by Derek Landy
“Hello, you,” Valkyrie said, hunkering down. She poked a finger through the cage and petted little Starlight. He was cold.
“He’s dead,” said Alice.
Valkyrie stopped petting him. She withdrew her finger and said, “Oh.”
“He died during the night sometime,” Alice continued. “Last night I fed him – well, Dad fed him – and I cleaned out his cage and I put new hay in and new newspaper because he likes playing in newspaper and he rips it all up sometimes, and then he died, I think.”
Valkyrie let herself sit, her back against the wall. “And when did you find out that he’d died?”
“A few minutes ago,” Alice said. “Like, ten. Or five. I can show you my dancing, if you like.”
“Let’s just wait a moment, sweetie. How are you feeling?”
Alice shrugged. “I’m fine.”
“Did you love Starlight?”
Alice nodded.
“Did you love him a lot?”
“Like, loads,” said Alice. “I used to close my bedroom door and let him out so he could run around and then he’d come over to me and climb on to my lap and I’d pet him. Like, I didn’t love him as much as I love Mum and Dad and you, but I still loved him.”
“Will you miss him?”
“Um, yes.”
“Are you sad?”
“Yes,” Alice said, and nodded again.
Valkyrie held out her hands, and when Alice took them she pulled her gently down. “Come here,” she said. “Sit.” When Alice was seated, Valkyrie gave her a soft smile. “When you say you’re sad, do you actually mean you’re sad, or are you saying it because you think I’m expecting you to say it?”
Alice didn’t answer.
“It’s OK,” whispered Valkyrie. “You’re not in trouble. I’m just interested.”
“Um,” Alice said, “I’m not really sad.”
Valkyrie nodded, and kept nodding, waiting for the panic in her chest to settle down. “OK,” she said. “OK, thank you for telling me. Will you miss him?”
“Yes,” Alice said with absolute certainty. “I’m going to miss him loads.”
“And do you know what missing him means? Have you ever missed anyone before?”
A shy smile broke out. “Not really,” Alice said.
“Missing someone is when you get sad that somebody isn’t there any more. Do you think you’ll get sad now that Starlight isn’t alive and you can’t pet him and cuddle him?”
The tip of Alice’s tongue came out and took up temporary residence at the corner of her lips. “Um … maybe.”
Valkyrie switched on her aura-vision, reducing her sister to a dark outline, throbbing weakly with a dim, almost imperceptible orange. It was so spread out, so diffused, that it was barely there at all.
She switched off the aura-vision before it made her sick with guilt, pulled Alice in and wrapped her up in a hug. “You know what love is, don’t you?”
“Of course,” said Alice.
“And you love me?”
“With all my heart.”
“And I love you, too, with all my heart.”
They sat there, hugging.
“Is it OK that I don’t get sad?” Alice asked softly.
Valkyrie kissed her head. “I’m going to fix that. You don’t have anything to worry about. I’m going to find someone who can help you, and I’m going to fix everything.”
Alice nodded and didn’t respond, and Valkyrie hugged her closer and tried not to cry.
“It’s nice here, isn’t it?” Axelia Lukt said.
Omen looked up. He’d been daydreaming about being good at things, about being as cool as Skulduggery or as tough as Valkyrie or as capable as Auger. He hadn’t even noticed the tram emptying the closer they got to the Humdrums. It was only Axelia and him left on it now.
He looked out of the window. “I suppose,” he said, although to him this part of Roarhaven looked pretty similar to most of the other parts – apart from the fact that it was right beside the enormous wall that encircled the city. Was that what Axelia was talking about? Did she like walls?
“The wall’s pretty,” he tried.
“The wall’s ugly,” Axelia said immediately. “It’s horrible and grey and horrible.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“It blocks out the sun in the mornings for this whole part of town.”
“It’s so horrible,” Omen agreed.
“But the rest of it,” said Axelia, “it’s so nice. It’s peaceful, isn’t it? Quiet.”
