by Derek Landy
“Oh, cheers.”
“Maybe I’m just not that big a secret.”
“But it matters to me,” said Valkyrie, “and that’s what’s important. Mellifluous made that perfectly clear.”
“Meh,” said Kes.
“OK then, what should I do?”
Kes shrugged. “Tell it another secret?”
“I don’t have any other secrets.”
“Sure you do,” Kes said. “You’ve got loads of things you haven’t told anyone. Deeply, hilariously personal things.”
Valkyrie frowned. “None of them are nearly in the same category as being the only person able to see a splinter of a genocidal god.”
“Hey. Don’t underestimate your own patheticness.”
“Doubt that’s a word.”
“Of course it’s a word. It’s the state of being pathetic. Which you are.”
“Are you going to stand there and hurl insults or are you going to help me come up with something?”
“I can’t do both? Fine. Can you think of anything else? Anything bigger? A secret you’re keeping even from yourself?”
“If I were keeping a secret from myself, how would I know?”
“I’d know,” Kes said, grinning.
“So you know a secret that I’m keeping from myself?”
“I know one that you’re not admitting to.”
“About what?”
“Well, if I tell you, would it still be a secret?”
Valkyrie stared at her. Then shook her head. “I don’t want to know.”
“What?”
“If I’m keeping it from myself, then there’s probably a very good reason.” She hefted the cog and walked to the door – but stopped before she reached it, and turned. “So what have you been doing if you haven’t been around me?”
“Not a whole lot I can do,” Kes replied. “I’ve just focused on staying alive.”
“What do you mean?”
Kes hesitated. “You’ve got plenty of problems as it is.”
“That’s absolutely true, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t tell me yours.”
“Well, I’m … I’m kind of losing my strength a little bit.”
Valkyrie frowned. “How much is a little bit?”
“Like … a big bit.”
“And what does it mean when you lose strength?”
“There isn’t a guidebook to any of this,” said Kes, “so I’m really not sure, but I reckon if I lose enough strength then I’m going to … stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop existing.”
“What?”
Kes tried a smile. “Kes go poof.”
“But … but no,” said Valkyrie, walking over to her. “You can’t. You can’t just … stop existing. That’s stupid.”
Kes nodded. “I agree. One hundred per cent. That is stupid. But, like I said, it seems to be what’s going to happen.”
“There has to be something I can do.”
“Nothing springs to mind.”
“You’ve taken all this time off and you have no thoughts on how to save yourself?”
“Short of heading off after Darquesse and rejoining her? Not a clue. So, sorry I haven’t been around. It takes a lot out of me to find you and get to you and then actually interact with you.”
“Then save your strength,” Valkyrie said. “Don’t appear to me any more.”
Kes laughed. “Are you nuts? You’re the only person I can have a conversation with. I love talking to you. It gives me meaning. Also, and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, what with your new relationship status and all, you’re pretty easy on the eyes.”
Valkyrie had to laugh, and Kes grinned.
“I’ll be OK,” Kes said. “We’ll work something out before it’s too late. But right now you’ve got to focus on helping our little sister. That’s what’s most important.”
“All right,” Valkyrie said. “I … I wish I could hug you.”
“Yeah,” said Kes. “Me too.”
And she vanished.
Valkyrie took a moment, then left the room. Skulduggery and Mellifluous were waiting for her. Mellifluous held a cog identical to Valkyrie’s.
“Well now,” Mellifluous said, “that must have been a very detailed secret.”
“Sorry,” Valkyrie said. “I was having something of an internal debate.”
“They’re the best kind,” Mellifluous said.
They moved through the house, following the trail of cogs. So many of them. There must have been tens of thousands on those walls. Maybe hundreds of thousands.
They finally came to the end of the trail. No more cogs – just spokes sticking out from the wall. Mellifluous slid the cog that Skulduggery had given her on to the next spoke in line. It locked into the cog beside it with a satisfying click and a sudden sheen swept over its surface, changing the colour ever so slightly.
