He’s beaten! Let him go!”

Caviler’s face was already turning purple. His ruined arm flapped uselessly by his side, while his legs kicked and his good hand scraped at Grim’s arm. Grim tightened the hold even more, walking backwards the whole time. Caviler’s legs stopped kicking. The heels of his feet dragged across the floor. Both arms hung limply.

“Let him go,” said Vex. “You’re killing him. Grim, let him go. Release him. Grim!”

Grim’s eyes widened, and he opened his arms and Caviler fell. The colour drained from Grim’s face.

Footsteps approached and Swain walked back in, two Cleavers in tow. When he saw Caviler, he ran forward, yanked open the cell door and dropped to his side, checked for a pulse.

“Get a doctor,” he told one of the Cleavers, and then he stared up at Grim, disbelief etched into his face. “What the hell have you done?”

photograph of Valkyrie Cain was pinned to the exact centre of the wall. Radiating outwards and linked by different coloured thread were names, locations, dates and more photographs. Along the blue thread were pictures of Valkyrie’s family, including a publicity shot of the late horror writer Gordon Edgley. Red threads meant public incidents, and these threads linked newspaper reports and Internet printouts. The green thread led straight to a series of pictures of tall men in good suits, all under the banner of Skulduggery Pleasant. There were shots of a heavily scarred man, a black Bentley, and various other individuals. Some of these pictures were too blurry to make out, but most were of relatively high quality. The system for cross-referencing had started out as simple, but, as more information was collected, it had got decidedly complex.

“I don’t get it,” said Patrick Slattery, scratching his beard in that way he did. “You’re saying that all of these guys are Skulduggery Pleasant? How does he manage that?”

Kenny Dunne collapsed into his tattered old armchair. “I don’t know, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Slattery looked sceptical. It had become his default look over these past few months. “Really? The only thing that makes sense is that all of these men we’ve been photographing are the same person? That makes sense to you? They look nothing alike.”

“They’re all tall, thin and have the same taste in well-tailored clothes. And look at their faces. The skin and hair might be different, but the bone structure’s the same.”

“He wears disguises, then,” said Slattery. “For no reason, every day he wears a different disguise.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Who knows with these people?”

Slattery shook his head, more to himself than to Kenny. “So why is he called the Skeleton Detective?”

“For the last time, I don’t know, all right? Probably because he’s so thin. I don’t have all the answers.”

“You don’t have any of the answers.”

Kenny didn’t have a violent bone in his body, but there was nothing he would have liked to do more at that moment than jump up and smack Slattery right in the face. “I’m making educated guesses. It’s the only thing we can do with the information we have.”

Slattery hesitated, then turned from the wall and looked straight at Kenny. “We need to have a talk.”

“We’re talking now.”

“We need to have a serious talk about what we’re doing here.”

Kenny’s hand fluttered an invitation. “Go right ahead.”

Slattery sat in the tattered old couch that had come with the tattered old armchair. “It might be time to rethink things,” he said. “When you came to me with this, I thought you’d cracked. I honestly thought you’d gone mad. Magic people and possession and super-powers. I thought to myself, Kenny’s gone round the bend. He’s lost it. All those years chasing stories have led him into the nuthouse. I thought you’d want me and my camera down the bottom of some garden, ready to photograph fairies or something.”

Kenny nodded. “Happy to know you had so much faith in me as a journalist.”

“But then when you showed me what you had and, when I saw it for myself, I thought, holy cow, we’re going to change the world. Politics, religion, society – it’s all going to be turned on its head. And we’re the ones who are going to do it.”

“Nothing’s changed since then.”

“Well, that’s it exactly,” said Slattery. “Nothing has changed. We had a few good months of following Valkyrie around, a few good months of collecting information and names and linking stuff up … and then it all slowed down to a crawl.”

“A crawl? Have you been reading the papers? Something’s going on. Unexplained destruction of property, unexplained disappearances, sightings of—”

“Kenny,” Slattery said, “please. Come on. How does this help us? If we had a team, fair enough. But there’s only two of us. By the time we get to the scene, it’s like nothing ever happened.”

“We just have to be patient.”

“You need to go back to work.”

“I am working.”

“You need to work on a story that will get you paid. You’re living on scraps, for God’s sake. I need to get paid, too.”

Kenny frowned. “That’s what this is about? You want money?”

“I don’t want money, I need money. I have bills to pay.”

“When we release what we have, we’ll be rich beyond our—”

“Release what?” Slattery said, barking a laugh. “We have photographs of people and coloured thread on a wall.”

“You seem to be forgetting the recorded footage we have of Valkyrie Cain and Fletcher Renn fighting a monster.”

“Could I be blamed for forgetting that? It’s not like we’ve done anything with it. We haven’t released it or sold it. We’ve hung on to it.”

“You know why. We need more than that. We need something so concrete that no one will even try to tell us it’s faked. We’re dealing with sorcerers who can make you believe whatever they tell you. We can’t afford to go public until we have overwhelming evidence.”

“And how are we going to get it?”

Kenny sat back.

“You need the evidence to write that book you’re always on about,” said Slattery. “You need the evidence to make that documentary that I’m apparently going to film. Where’s that evidence, Kenny? Where do we find it?”

“We stick to Valkyrie.”

“Here we go again.”

“We stick to Valkyrie Cain and she will take us to the evidence eventually.”

“She’s a teenage girl and you want us to follow her around again? We’ve spied on her enough, don’t you think? We tailed her for months, and she led us to people and places that are up on that wall, and that’s it. That’s all we’ve been able to get.”