Omen nodded, but he wasn’t quite sure that was true. The Humdrums were where the mortals lived, the more than 18,000 refugees who had trudged through the portal from the Leibniz Universe to escape their very own Mevolent, who was still alive and terrorising the ones left behind over there. Roarhaven had taken them in, mainly because there was nowhere else to keep them, and the High Sanctuary had assumed responsibility for turning them into productive members of society.
Axelia had grown up in a magical community in Iceland, where she’d had very limited interactions with mortals. Omen was beginning to think that maybe she viewed mortals, and these ones in particular, as quaint, somewhat primitive beings. It was ever-so-slightly condescending, he felt. And possibly ever-so-slightly racist.
The tram stopped and off they got. The Humdrums was definitely quieter than other parts of the city. No one here had cars, because no one could drive yet. Back in their own dimension, these mortals had been the serfs to the ruling class of mages. They’d lived in huts and hadn’t had access to technology.
Here they were free. They worked and were paid. They’d been introduced to the delights of television and the Internet. They could walk the streets without being accosted by sorcerers.
“Hello,” said Omen to a passing mortal. “Would you like a pamphlet?”
The mortal shrank back, but took a pamphlet and hurried on.
The bag over Omen’s shoulder was weighed down with these pamphlets. This week, they were handing out information about the First Bank of Roarhaven, China Sorrows’s pride and joy. Even mortals could save their money there, according to the pamphlets – it was perfectly safe and truly wonderful. Omen doubted this would work. The mortals here were more inclined to stash their money under their mattresses than hand it over to some huge institution where they didn’t know the rules.
But volunteering for this stuff got Omen out of the last class of the day, so he didn’t mind too much.
They folded pamphlets and stuck them through letterboxes and chatted whenever they regrouped at the end of a street. Axelia had already handed in her Senior Years Agenda. She wanted to be an Elemental, she said. There were a lot more of them flying these days, like Skulduggery did. She’d always wanted to fly.
Flying would be cool, Omen admitted. But he was wary of the fact that it required so much concentration. His mind was inclined to wander, after all.
They made their way to the square in the middle of the sector. It didn’t have a name yet – the mortals intended to vote on one in the coming months. The High Sanctuary even offered to have a statue erected to someone they admired, mortal or mage. They were still deciding on that as well.
Aurnia was waiting for them with a few other mortals. She waved as they approached. Her companions, one girl and three guys, left her to it. As they passed, one of the guys rammed his shoulder into Omen’s.
Before Omen knew what was happening, he was being loomed over and forced backwards.
“What?” said the guy who’d rammed him. “What?”
Omen blinked up at him. “What?”
“What?” demanded the rammer, his teeth bared, his eyes wide.
“I’m sorry?”
The guy’s friends were pulling him back, and Axelia was suddenly standing between them and Aurnia was running up.
“Hey,” Axelia said. “Hey! Back off!”
The guy glared at her, glared at Omen, and allowed himself to be dragged away.
“Are you OK?
” Aurnia asked. “Omen, did he hurt you?”
“No,” Omen lied, rubbing his shoulder. “Who was that?”
“That’s Buach.”
Axelia frowned. “Boo-ock?”
“Buach, yes,” said Aurnia. “He’s … I don’t know. He doesn’t like sorcerers, and he wants everyone to know it. He just gets very angry sometimes. Living here, surrounded by magic people … it makes him unhappy.”
“Well, I’d stay away from him, if I were you,” said Omen. “You really don’t want to be around someone who’s that volatile.”
“He’s my boyfriend,” Aurnia said, wincing.
“That’s your boyfriend? I thought your boyfriend was nice and sweet and happy. Didn’t you tell me that?”
“And Buach is all of those things,” Aurnia replied, “when sorcerers aren’t around. Also, I think he doesn’t like you because you wanted to kiss me.”
“That’s hardly fair,” said Omen immediately. “When I wanted to kiss you, he wasn’t your boyfriend. And why would you even tell him that? Of course he hates me now.”