“That will do,” she said quietly. “Come.”
She led the way back through the rooms, back to the cog with the secret they were looking for. Mellifluous took that cog off the wall and replaced it with Valkyrie’s. The cog clicked. There was a second where Valkyrie thought nothing was going to happen, but then the sheen spread across it.
“Is that … is that it?” she asked.
“That’s it,” said Mellifluous. “Come this way.”
They followed her. “And what happens if someone finds out one of these secrets?” Valkyrie asked.
“You mean out there, in the world?” Mellifluous replied. “If that happens, then the secret isn’t a secret, and the cog containing it will turn dull, and I’ll have to find a new secret to replace the one I lost.” She shrugged. “I don’t take it personally. These secrets, they don’t belong to me.”
They came to another door. The room within was small. No cogs on the walls. At its centre sat a contraption. That’s the word that sprang into Valkyrie’s head. Not a machine, not a device. A contraption. It had pulleys and levers and a gramophone horn, and it was built round a network of dull cogs. Mellifluous slid the secret on to the spoke, spent a few moments rearranging the other cogs round it so that they’d fit, and then stepped away.
“Pull this lever,” she said, and left the room.
When the door was closed, Skulduggery reached out his hand.
“I want to do it,” Valkyrie said.
“I can understand that,” he said, moving back. “The desire to be the instigator on every step of what is a very personal mission.”
“Yes,” Valkyrie said. “Also, I want to pull the lever of the whirry thing.”
She pulled. It gave a deep, satisfying clunk. The gears started moving. It did indeed whir.
A hiss emerged from the gramophone horn, and then a voice.
“I … I have a secret,” the voice said. “It, it’s … I shouldn’t. I can’t. I …”
Another hesitation. There was a sob.
“Greymire Asylum,” the voice said. “It’s on … on Inis Trá Thuathail. It’s hidden there. It’s … Oh, God. Oh, God, forgive me.”
The recording ended, and the cog turned dull.
Valkyrie looked at Skulduggery. “Inis a what?”
“Inis Trá Thuathail,” he said, “or you may know it by its anglicised name of Inishtrahull.”
“Yeah,” said Valkyrie, “never heard of it.”
“It’s an island about ten kilometres off the Donegal coast. Uninhabited since 1929 or thereabouts. That must be where they built the asylum. Maybe underground.”
“When can we go? Can we go now?”
“You need sleep,” he said. “We’ll go in the morning.”
Valkyrie wanted to insist – but she was too exhausted to argue.
Mellifluous was waiting for them in the living room. “Do you have what you need?” she asked.
“We do,” Skulduggery said. “Thank you.”
“Whatever I can do to further the cause of whatever your cause is, I am willing to do in exchange for more secret
s. Tell your friends.”
She walked them out, and stood in the doorway as they went to the Bentley.
Valkyrie turned before she got in. “What’s it all for?” she asked. “What are all those cogs going to do when they start turning? What’s the point of it all?”
Mellifluous smiled. “Oh, Valkyrie,” she said. “Haven’t you guessed? That’s a secret, too.”
It was two in the morning, and the peaks of Coldheart Prison skimmed the clouds, leaving a swirling trail as it continued on its new course. Every week, it was set upon a different loop, of varying distances and at varying heights and speed.
Razzia enjoyed watching the birds, up here where nothing could touch them, as they passed through the cloaking shield and an entire island prison suddenly appeared before them. Most of those birds panicked and, after a great deal of flapping, veered sharply away. Some of them, if they were approaching from a particularly unfortunate angle, just didn’t have time, and flew straight into the side of the buildings. The rocky area behind the Beast – the tallest and most imposing of the prison’s structures – was littered with broken, feathered bodies.
Razzia liked to climb along those rocks. It was risky – one unexpected gust of wind would pluck her off her feet and then she’d be falling forever – but worth it for the fresh snacks her pets could enjoy.