“Then we have to dig deeper.”

“With what resources?”

“Well, what do you suggest? That we give up on the single most important story in the history of the world? I’m not exaggerating here, and you know I’m not.”

“I never said you were. I’m just saying we can’t do it alone.”

“We have to keep this between ourselves.”

“We can trust—”

“We can’t trust anyone. A careless word here and there and somehow it gets back to Geoffrey Scrutinous or Finbar Wrong or Valkyrie or Skulduggery, and they’ll come for us. They’ll take all this, all our work and research, and they’ll wipe our minds and do a better job of it than they did with me last time.”

“It’s risky. I know it is. But we don’t have a choice. We need support, we need money, we need help.”

Kenny shook his head. “We do this alone.”

“You know your problem? You don’t want to share the glory.”

“This isn’t about who gets the by-line.”

“Isn’t it?”

“What are you going to do?” Kenny asked. “If I say no, if I say we don’t need anyone, what are you going to do?”

“You mean if you refuse to see sense? I don’t know yet. I might just have to take what I know and go somewhere else.”

“I brought you in on this. This is my story.”

“See? It is about the by-line.”

Kenny sighed. “Just give it a little time, OK? All this crazy stuff that’s been happening, it’s been leading to something, I know it has. We just have to wait. Just a little longer.”

Slattery stood up. “You have till October.”

“You can’t expect—”

“Two months, Kenny. Then either we get some help, or I leave with what I have.”

he news came through the normal channels, but it came quietly, buried in among everything else, like it was trying to sneak by without anyone noticing. An Irish sorcerer, arrested but not charged with any crime, killed in an American cell. Ghastly had never met the man – Caius Caviler, his name was – and to the best of his knowledge he had never had any particular involvement with the Sanctuary, past or present. As far as he could tell, Caviler’s death was the tragic result of casual brutality. It was awful. It was criminal. It was the one piece of good news they’d had in weeks.

There was a knock on his door and Ravel stepped in. He looked tired. “Mind if I sit?” he asked.

Ghastly motioned to the chair, and Ravel sank into it. “I just spoke with Bisahalani,” he said. “He assures me that a thorough investigation is under way to determine what exactly happened to Caviler. He said the operative responsible for the ‘accident’ has been suspended pending further inquiry. He apologises for the unfortunate timing.”

“He apologises for the timing?” said Ghastly. “What about the death?”

“He stopped short of apologising for that. He said a formal apology could be forthcoming once it has been determined that Caviler was not sent to America as a spy.”

“Caviler has nothing to do with us,” Ghastly said. “He’s not an operative and never was. That’s a matter of public record.”

“Grand Mage Bisahalani likes to be sure.”

Ghastly narrowed his eyes. “He’s bluffing. Remember Prussia, right after Hopeless died? Shudder and I fell in with Bisahalani and his group of American mages. The area was completely overrun by Mevolent’s forces. They were hunting us down. Relentless. They finally had us surrounded in this old farmhouse. We were exhausted, starving, injured … it wouldn’t have taken much to finish us off. Bisahalani walked out, he actually walked out the front door, walked across the yard to where Mevolent’s soldiers were crouched behind cover. No one fired at him because they were all too stunned at what was happening. He went up to whoever was in charge and he stood there and informed him that he was to take his squad of killers and madmen and scurry away before the people in that farmhouse grew irritated.”

“Did it work?”

“Astonishingly, yes. He was so convincing, he was so bull-headed and strong-willed, that Mevolent’s soldiers decided to cut their losses and leave. That’s what he does. When he’s backed into a corner, Bisahalani will talk big and talk tough and all the time he’ll be crossing his fingers and hoping that you don’t stand your ground. They murdered an innocent man in their custody. The core elements of the Supreme Council will stick together, but what of everyone else? We know the Scottish Sanctuary is already asking questions. The Estonians, too. Tipstaff just told me that Grand Mage Kribu is calling for all Irish prisoners to be released in the wake of what happened.”

“We have the advantage,” Ravel said. “We have them over a barrel for the first time since all this began.”

“If we play this right,” said Ghastly, “support for the Supreme Council will crumble, and the Supreme Council itself could even dissolve.”

“We have to be careful. They’re going to try to shift focus away from their mistake on to one of ours.”

“Then we’ve got to be sure we don’t make any mistakes.”

Ravel frowned. “Where’s Skulduggery?”

“Skulduggery and Valkyrie have gone to talk to Moloch like we asked, and then they’re off to see Cassandra Pharos. Hopefully, that’ll keep them out of trouble.”

“OK, good.” Ravel tapped his chin. “The Supreme Council arrests our people and they treat them so badly they kill one of them. We need to show that, when we arrest their people, they’re treated well. We can arrange a Global Link broadcast to every Sanctuary around the world.”

Ghastly stood. “I’ll get Sult ready for his close-up.”

“No hitting him.”

“Any assault will be to his ego, I swear.”

They left Ghastly’s office. Ravel went one way, escorted by his Cleaver bodyguards, and Ghastly went the other, heading for the cells.

The guard on duty was snoring in his chair. Ghastly strode forward, sending a blast of air to wake him. The young man’s hair ruffled and he was almost pitched sideways to the ground, but he didn’t wake. What was his name?

“Weeper,” Ghastly said, remembering. “Staven Weeper. Wake the hell up.”

When Weeper continued to snore, Ghastly gripped his shoulder and shook him. As he was released, Weeper slumped over and collapsed slowly to the ground. Ghastly’s eyes widened.