“Buach needs to learn that you are not his property,” Axelia said.
“Oh, he knows,” Aurnia replied. “He’s just being stupid. He’s really very sweet. And kind. He makes me happy.” She sighed. “But what he did just now was terrible, and he’ll either apologise to you or he won’t have a girlfriend any more.”
“You’d break up with him?” Axelia asked.
“That’s the expression I was searching for,” said Aurnia, pointing at her. “Break up with him, yes. I still don’t know the proper phrases. In our culture, we don’t even have equivalents. Anyway, yes, I’ll break up with him if he doesn’t say sorry.”
“That’s OK,” said Omen. “It’s no big deal. He doesn’t have to.”
Aurnia reached into Omen’s bag, took out a handful of pamphlets and flicked through them. “Of course he does,” she said. “There’s a polite way to behave and a rude way. I’m not going to go out with someone who’s rude.”
Axelia grinned. “I like you more and more, every time I see you.”
Aurnia grinned back. “I like you, too.”
“Does anyone like me?” Omen asked hopefully.
“Sure we do,” said Axelia. “You carry the bag.”
The car hit a pothole and Valkyrie cursed, glared at nothing in particular and carried on. The roads around here were getting worse. No mortal officials bothered with them because, as far as they knew, these were tiny country roads that led nowhere, and no magical officials bothered with them because these were, technically, mortal roads, and mortals had to take care of themselves. Those were the rules.
Valkyrie slalomed very carefully round the next set of potholes, fully aware that she was using her irritation about the potholes to push her worries about Alice into the back of her mind. As long as it worked, she didn’t much care.
She turned on to a wider road. An old man nodded to her. She nodded back. The road was better here. The giant potholes that Swiss-cheesed the surface were nothing but illusions – she could drive right over them and suffer not one jolt. The air shimmered ahead.
She drove through the cloaking shield, and the walled city of Roarhaven appeared before her.
The Cleavers let her through Shudder’s Gate and she swiftly weaved her way towards the Circle. She gave Oldtown a miss – that was the only area where the traffic built up – and approached the High Sanctuary from the south. She took the ramp down into the car park, then walked across and stood on a tile and it shot off the ground, twirling as it ascended. It clicked into place in the floor of the marble foyer and she stepped off.
Skulduggery was waiting beyond the steady stream of mages, wearing a black three-piece, black shirt, red tie, with a red band on his black hat.
“You look like a gangster,” she said, joining him.
“Good afternoon to you, too.”
“Should I have dressed up? We get to see China so rarely these days that I feel I should have dressed up, maybe worn a hat of my own.”
Skulduggery shrugged. “When in doubt, wear a hat, that’s what I always say.”
“You do always say that.”
A young woman approached, well dressed, her fingers swiping a tablet screen. She tapped it off and held it by her side as she reached them. “Arbiters,” she said, “please follow me. The Supreme Mage is waiting.”
“Lead on,” said Skulduggery, and they followed her from the foyer. “You’re the new Administrator, are you?”
She glanced back. “I am. My name is Cerise.”
“The Irish Sanctuary has not had the best of luck with Administrators,” Valkyrie said. “They’re like drummers in Spinal Tap, you know?”
“Spinal Tap, Detective Cain?”
“There’s a high turnover is what I mean. You sure you want this job?”
“I have been a student of the Supreme Mage since I was sixteen years old,” Cerise responded. “It is an honour to serve her now.”
“But to handle the day-to-day running of the whole High Sanctuary …”
“The High Sanctuary is run by mages more talented and resourceful than I,” Cerise said. “All I have to do is run them.”
Valkyrie didn’t say anything, but she thought that was a pretty good answer.
Cerise led them to a set of double doors – solid and plain – and she bowed again as they passed her. The chamber was small. There was a table at its centre with six chairs round it, four of which were occupied.
China Sorrows sat on the far side of the table, her posture perfect, her head up, her blue eyes unfocused.
