by Derek Landy
“No, you don’t.”
“It’s always the same two things. The first is Axelia Lukt.”
“Well, obviously.”
“I heard about that, by the way. Tough luck.”
“Yeah.”
“And the second thing you’re daydreaming about is Valkyrie kicking the door open and saying she needs your help to save the world. Am I close?”
Omen said nothing.
“See? Knew it. That’s not going to happen, but you want to believe, so much, that they’re going to swoop in and take you away from all the normal stuff that you’re not actually doing any of the normal stuff.”
Omen picked up his knife and fork again, and started cutting into his chicken. “Can we stop talking about this? I know you mean well, but you’re starting to annoy me.”
“I don’t want to annoy you, Omen,” Never said gently. “I don’t want to be the serious one in any friendship I have, I really don’t. I hate being the serious one. I’m the funny one. I’m the quirky, gender-fluid friend with a heart of gold and abs of steel.”
“You don’t have abs.”
“That’s only because I don’t like to sweat. My point is, I don’t want to be the one to give you bad news. But no one else cares enough.”
They ate in silence.
Once they’d finished, Never reapplied a little lipgloss. “How do I look?”
Omen sighed. “Low-key glamorous.”
This got a smile. “That’s what I’m going for. Are you mad at me?”
“No,” said Omen. “You can, you know, tell me whatever you think you need to tell me, just like I can choose to listen to you, or choose to ignore you. Because we’re friends.”
“We are friends,” Never said, smiling. “But you can’t ignore me. Nobody ignores me. I’m way too cool.”
“Yeah, you are.”
“So what do you think about all this Leibniz Universe stuff, eh? Isn’t it crazy?”
“It is crazy.”
“Omen, do you know what the Leibniz Universe is?”
“Not really.”
“It’s Mevolent’s universe.”
“Well, why don’t they call it that? I’d remember it if it was called that. Who’s this Leibniz person anyway?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Do you think he’ll come through? Mevolent, I mean?”
Never brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. “Naw, I don’t think so. He can stomp around his own dimension as much as he wants because there’s no one there to oppose him. But here, we have a whole world that’d fight back.”
“Yeah,” said Omen. “Maybe. But you know the way all the wildlife – all the deer and rabbits and squirrels and stuff – run out of the forest when there’s a wildfire? What if it’s like that? What if the mortals are just trying to get away from what’s following along behind?”
“You’re worrying over nothing,” said Never. “We don’t know what things are like over there now. All we have are the reports Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain made after they got back, and that was, what, eight years ago? Besides, we already killed our own Mevolent. If the other one shows up, we’ll just do the same to him.”
“How, exactly? No one knows who or what killed our Mevolent.”
“Skulduggery killed him,” Never said, shrugging. “Everyone knows that. Just because it’s not in our textbooks …”
“If Skulduggery killed him, he’d talk about it,” said Omen. “He talks about everything else.”
Never sighed. “Because you know him so well?”
“I don’t claim to know him well. I’m just saying that he wasn’t the one to kill Mevolent.”
“It doesn’t make any difference. If we get invaded, we’ll still send them packing. They have magic, but we have magic and technology.”
“So do they.”
“But we have nukes.”
“Seriously? You’d nuke them?”
“Of course. Wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know. It’s a bit … drastic, isn’t it?”
“War is a drastic thing,” said Never. “Ooh, that should be on a bumper sticker.”
“I think I’d keep the nuclear bombs as a last resort,” said Omen. “We have the Sceptre of the Ancients, don’t we? Skulduggery and Valkyrie stole it from Mevolent’s dimension, too, so using it to push back his army would be … uh …”
“The word you’re looking for is ironic.”
“Is it? OK. It’d be ironic.”
“That’s a good plan, Omen. Ignoring the fact that no one’s been able to even find the Sceptre since Devastation Day, that’s a wonderful plan.”