He ran to the first cell, opened the viewing hatch, saw Adrasdos reading a book on her bunk. He went to the next cell, and the next, and the next, all of which were occupied. Then he opened the hatch on the cell that should have been occupied by Bernard Sult.

He ran back to Weeper’s corner, pressed the communication sigil on the desk. “Lock the Sanctuary down,” he snarled. “We have an escaped prisoner.”

The conference room was humming with activity by the time Ghastly reached it. Huge screens had been set up, showing CCTV footage of the corridor leading to the cellblock. Mages chattered on phones and hurried in and out of the doors, and Ravel stood in the middle of it all with a frown etched on his brow.

He turned to Ghastly. “Anything?”

Ghastly shook his head. “I sent the Cleavers into the lower levels, but I doubt Sult would have headed down there. He’ll want to get out of Roarhaven as soon as possible. If he’s in the area, we’ll find him. Any luck with the cameras?”

Ravel swivelled his head, like he was catching the question and passing it on to the mage at the huge screens.

“We’re watching the footage now,” said Susurrus. “So far, we’ve seen no movement at … wait a second …”

The screen flickered, flickered again, went fuzzy, and then the picture was replaced by static.

“Mr Susurrus,” said Ravel, “what happened to our picture?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Susurrus, furiously tapping the keyboard. “It looks like someone jammed the signal.”

“Those cameras are protected, are they not?” Ravel asked, his hands curled into fists. “When we installed them, I was told they were unjammable, was I not? So will someone please tell me how this happened?”

The chatter in the conference room died for a moment while sorcerers looked away and looked at their feet and looked at each other, no one daring to posit an answer. After a moment, the silence went away, and once more the room was plunged into a chattering mess of barked orders and ringing phones.

Ravel looked over at Ghastly, gave him an exasperated shrug, and Ghastly turned as Doctor Synecdoche approached.

“Staven Weeper has just regained consciousness,” she said. “He claims to have no memory of anything unusual. One moment he was doing his duty with his customary alertness, his words, and the next he’s waking up with Doctor Nye staring down at him.”

“You believe him?”

“We’ve found traces of a toxin in his blood. We should be able to identify it within minutes.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Ghastly said, nodding for the next sorcerer to approach.

“We’ve set up a perimeter around Roarhaven,” said Petrichor, a fresh-faced mage of ninety-three. “We’ve also been viewing any outside CCTV footage that might yield results. So far, nothing. We don’t even know how he got out without being seen.”

“There are dozens of secret tunnels beneath this place that we don’t know about,” Ghastly said.

“Um,” said Susurrus.

Ghastly looked round. “What is it?”

Susurrus frowned. “The Sanctuary Global Link, sir.”

Ravel came forward. “What about it, for God’s sake?”

“Uh … it just activated.”

Ravel glared down at him. “Do you really think we’re in the mood to watch Supreme Council propaganda right now?”

“Well, that’s just it, Grand Mage. They didn’t activate the link. We did.”

The screen pulsed, showing Bernard Sult on his knees. His mouth was gagged and his hands were cuffed behind his back.

Ravel’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell is going on?”

“Elder Bespoke,” Doctor Synecdoche said, hurrying back to Ghastly’s side. “We’ve identified the toxin in Weeper’s blood. It’s venom, sir.”

“What?”

“Spider venom.”

The doors opened behind him and Madame Mist glided in, in perfect synchronicity with Syc and Portia’s arrival onscreen.

Ravel looked at Mist. “What are they doing?”

“I have nothing to do with this,” Mist said, after a moment. “Whatever their plan is, it is theirs alone.”

Ravel turned to Susurrus. “Trace the signal. Find out where they are.”

Syc kept one hand on Sult’s shoulder, keeping him on his knees, while Portia turned to the camera. “The actions of the Supreme Council have led to this. Their repeated breaches of the accepted Rules of Law and Sanctuary Conduct have resulted in the death of an Irish sorcerer while in their custody. This cannot go unpunished.”

Syc took hold of Sult’s hair and pulled his head back. Sult’s eyes were wide and wet with fear. In Syc’s other hand, he held a knife.

“They can’t,” Synecdoche whispered.

Ghastly seized Mist’s arm. “Tell them to stop. Make them stop!”

With a rare show of anger, Mist pulled free. “I don’t know where they are, Elder Bespoke. I assure you, they do not have my authorisation.”

“Well, do they have phones? Call them, damn it!”

“I have been trying, sir,” Tipstaff said from another desk. “Their phones are turned off, and hidden from all scans.”

“You,” Mist said, looking at Susurrus, “disable the link.”

“I can’t,” Susurrus said. “Not from here.”

“So every Sanctuary around the world is watching this?”

“I—I’m sorry, but yes.”

Back onscreen, Portia was talking again. “No doubt our own Sanctuary will publicly condemn us for what we are about to do, even though they will understand why it is necessary. For too long, Grand Mage Ravel has entertained the Supreme Council’s excessive demands. For too long, he has indulged their whims and forgiven their sins. This latest sin cannot be forgiven. And so we offer a life for a life.”

“Don’t do it,” said Ravel, but the words had barely left his mouth when Syc drew the knife across Bernard Sult’s throat.

Ghastly stiffened and there was no sound in the room except for the sound of Sult dying onscreen.

“Let it be known,” said Portia, “that if one of ours is harmed, one of yours will die.”

The screen went blank.

“Turn it off,” said Ravel, his voice low, his jaw clenched. “Tipstaff. Activate the shield.”