More than once she’d had to cling to those rocks as whoever was up in the control room had to jolt the invisible prison out of the path of an approaching passenger jet. Those jets could get so incredibly close, and Razzia would laugh and holler as the engines roared by and wave at the people with their heads resting against those little windows, even though they couldn’t see her. They always looked so warm.
Sitting on the rocks of Coldheart, Razzia was anything but warm, but it was worth it to see Hansel and Gretel so happy. They snapped at the bird carcasses, swallowing chunks of meat and feathers before retracting into her palms like well-fed, psychopathic snakes.
She clambered back the way she’d come and hopped over the wall. A convict in one of the watchtowers shouted something down to her that was lost in the wind. It was probably something disrespectful. No matter how many of them she killed, there was always one more willing to say stupid things. She thought about going up there and killing him now, but Abyssinia wanted her to come along when they visited the White House. Razzia glanced at her watch. She didn’t really have time to kill the convict. Abyssinia liked people to be punctual.
Razzia made a note of which watchtower it was, and then hurried through the heavy doors. The convicts inside were mostly asleep, although a few were wandering around, talking among themselves. They were all pretty excited about the plan. In one week’s time, they’d get to wallow in violence and blood and death, and they were very much looking forward to it.
She got to the control room. Abyssinia and Nero were already there.
“Sorry I’m late,” Razzia said. “I was feeding the littl’uns.”
“You’re forgiven,” said Abyssinia. “Nero’s just been … Nero, what’s the phrase?”
“Doing a recce,” Nero told her.
Abyssinia nodded. “Nero’s just been doing a recce. It’s nine o’clock in the evening back in Washington, and President Flanery is still in the Oval Office.”
Razzia grinned. “Alone?”
“Indeed. Nero, if you wouldn’t mind …?”
Nero nodded, and within an eyeblink they were standing in front of Martin Flanery’s desk and the president was lurching backwards off his chair.
Razzia giggled.
“You can’t be here!” Flanery said, straightening up. “You can’t just beam down without telling me!”
“Calm down, Martin,” Abyssinia said. “Tell your receptionist not to disturb you for the next few minutes.”
“What if someone had been in here with me?” Flanery raged. “What if the press had been here? I sign a lot of bills at that desk and there are photographers—”
“Tell your receptionist,” Razzia said, right into his ear.
Flanery flinched, and fumbled for the right button to push.
“No one is to interrupt me,” he commanded, and then made a show of fixing his tie. “What do you want?”
Razzia didn’t know how Abyssinia stood the man. If it was her, she’d have pulled out whatever was there in place of his spine months ago.
“You haven’t been keeping me updated, Martin,” Abyssinia said, taking a seat and crossing her legs. “We agreed that you would. We agreed that it was important.”
“I can take care of my part of the plan,” Flanery said, his upper lip curling.
Razzia resisted the urge to rip that lip away from his face. She’d done that once, to a really annoying bloke from Japan, but admittedly she’d needed a knife to remove it completely. Today she was willing to see if she could do it barehanded.
Abyssinia smiled. “I’m concerned about you, Martin. I have my friends to confide in, and advise me, and talk to, but you … you don’t have anyone now that your little assistant is gone. Did you ever find out what happened to Mr Wilkes?”
Flanery shrugged. “He left. People leave their jobs all the time. The pressure got too much for him. He wasn’t up to it. And I don’t need anyone to advise me. I have the best advisor right here, in my brain.” He tapped his head for emphasis.
Razzia wanted to snap that finger back on itself.
“I’m just worried about you,” said Abyssinia.
Razzia had been thinking a lot of very violent thoughts lately.
“You should worry about yourself,” Flanery shot back.
Was this normal?
“I’m a perfectionist,” Abyssinia said. “I’m sure you know all about that, Martin. So I worry. As long as everything is in place, the plan will go smoothly – but if even one element is misaligned …”
For Razzia, of course, normal was relative. Normal changed with each mood. She was a violent person. It stood to reason she’d think violent thoughts. But was there something more?