“Well, like, we have other God-Killer weapons. One little nick from the sword and even Mevolent drops dead.”
“The sword’s broken.”
“Then the spear,” Omen said irritably, “or the bow or the dagger, whatever, it’s the … What?”
“Nothing. I’m just quite impressed that you could name all four God-Killers.”
“Really? Three-year-olds can name the God-Killers.”
“Yeah, but they’re three, Omen.”
Omen nodded. “Because infants are smarter than me. Yep, I get it. That’s funny.”
Never grinned. “Feeling overly sensitive today, are we? I wouldn’t blame you. Tell you what, I won’t tease you again until you really, truly deserve it, I promise. Come on, tell me more about how you’d beat Mevolent.”
“No.”
Never laughed. “Oh, please? I was really enjoying that conversation.”
“Tough.”
“So you’d use the God-Killers on him, and …?”
Omen shrugged, looked away, happened to glance at the door just as Miss Wicked walked in. Tall, blonde and terrifying, he watched her look around, and immediately glanced away when her eyes fell upon him.
“Oh, God,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” Never asked.
“Miss Wicked caught me looking at her.”
“She’s coming over.”
“Is she?”
“Coming straight for you.”
“Are you joking? Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Omen,” Miss Wicked said, and Omen yelped and swivelled in his seat.
“Hello, miss,” he said. “I mean, hi. I mean … yes?”
She looked down at him. “Omen, you have been summoned.”
He blinked. “I have?”
“Tomorrow morning,” she said, “ten o’clock, in the headmaster’s office.”
He paled. “But … tomorrow is Saturday.”
“It is.”
“But there’s no school on a Saturday.”
“The school is still open at weekends, Omen.”
“But there aren’t any classes …”
“Correct. Which means I shouldn’t be coming in. And yet I am.”
“Is … is this because of the test?”
“Why would I be coming in if this was because of a test? No, Omen, this is not about a test. Grand Mage Ispolin, of the Bulgarian Sanctuary, is visiting Corrival Academy and he has requested that both of us be present when he arrives.”
“Jenan’s dad? Why would he want me to be there?”
“Jenan has yet to return home. I’m sure the Grand Mage wants to discuss the events that led to his son running away.”
“Am … am I in trouble?”
“I really don’t know, Omen.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“Grand Mage Ispolin is probably going to try to have me fired.”
“But why? You didn’t do anything wrong!”
“Your vote of confidence will go a long way, I’m sure. Ten o’clock, Omen. Don’t be late. I have no truck with tardiness.”
She walked away.
This, Omen thought, was not at all the call to adventure he had been hoping for.
8
Valkyrie didn’t get the headaches any more. That was one good thing about working on her Sensitive side, as Skulduggery liked to
call it – the more Valkyrie practised, the easier it got. And she had been practising – but not even Skulduggery knew just how much.
She’d been eighteen when her true name had walked away from her, when Darquesse had become a separate entity, a person all of her own. When Darquesse left, she’d taken Valkyrie’s power, leaving her dulled and weak and, once again, mortal.
Nature abhors a vacuum, however, and a new kind of magic had rushed in to fill the void. Valkyrie had just turned twenty-five, and they still couldn’t explain how she could control that strange energy, or how she could see people’s auras, or how she could do all those things and be a Sensitive as well. They didn’t even know what to call her.
She was a one-off, she’d been told. An oddity. In a world of weirdos, she was a freak.
She tried not to take it personally.
The truth was, her power scared her. She felt it in her blood, twisting in her veins, eager to become whatever she needed it to be. But, for all its destructive potential, it also allowed her glimpses into the future, a future of darkness and pain that had lodged itself in her thoughts. Sometimes it was all she could think about. Sometimes it was all there was to think about.
Death was coming for the people she loved, unless she could learn enough about the future to avoid it.
And so here she was again.