“Detective Pleasant, Detective Cain, welcome,” Aloysius Vespers said as soon as they entered. The English Grand Mage came over and shook their hands. He was one of the only sorcerers Valkyrie knew who wore actual robes, like a wizard in a movie. His white hair was long and his beard was braided. He had small teeth. “Please,” he said, indicating the chairs, “sit.”
The chairs were sturdy and hard. No padding. This was a chamber for doing business and making decisions, not for idle conversation and time-wasting.
The American Grand Mage, Gavin Praetor, poured them each a glass of water. He slid one to Valkyrie, started to slide the other to Skulduggery, then must have realised Skulduggery didn’t drink, because he picked up the glass and took a sip from it himself without missing a beat.
“Should we begin?” Sturmun Drang said. “We are all busy, are we not? And time is not on our side.”
“It never is,” said China, blinking her way out of the Whispering and disconnecting from the city around her. “Skulduggery. Valkyrie. Thank you for coming.”
“It’s so hard getting an appointment to see you,” Skulduggery replied, “so, when you call, we’re all too happy to oblige. I assume you want to talk about the problem in the City Guard.”
China waved her hand. “I’m meeting with Commander Hoc later today to discuss the fate of Yonder and his little friends, but I definitely see jail time in their future. That is not why I called you here, however.”
She tapped the table and the wooden surface flickered, and small screens came to life beneath the grain. The screens showed a photograph of the American president, Martin Flanery, walking across the White House lawn, deep in conversation with a slight man in an ill-fitting suit. “The man next to the president is Bertram Wilkes, Flanery’s personal aide. Grand Mage Praetor?”
“A little under six months ago,” Praetor said, “Wilkes disappeared. The official line is that he resigned due to the workload, and planned to travel extensively in order to recharge his batteries. He has not, as far as we know, been seen since three days before he left his job, but that has been difficult to ascertain due to the fact that he has no family and, apparently, no friends to note his absence. It is our belief, however, that Wilkes was a mage, and we believe he was murdered.”
Skulduggery shifted ever so slightly in his seat. “Go on.”
Praetor tapped the table, and a black-and-w
hite photograph appeared of a group of friends smiling for the camera. “We retrieved this from a woman we believe Detective Cain interviewed last year in San Francisco.”
Valkyrie recognised a few of the faces – Richard Melior, Savant Vega, Azzedine Smoke and a friend of Temper’s, Tessa somebody. Four others, too – one of them being Bertram Wilkes with radically different hair.
“We don’t know his actual name,” said Vespers. “All we know is this Wilkes persona which, as you can imagine, is a well-executed forgery. But, judging by the company he kept, it is not far-fetched to conclude that he may well be associated with Abyssinia.”
“So you think Abyssinia sent him in undercover to the White House,” Skulduggery said. “Why?”
“We don’t know,” China responded. “But we believe that the American president had him killed.”
“You think Flanery knows about sorcerers?” Valkyrie asked.
“We do.”
“So how bad is this situation?”
“We have had worse scenarios,” said Drang. “World leaders, law-enforcement officials, media organisations – they have all learned of our existence and we either find a way to guarantee their silence or we resort to more extreme measures to keep our secret.”
Valkyrie frowned. “What do you mean, ‘more extreme’?”
“Now is not the time,” said China.
“How extreme have we gone?”
China sighed. “Lengths,” she said. “Sanctuaries have gone to lengths to preserve our anonymity. We may have to go to lengths again here, as Flanery is not the most stable of mortal leaders.”
“Whether Flanery knows about us or not,” Skulduggery said, “we’ve got to find out why Abyssinia felt the need to send a spy into the Oval Office. Do we know anything at all about Bertram Wilkes?”
“The only lead we have is this person,” China said, her fingernail tapping the table. A new photograph appeared. A tall man leaving a house, his dark hair shot through with grey. “We’ve identified him as Oberon Guile, an American sorcerer who has just completed a three-year sentence in Ironpoint Gaol for robbery. That is, roughly, the sum total of the information we have about him.”