“The shield is up, sir.”

“Out. Everyone out.” The room emptied quickly, until there were only the Elders left. “We’ll go to war over this,” he said. “This is everything they needed. This is the excuse they were looking for. A public execution of one of their people. Any sympathy we may have had, any, was washed away the moment that blade touched his skin.” Ravel turned to Mist. “Those two don’t do anything without your permission.”

“So I had thought,” said Mist. “Obviously, I was wrong. You are suspicious of me?”

“You could say that.”

Mist’s veil made it impossible to read her face. “That is unfortunate. Please allow me to repeat myself – I had nothing to do with this. They acted without my knowledge and certainly without my permission. I cannot, and I will not, be held responsible for their actions.”

“They’re Children of the Spider,” said Ghastly. “Just like you.”

“And that makes me culpable? Preposterous. Are you to be held responsible every time an Elemental commits a crime?”

“Children of the Spider are an especially tight-knit bunch.”

“We are no closer than family,” said Mist, “and yet siblings are not held accountable for each other, are they? I had no idea Portia and Syc were going to do what they did, and unless you have evidence beyond mere suspicion, we should be concentrating on bringing them to justice and dealing with the ramifications of this terrible act.”

She moved for the door, but Ghastly blocked her way. “You can’t just walk out of here.”

“On the contrary,” she said, “I can and I am about to. Administrator Tipstaff may not be able to track them, but someone has to, and by the looks of things the rest of you are too busy blaming me to do anything constructive. So if you will excuse me.”

She stepped round Ghastly and walked on, and he just stood there.

assandra Pharos greeted them from her front door with a warm smile. Her grey hair was pulled back in a plait today, and she wore a loose shirt over faded jeans. She hugged Valkyrie and ignored Skulduggery’s protests until he allowed her to hug him, too.

The inside of the cottage was just as Valkyrie remembered it – a bookshelf against one wall, a guitar tucked into the corner, a large rug on the wooden floor and a sofa that had seen better days. And hanging from the rafters, dozens of bundles of twigs, shaped like little men. Dream whisperers. Cassandra had given Valkyrie one as a present the first time they’d met.

“Do you still have yours?” Cassandra asked, catching Valkyrie’s uneasy look.

“Yes,” Valkyrie said automatically, before she even had a chance to consider telling the truth. She ignored Skulduggery’s tilt of the head, and motioned to the guitar. “Do you play much?”

“Not as much as I used to,” Cassandra said. “I was pretty good, once upon a time. I picked up an old one in the sixties and I was taught by one of the best guitarists of the era.”

“Jimi Hendrix?”

“Angelo Bartolotti. This was the 1660s.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.”

“It was a whole different instrument back then. But you didn’t come here to talk about my musical past as a Baroque chick, did you?”

“You’ve had a vision?” Skulduggery asked.

“Yes,” said Cassandra. “Or at least I will. In a few minutes.”

Valkyrie frowned. “You haven’t had it yet?”

“No. But I dreamed that I was going to have it, and that it involved the two of you.”

“Wait. So … you had a vision that you were going to have a vision?”

“Fortune-telling is a strange business. Come down to the cellar.”

She led the way downstairs to a large room with cement walls and a metal grille for a floor. Rusted pipes ran up the walls and across the ceiling like infected veins. It was cold and it was bleak. Cassandra sat in the straight-backed chair in the middle of the chamber, picked up the yellow umbrella and held it across her lap. “So how have you both been?”

“Uh, fine,” Valkyrie said. “Are you having your vision now?”

“It’ll come when it comes,” Cassandra told her. “How’s that boyfriend of yours?”

“Fletcher?”

“No, the other one.”

Valkyrie felt a scowl rise. “Caelan?”

“No, the other one. Or … wait. Maybe that hasn’t happened yet.”

“What? You’ve seen a future boyfriend of mine? Who is he? What’s his name? Is he hot?”

Cassandra smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t say.”

“Just tell me if he’s hot.”

“If I give you any details about him at all, it could change what happens. The future is uncertain. It’s always changing. If you know who he is, he might never become your boyfriend.”

“She’s annoying when she has a boyfriend,” Skulduggery said. “Please do me a favour and tell us who it is.”

Cassandra laughed. “I’ve said too much already. The only reason I’m showing you this vision I’m about to have is because it relates to the one you’ve already seen.”

“The ruined city,” Valkyrie said.

“Aha,” Cassandra murmured, her eyes closing. “It’s starting. If you wouldn’t mind?”

Skulduggery clicked his fingers and Valkyrie did the same, and they each summoned a ball of fire into their hands. They dropped the fireballs to the grille – within seconds the coals underneath were glowing orange. Heat rose, filling the chamber. Valkyrie stood with her back against the wall.

Cassandra opened the umbrella, and Skulduggery turned a little red wheel. Water gurgled through the pipes and sprayed from the sprinklers, and immediately clouds of steam began billowing. Cassandra sat in the middle of it all, the umbrella keeping her dry. When she was lost amid the swirling steam, Skulduggery cut off the water.

Valkyrie stepped forward, and Skulduggery joined her. It was quiet. The steam was as thick as fog. Even the slow dripping from the sprinklers sounded distant.

The first time she’d been down here, an image of Ghastly had run at her. But this was different. A shape moved. Staggered. There were walls around them now, in the steam, and a table, a big one. She knew this place. The conference room, in the Sanctuary. The figure stumbled into view. Erskine Ravel, dressed in his Elder robes, falling to his knees with his hands shackled behind his back, screaming in unimaginable agony.