“I told you, everyone on my side is ready,” Flanery said. “They’re moving out on Thursday. They’ll be in position when we need them.”
She’d been feeling odd lately. Unmoored. The certainty that had been hers a year ago had abandoned her. Nero was the only one left of her squad. Lethe had been deprogrammed. Smoke had been incinerated. Cadaverous was dead. Destrier was too busy working on his little projects. Now it was only Razzia and Nero, and Nero was no longer the amusingly arrogant pup he’d once been. It seemed like his magic, wild and unwieldy, was starting to infect his mind – but such was the curse of the Neoteric.
Abyssinia looked around. “I do so like this room,” she said. “Great presidents have stood here. Made great decisions.” Flanery puffed himself up. “Some terrible decisions, too, of course, and some terrible presidents.”
Flanery bristled. “My approval ratings are up,” he said.
Abyssinia smiled. “Are they?”
“Everywhere that matters. The country can see that what I’m doing is working. They’re not believing the lies they’re being told by the liberal media. No one understands the working men and women of this country like I do. No one understands—”
“Will you shut up?” Nero shouted. “Will you please just shut up?”
Flanery’s face went bright red, all but his lips, which were pursed together in a tight, pale line. What Razzia wouldn’t give to smash that face in.
And there were those violent urges again. The tendency to break things – and people – that had been with her for her entire adult life was now becoming something she had to actively quash. No matter how much she wanted to, she knew she couldn’t just wander around killing idiots because they annoyed her. Strewth, leaving a trail of corpses in her wake was not how she had been raised. She was better than that.
And yet …
No. Indiscriminate killing was what got people thrown in prison for the rest of their lives. She couldn’t handle that. Stuck i
n a cell, cut off from her magic, cut off from the world … And, of course, they’d take her pets. She wouldn’t be allowed to keep them.
In all this craziness, in all this uncertainty, Hansel and Gretel were the only things keeping her relatively sane. Even now, she could feel them in her arms, moving slightly between the muscle and the flesh and the veins. Her palms itched where they emerged. They wanted to come out, to burrow through Flanery’s head like an arrow or, at the very least, to bite that nose off his face. She smiled. They were adorable.
She realised Nero was still hurling abuse at the president. For all his wicked ways, Nero was a liberal at heart, and he’d been storing up this anti-Flanery rhetoric since Abyssinia had first told them the full extent of her plan. Abyssinia, for her part, wore a quiet smile as Nero went on and on about how stupid Flanery was, how ignorant, how buffoonish.
“Nero,” Abyssinia said at last. “That’s enough.”
Nero went quiet. Flanery quivered with rage. Razzia doubted he’d actually say anything, though. She’d seen his type before, and figured he was incapable of standing up to anyone who stood up to him.
She was right.
“I have to take a meeting,” Flanery said, his voice shaking.
Abyssinia stood. “Of course,” she said. “You’re a busy man, Martin. You’ve got a country to run.”
Flanery nodded.
“But I will need to do a quick scan of your mind,” she continued. “Just to make sure the Sanctuaries haven’t got to you. I’ve told you how sneaky they can be. Their psychics could be influencing you even now and you wouldn’t know.”
“Right,” said Flanery. “OK.”
Abyssinia held out her hand, and smiled. “Would you mind?”
Flanery hesitated, then came forward.
“You’re such a tall man, Mr President,” Abyssinia said, lowering her hand. “Could I ask you to …?”
Another hesitation, then Flanery got to his knees, and Abyssinia placed her hand on his head.
“Perfect,” she said.
Razzia hid the smirk that wanted to spread across her face.
Abyssinia took her hand off Flanery’s head. “Everything seems to be in order, and I know I’ve said this before, but what a wonderful mind you have, Mr President. One of the greatest, I would imagine.”