She pulled up and got out of the Bentley. Standing beside the door to Cassandra’s cottage was a piece of Darquesse that Darquesse had left behind when she’d departed this universe. Tall and strong and dark-haired, physically identical to Valkyrie in every way, she had taken to calling herself Kes.
“Hey,” said Valkyrie. “Sorry I’m late. I was in the Alps yesterday, doing a thing, and then we got back this morning to find out that there’s this portal that opened up at Roarhaven and … anyway. Sorry. Have you been waiting long?”
“Only a few hours,” Kes said. “Well, a day.”
“Seriously? I am so sorry.”
“It’s OK.”
“How did you pass the time?”
“Oh, that was easy,” Kes said. “I was standing over there for a few hours, then I stood over here. The time flew by.”
“We really need to get you a phone.”
“If you can find one I can hold, I’m all for it. Ah, it’s fine. It’s not like I have anything better to do with my time. You are literally the only person I have to talk to on this entire planet. I can’t interact with anyone else in any meaningful way. I can only do tiny amounts of magic before I fade away and recharge. I’m … I’m bored.”
Valkyrie smiled. “I thought you told me last week that gods didn’t get bored.”
“Well, as you took delight in reminding me, I’m not a whole god, am I? I’m a splinter of a god. A fragment of a god.”
“I believe the term I used was ‘crumb of a god’.”
“Whatever I am, I get bored, OK? But you’re here now, so let’s get to it, what do you say? Ready to see the future?”
Valkyrie sighed. “I suppose I am.”
She took the key from beneath the old pot and led the way into the house. The first time she’d come here after Cassandra died, when Skulduggery had wanted to test her burgeoning psychic abilities, she had taken a few minutes to process her feelings about being back in such a warm and welcoming environment. Today, she just walked straight through and took the stairs down to the cellar. This was her seventh time here without Skulduggery, and she had settled into a new, simpler routine.
She stood in the middle of the cellar. The floor beneath her feet was little more than an iron lattice, treated with magic to prevent it from heating up when the flames burned through the bed of coals beneath. The walls were brick, and reverberated with psychic energy, making Valkyrie’s mind vibrate like a tuning fork. The ceiling was criss-crossed with pipes, designed to spray water.
Months ago, Valkyrie had had to project her visions on to the clouds of steam that billowed upwards. But she didn’t need to do that any more.
She closed her eyes, let her thoughts scatter, and worked to find the peace within that chaos. When she found it – the quiet place – she let it grow and expand and fill her up until it pushed the noise away and, for a moment, for a single blissful moment, there was nothing in the world but her breathing.
She opened her eyes.
The vision filled the cellar, dissolving its walls, and she was suddenly outside, in the refugee camp, surrounded by the displaced and the scared. She felt their relief at escaping Mevolent’s army, but also the rising fear of once again being at the mercy of a society of sorcerers they had no reason to trust. Valkyrie drifted through the camp, alert for any new deviation, but there were no extra details for her to absorb today. Satisfied, she allowed her mind to move on, and the camp vanished and she was in darkness.
“Here he comes,” Kes said, from somewhere to her right.
They’d taken to calling him “the Whistler”. He signalled his arrival with a tune. Most of the time it was ‘Dream a Little Dream of Me’. Twice, it was ‘Blue Moon’.
Today, he was whistling as usual, and, for only the second time, Valkyrie could see his outline. He was maybe her height, maybe six foot, and slender, but that was all she could discern. His outline was solid, but everything within that swirled and flipped too quickly to identify.
“Bring him closer,” said Kes.
“I can’t,” Valkyrie answered. She took a few steps towards him, but the Whistler stayed at the same distance. Out of all the elements in her visions, all the bloodshed and death that was to come, his presence was the thing that unnerved her the most.
The vision moved on.
“You actually think you’re going to win?” someone said behind her, and she turned, and a burning town built itself up around her. Dead bodies littered the streets. Car alarms wailed.