He fell forward and the image swirled, and now they were in a city, smoke rising from the ruins. Valkyrie looked for something familiar, some way to identify what city this was – even a street sign – but the steam was lending everything a hazy quality. The city was an out-of-focus photograph, a blurred representation of reality.

Ghastly ran by, just like he had the first time, and then the street started moving around her like the whole thing, Ghastly included, was on a treadmill. It was hugely disorientating and Valkyrie had to hold Skulduggery’s arm to steady herself. Ghastly turned a corner and the corner whipped by so fast that Valkyrie jerked back. He eventually slowed his run and the street slowed its movement, and when he stopped the street stopped.

Ghastly glanced behind him, getting his breath back.

“That’s new,” Skulduggery murmured.

Ghastly had a scar bisecting the others along the left side of his head, just over his ear. It wasn’t fresh, but it wasn’t old, either.

“Well now,” said a voice in the steam, “don’t I feel stupid?”

Steam billowed and now Valkyrie could see Tanith Low leaning against a streetlight, both hands pressing into the lower half of her torso, which was a mess of blood and ruined flesh. Ghastly rushed over to her, his eyes wide.

Steam hissed as Ghastly and Tanith talked, but their words were snatched away until Ghastly grabbed her and Tanith cried out.

“Bloody hell, that hurts!”

“I don’t care,” said Ghastly, and he pulled her into him and they kissed, long and hard, so long and so hard that Valkyrie began to feel vaguely uncomfortable watching them. She was saved from having to look away by fresh clouds of steam, and a new image solidified in front of her.

The first time she had seen her future self she remembered thinking how much older she looked in the steam. Her future self had been taller, with strong arms and strong legs. But now they were identical, apart from the tattoo on her future self’s left arm and the metal gauntlet on her right. For the first time, Valkyrie noticed a strap that crossed her future self’s chest. She had something slung across her back.

“I’ve seen this,” the Valkyrie in the steam said, the wind playing with her hair. “I was watching from …” She looked around, narrowed her eyes. “… there. Hi.”

Valkyrie frowned. This was different from last time. She hadn’t said “Hi” last time.

The other Valkyrie smiled sadly. “This is where it happens, but then you know that, right? At least you think you do. You think this is where I let them die.”

“Stephanie!”

Two shapes in the distance, running. Sprinting. The other Valkyrie shook her head. “I don’t want to see this. Please. I don’t want this to happen. Let me stop it. Please let me stop it.” She held something in her hand, something the steam was obscuring as she looked at it. “Please work,” she said, tears running down her face. “Please let me save them.”

And then her image was swept away as Valkyrie’s parents neared. Her mother turned on the spot, looking up at the sky. She was holding something.

“Oh, no,” Valkyrie said weakly, watching as her baby sister clung to her mother.

“Stephanie!” her father shouted. “We’re here! Steph!”

A figure in black dropped to the ground behind them, cracking the pavement with the force of her landing.

Darquesse. She smiled with Valkyrie’s smile. From neck to toe she was dressed in a black so tight it was like a second skin. Desmond Edgley stepped between his wife and the monster.

“Give our daughter back to us,” he said.

Darquesse continued to smile.

“Give her back!” her dad roared.

It was nothing but a moving image, it wasn’t real, it hadn’t happened yet, but when Darquesse burned her family with black flame Valkyrie cried out nonetheless.

Skulduggery wrapped an arm round her shoulders and she sagged against him, tears in her eyes.

The swirling steam brought a new figure, Skulduggery, dressed in a black suit, his skull bare and his gun in his hand. He slowed and stopped, reached down to pick something up off the ground. His hat. He put it on, spent a moment angling the brim. Behind him, Darquesse approached. Skulduggery turned slowly, not bothering to look up. He reloaded his gun.

The smile on the face of Darquesse widened. “My favourite little toy. You know you’re going to die now, don’t you?”

Skulduggery raised his head slightly, one eye socket visible under his hat. “I made a promise.”

Darquesse nodded. “Until the end.”

“That’s right,” said Skulduggery, clicking the revolver shut and thumbing back the hammer. “Until the end.”

He raised the gun and fired and walked forward and fired and fired again. And then he fumbled slightly and the gun fell, and a moment later his glove followed it. His fingers spilled out across the ground.

He grunted, unimpressed, as his other hand dropped from his wrist, and now the radius and ulna bones were sliding from his sleeves and his ankles came apart and he stumbled, fell to his knees.

His hips detached and his upper body fell backwards with the sound of clacking bones. He was a ribcage and a spine and a head, trying in vain to sit up. The ribcage collapsed next.

Darquesse stepped over him, reached down, plucked his skull from his spine. She kissed his closed mouth, her lips on his teeth, then she let the skull fall and the jawbone broke and spun away.

Then Darquesse turned, looked straight into Valkyrie’s eyes, and smiled.

The smile dispersed with the steam, and then there was no more Darquesse and no more ruined city, and they were back in the Steam Chamber and Cassandra was opening her eyes.

“Distressing,” she said, her voice hollow.

Valkyrie didn’t say anything. She went straight to the stairs and got out of there.

The tea was hot and a bit too sweet, but Valkyrie drank it anyway. Her hands had stopped shaking, thank God. Cassandra’s hadn’t. Having visions of that nature could not be good for your nerves.

“So you’ll show me a vision of my family dying,” Valkyrie said, forcing some strength into her voice, “but you won’t tell me the name of my next boyfriend? How is that fair?”

Cassandra gave a shaky smile. “Because your next boyfriend might not be something you’d want to miss out on, whereas that particular future most certainly is.”

“The order was different,” Skulduggery said from where he stood by the window. “In the first vision, we saw Ghastly, then me, then Valkyrie, and then Valkyrie’s parents. In this one, it was altered. Is that significant?”

“I don’t know,” said Cassandra. “Maybe. Maybe not. Your knowledge of the future changes it. Sometimes in tiny, insignificant ways. Sometimes in huge, world-changing ways.”

“I spoke more this time,” Valkyrie said. “Did you see that? I was actually talking to me, the me watching. And my parents … they had my little sister with them. They didn’t have her in the first vision.”

Cassandra nodded. “The future is in a constant state of flux.”

“And Ghastly and Tanith,” said Valkyrie, “and Ravel … Was he dying? It looked like he was dying.” She looked up. “How do we stop it? How do we stop all of that from happening? Some things we hadn’t seen before, some things were switched around, so does that mean the events we saw don’t happen in chronological order?”

“Usually they do,” Cassandra said. “Usually. It’s a vision interpreted through my mind, remember, and so it’s subject to my subconscious whims. Maybe I pulled the images of your family forward because I knew that’s where your focus would be.”

Skulduggery turned away from the window. “But if it was in chronological order, then Ravel in pain will be the first of those events to occur. And if we stop that from happening?”

Cassandra shrugged. “Everything else will be affected. Some of it will be changed, even avoided. Some of it won’t.”

“Then we do what we can,” Skulduggery said. “We keep Ravel safe. He was wearing the robes of his office and he only wears those when he’s in the Sanctuary, so we make sure he stays away from Roarhaven. Cassandra, thank you for alerting us. Valkyrie, we need to get going.”

“Not yet,” Cassandra said. “Not while those men are outside.”

Valkyrie frowned at her. “What men?”

“The ones who’ve come to kill you. They should be arriving any moment now.”

kulduggery whipped round. “You set us up?”

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

Valkyrie joined Skulduggery at the window as a van pulled up and armed men jumped out.

“I had another vision,” Cassandra explained.

Valkyrie ducked out of sight. “And you’re only telling us now?”

“I only told you at this point in the vision, too. If I’d given you any more warning, you might do something differently and you won’t walk away.”

“So we win this?”

“Yes,” said Cassandra. “Of course, now that you know the future, you might change it. Fortune-telling – it’s a tricky business.”

Someone was shouting Skulduggery’s name.

He grunted, took off his hat and handed it to Cassandra. “Keep this safe,” he said, and walked to the door. Valkyrie followed him outside. Nine men stood waiting.

“Skulduggery,” said the man in charge, an American. “It’s been a while. You’re looking well for a dead man.”

“The same could be said for you, Gepard. Mind me asking what it is you think you’re doing?”

“Obeying orders. We’ve been instructed to take the two of you out.”

“Attacking us will start a war.”

“You haven’t heard? The war’s already started. Your side executed Bernard Sult live on the Global Link.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Valkyrie said.

“Afraid not. Those two Children of the Spider weirdos did it, not ten minutes ago. There’s a list of people the Supreme Council needs terminated. You two are at the top of that list.”

“But we’re friends, aren’t we?” Skulduggery asked. “Or friendly, at the very least. We shouldn’t have to fight each other.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Excellent. So what are the conditions of your surrender?”

Gepard chuckled. “I’m afraid your advanced years and lack of a physical brain have led to some confusion. I have superior numbers on my side. The outcome of this day is not in any doubt – the only question is how much you want it to hurt.”

“Do you know whose cottage this is? Cassandra Pharos’s. She’s already seen this happen. We win. You lose. Walk away.”

Gepard shook his head. “You think I want to be here? You think I want to fight you? What the hell are Erskine and Ghastly thinking? The Supreme Council has a point, for God’s sake. They’re making sense. They don’t want to take over, they just want to help you maintain order.”

“And to show us just how eager they are to provide this help, they’ve sent you over to kill a few of us. No, Gepard, this isn’t about maintaining order. The Supreme Council sees an opportunity to snatch up a Cradle of Magic and they’re seizing it with both hands. You may not want to admit this, but you are an invading force.”

Gepard sighed. “You can’t win. You know that, right? So I’m giving you a chance. Walk away. The report I hand in will say you fought valiantly, but were outnumbered, so you had to retreat. You’re going to lose, but that doesn’t mean we have to fight.”

“Actually,” Skulduggery said, “your report will detail an exciting battle of legendary proportions in which we prevail despite overwhelming odds. It will be quite a stirring read, I assure you. Many will be moved to tears.”

“We fought Mevolent side by side.”

“And now we’ll fight face to face.”

Gepard looked at him for a long moment and, at his nod, the guns were raised.

Skulduggery went one way, Valkyrie went another, diving behind Cassandra’s car as the air was filled with gunfire. She hated bullets. She much preferred it when they fired magical beams of energy. At least they were pretty and colourful. But bullets were too small and moved too fast to see. One of them could smack right into your head and you’d never know anything about it.

One of the men had sneaked round behind the cottage. She saw him waddling behind an old tractor, trying to keep out of sight, and she pushed herself up and ran for him. He peeked out, saw her coming and his eyes widened. He jerked his gun-hand up, but she pushed at the air and he went backwards. She crashed into him as he tumbled, both of them fighting for control of the gun. She held it away from her and he fired – a gunshot so loud it almost deafened her. She hit with her elbow, again and again, and when she hit him hard enough to knock him out she hauled herself off, and realised she was holding his gun.