Auger Darkly fell to his knees in front of her, clutching his shoulder. Blood soaked his shirt. Omen ran out, picked him up, his brother gritting his teeth against the pain. Together they hurried on. They were being chased. There were people chasing them. People with guns.
Valkyrie moved in. This time she’d see their faces. This time she’d find out who they were so she could stop them before this happened.
They came round the corner, guns up, and passed right through her. Dressed in black, wearing body armour. Helmets. No insignias. Moving like soldiers, or SWAT teams, relentlessly tracking their prey.
She watched them spot the Darkly brothers. They opened fire. Bullets punched Omen in the back and he flopped on to the pavement as Auger went stumbling. Valkyrie did her best to ignore it. It was a scene she knew well, and it tore at her insides each time. But today she didn’t curse or cry out – she just listened. Waited. Waited for one of them to say something. Anything.
“Target down.”
The vision swept away and Valkyrie was confronted with the Plague Doctor, who held a child in his arms. Valkyrie stepped closer and the child vanished and the Plague Doctor’s hands went to his mask and he pulled it off, but before Valkyrie could see his face he was gone, and Saracen Rue was lying dead on the ground.
“There’s Tanith,” Kes said softly, and Valkyrie turned to watch her friend back away from an unseen enemy, her sword in her hand.
Then Tanith was gone and China was lying in that field of broken glass Valkyrie had seen again and again. Just a flash of that, and then they were standing in the Circle, in Roarhaven. Smoke and flames billowed from the High Sanctuary and the Dark Cathedral was in ruins, and marching towards them was an army with Mevolent leading the way.
Valkyrie had glimpsed this before, but the vision stayed with Mevolent longer this time. She didn’t know what that meant. Was this future more likely now? Was it closer?
The army was almost upon her, and her heart hammered in her chest.
She looked away and Cadaverous Gant walked by, holding a rag doll in a blue dress. A house appeared, tall and pointed and radiating darkness, and Cadaverous went into the house and the do
or stayed open, like it was inviting Valkyrie to follow.
Valkyrie started to walk, but Kes pointed. “There,” she said.
A figure was slowly coming into focus on the other side of the room. A woman with silver hair, standing with her head down.
“Leave,” Kes said.
“Not yet.”
“You have to.”
“There’s something about that house.”
“Valkyrie,” Kes said, “leave now or she’ll see you.”
Valkyrie hesitated, but she knew she had no choice.
She let it go, let it all go, and the house vanished and the vision washed away and the cellar came back.
Kes looked at her. “You OK?”
“No,” said Valkyrie, walking for the stairs. “I hate seeing the future.”
9
For a solemn occasion such as an execution, the mood in Coldheart Prison was something approaching a festival.
The convicts lined the tiers, eager for the show and struggling to contain themselves. Every so often an excited whisper would drift down to the broad dais that hovered above the energy field. On that dais the teenage members of First Wave stood in the costumes that Abyssinia had ordered to be made for them – black, with shiny belts and polished boots – to give them the false sense that they were an elite military unit. To Cadaverous, they were scared little children, no matter what they happened to be wearing.
He stood with Razzia and Destrier and Nero. Beside them, and yet apart, were Avatar and Skeiri. Abyssinia’s new favourites. The up-and-comers. Cadaverous despised them even more than he despised First Wave.
The only member of First Wave not dressed in her finery was the annoying girl with the habit of constantly flicking her hair out of her eyes. Dressed in civilian clothes, she stood on the very edge of the dais, a mere step away from a lethal plunge to the force field below. The bracelet she wore was cheap but solid and needed a key to remove it. It also bound her magic.
“Please,” she said through the tears that were streaming down her face, “I just want to go home.”
Abyssinia stood beside Parthenios Lilt, their heads down, seemingly consumed by disappointment. They didn’t answer the girl. That wasn’t down to them. That was down to First Wave’s leader, the arrogant whelp Jenan Ispolin.