Skulduggery was walking and shooting, his revolver in a two-handed grip. Bullets whipped by him and energy streams sizzled. He responded to each one in turn, firing methodically. Valkyrie saw a big guy go down, caught dead centre in the chest. A smaller guy opened up with eyeblasts. Skulduggery spun behind an old trailer, reloaded and leaned out, one-handed, squeezed off a shot that flipped the guy over backwards like some kind of acrobat. For Skulduggery, killing was easy.

Valkyrie threw her gun down, clicking her fingers and summoning fireballs into her hands. She hurled them as she sprinted, keeping a man pinned behind a van. She was very calm as she moved to his position. She could feel the blood coursing and the energy flowing – she was practically high on adrenaline – but her mind was a calm place of practical things. One step after another. No panicking. Haste makes waste. Use the fireballs to get in close.

The man stepped out and she whipped the shadows at him, sent them slicing into his arm. He dropped his gun and she clicked her fingers, threw a fireball at his legs, then seized hold of the air as he screeched and yanked him off his feet. He hit the cottage wall face first.

She turned to see Skulduggery dismantle a fat guy with bad hair. He was unconscious even before he started to topple, and Skulduggery was already darting to his next target.

Something thumped Valkyrie in the chest and she stepped back. Another bullet whizzed by her ear. A third struck her shoulder. She didn’t even know who the hell was shooting her. She should have ducked, dodged, done something, but instead she glared, searching for the shooter. She saw him, crouched and firing with a startled look on his face, wondering why she wasn’t going down. He shifted his aim and fired at her head, obviously figuring it out.

Move, you stupid girl, said the voice in the back of her mind.

She moved. He kept firing. Hitting someone in the head was not an easy thing to do. Hitting a moving target in the head was even harder. He emptied his gun and threw it down, fired an energy stream that missed, then ran at her. She ran at him. Dumb thing to do. He was a grown man. They collided and he flung her right over his shoulder. She crunched to the ground, tried to roll to her knees, but he grabbed her head from behind, dragged her backwards. Valkyrie wriggled and kicked, scratched at his hands, tried bending one of his fingers back. He let go and dumped her, dropped to his knee and his fist came down on her cheek. There was that moment of disorientation that comes with being hit hard, and then he was pulling her hair, lifting her painfully so he could slip an arm round her throat, the opening move to a neck-break.

Let me out. I can help. Let me out.

She turned her head away, tucked her chin down, dug her fingers into his arm and brought her feet in. She got purchase then pushed, heard him grunt as they went backwards. He lost his hold and she was free. They got to their knees at the same time and she hit him, caught him in the hinge of his jaw. Lucky shot. He stopped himself from collapsing, but his face went slack. She threw herself back, giving herself room to swing her leg. She had good legs. She had good, long, strong legs. Her boot smashed into him and he went down and didn’t get up.

She looked round. Skulduggery strolled towards her. Everything was suddenly quiet and still and peaceful. Valkyrie’s chest and shoulder ached. The left side of her face had that dull, not unpleasant buzz of oncoming numbness. Her left eye was beginning to close as it started to swell. She could smell cordite. The smell of gunfire and carnage.

Skulduggery’s revolver drifted through the air into his gloved hand, and he put it away.

“We’re at war?” she asked.

“So it would seem,” he said.

“They were trying to kill us. Yesterday they would have been on our side. What do we do now?”

“First, we shackle the ones who are still alive. Then I get my hat back. And then we drive to Roarhaven and hope nobody we know has been killed in the meantime.”

he meeting was already under way by the time Illori Reticent stepped into the room. Palaver Graves heard the door close and glanced back, a shallow smile on his narrow face. She ignored him, focusing instead on adjusting her robes. The Elders from the other Sanctuaries couldn’t see her yet, but she could see them. They were all here, Elders from the fourteen Sanctuaries who had made up the initial Supreme Council, before it had grown even bigger. The sigils that were glowing on the walls generated what were officially known as Incorporeal Visitations. These days, even though it had nothing to do with light manipulation, everyone used the mortal term holograms. It was just easier.

Illori stepped up beside Grand Mage Cothernus Ode, and her image appeared in twenty-three rooms just like this one around the world.

“They’ve already raised their shield,” the German Grand Mage, Wahrheit, was saying. “From initial scans, it appears to run the entire length of the Irish coastline and forms a dome two kilometres high.”

Renato Bisahalani, the American Grand Mage, nodded. They had expected this. “No matter. We have one hundred and thirty-two operatives in Ireland already, all briefed and ready for the go-ahead. Everything is going according to plan.”

“It’s one thing to make plans,” said Kribu, the head of the Estonian Sanctuary. “Quite another to go to war. The world has changed. We are a global community, and yet we have just ordered friend to attack friend? We have fought by the side of the Irish mages since before the war with Mevolent.”

“And so we know their weaknesses,” said Bisahalani.

“As they know ours.”

“They have one single Sanctuary,” Ode said, and all eyes shifted to the source of his deep, rumbling voice. “We already have another nine Sanctuaries willing to add their might to ours. They’re not going to hold out for long.”

“You seem to be forgetting that Ireland is a Cradle of Magic,” said Kribu.

“Not at all – but I don’t view Cradles with the same superstitious awe as the rest of you. They’re stronger, yes, but not by much. And twenty-two Sanctuaries against one Cradle will crush them no matter how strong they are.”

“And how about twenty-two Sanctuaries against three Cradles?” Kribu asked, her voice calm. “If Australia and Africa get involved—”

“Why would they? This has got nothing to do with them. They’re stable and they always have been.” Ode shook his head. “Ireland is a mess. One catastrophe after another. They will understand that this needs to be done.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” said Kribu. “I’ve heard that the Australians have told their sorcerers that an attack against one Cradle is an attack against them all.”

“Grand Mage Karrik is not so naive,” Bisahalani said. “He’s not going to plunge headlong into a conflict if he can help it. He’s going to observe the situation, make some noise and delay as much as possible. He’ll be praying that we finish the job before he has to make any kind of decision.”

“And Ubuntu? You realise that he and Eachan Meritorious were close friends, yes?”

“And if Meritorious were still alive, that might be a problem for us. Ubuntu is like Karrik – he’ll say things to save face, but eventually, if he has to side with someone, he’ll side with us. You think they don’t agree with our view on this? You think they don’t share our concerns? Of course they do.”

“And what about the legal implications?” asked the Russian Grand Mage, a big man called Dragunov.

“Ireland cannot be allowed to hide behind a rule that was agreed upon to fulfil another purpose,” said Ode. “The rule-makers didn’t foresee a situation like this arising. No one did.”

People started speaking over each other until Illori cut through them. “My friends,” she said, “we can debate these matters for the rest of the night, but nothing will change the fact that we are at war, and we have already acted. We must press forward. If we can make the Irish Sanctuary falter before it’s even taken its first steps, victory will be swift.”

Wahrheit looked at her. “You’re talking about the plan to take out the leaders.”

“Not only the Council,” said Illori, “but other sorcerers of note also. If Ravel and his Elders are dead, the Irish will look to Skulduggery Pleasant for leadership, or Dexter Vex, or any one of the Dead Men. They will look to their heroes – so it is the heroes who must fall first.”

“We’ve already given Gepard the green light to kill Pleasant and Cain,” said Zafira Kerias. “We haven’t heard from him since.”

“Then we had better assume he failed,” said Illori. “Annoying, but not unexpected. I also propose the elimination of China Sorrows. By all accounts, her influence has been weakened of late, but she is still too unpredictable to have running loose.”

“Kill China Sorrows?” Mandat said, quite visibly alarmed. “I … I’m not sure that this is the wisest course of action. Mademoiselle Sorrows could be a valuable resource to … tap. She … I could hold her, if you want, here in France. Question her. I could—”

“Grand Mage Mandat, please stop embarrassing yourself,” Bisahalani said. “As it stands, our plan is to get as many of our people through that shield as possible. We have General Mantis ready to travel to Ireland to take command of our troops on the ground. When our forces have massed, we march on Roarhaven, subdue the populace, and take control.”

“You make it sound so easy,” said Kribu.

“I am under no illusion. But we will seek every advantage where we can. Grand Mage Ode, I believe you have something to add to this?”

Ode looked at Illori, and she spoke up. “Grand Mages, Elders, one of the first groups we must target is the Sensitives. This will both cut the less traditional means of communication and foil any future-reading. Sensitives are not combative by nature, however, and so we may find it difficult to find sorcerers willing to deal with … soft targets, I believe the phrase is.”

“With good reason,” Kribu said. “You’re talking about murder.”

“I realise that,” Illori said. “In which case, I suggest we send mercenaries.”

Mandat frowned. “What mercenaries?”

“Unpleasant ones. They’re Irish, though, so they stand a better chance of remaining unnoticed while they track their targets.”

“And you don’t think they’ll switch sides and join their fellow countrymen?” Wahrheit asked.

“Vincent Foe leads a small group of nihilists who would really like to destroy the world,” Illori explained. “While they’re waiting for their chance, however, they accept jobs like this for money. They have no loyalty to anyone except each other, and even then their loyalty only stretches so far. At the moment Mr Foe’s colleagues are languishing in prison thanks to Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain, but if I give the word, they will be mysteriously freed. Providing no one here has any objection to this course of action?”

Illori looked at Kribu, and watched her jaw tighten. Targeting the Sensitives was a sickening but necessary move. There’d be time enough to feel bad when all this was over.

“Very well,” she said, when no one objected.

“Grand Mage Bisahalani,” said Ode, “the last time we spoke in private we discussed a certain …”

“Yes,” said Bisahalani, “of course.”

Wahrheit did not look happy. “Private discussions are not part of the Supreme Council’s agenda, gentlemen. Please – elaborate.”

Bisahalani clasped his hands behind his back, the way he always did when he was about to discuss unpleasantness. “There is a single individual capable of turning the tide of this war in whichever direction he chooses. Unfortunately, despite his nationality, we have reason to doubt that he will side with us.”

“Who are we talking about?” Kribu asked.

“His name is Fletcher Renn. He’s the last Teleporter. Twenty years old, born and raised in London, but when his natural aptitude for magic made itself known he was, for all intents and purposes, taken in by the Irish Sanctuary. That is where he received the first part of his training. He is currently in Australia, where he continues his studies.”

Mandat frowned. “And you think he’ll side with the Irish if they ask?”

“That’s where his friends are. Also, from what we’ve heard, he and Valkyrie Cain were involved.”

“So he’s definitely on their side,” said Wahrheit.

“I’m afraid so.”

“He must be targeted.”

“He already is. If there is no objection, the kill order will go through.” Bisahalani looked round the room. No one spoke. “Very well,” he said. “The order is given.”

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