Resurrection

by Derek Landy

  “I have no love for Eliza Scorn,” Creed said, “but it’s as if she didn’t have any choice but to step aside.”

  “I’m sure she understands, wherever she is. And her decision to leave meant that construction could be completed on the Dark Cathedral. Isn’t it a marvel?”

  “Its magnificence is only surpassed by the opulence of the High Sanctuary.”

  “We live in more enlightened times,” China said. “Our people can worship who, what and how they want to worship, so long as they do so in peace, and obey our laws.”

  “A faithful people will always obey the laws of a faithful society,” said Creed.

  China smiled. “Quite.”

  “Supreme Mage, you must excuse me. I have travelled far, and I am tired, and there are already a hundred people standing at the steps of the Cathedral, waiting for guidance.”

  “Of course,” said China. “Your flock needs you.”

  He bowed again, and strode quickly away. She waited until he was gone.

  “You’re sure about him?” she asked.

  Vespers looked surprised. “Oh, yes, Supreme Mage. Damocles Creed was our ideal candidate from the very start. Devout, respected and strong. There is no one with a voice worth listening to who could possibly object to him replacing Eliza Scorn.”

  “I seem to recall objecting,” Drang said.

  Vespers allowed himself a wry smile. “My apologies, Grand Mage. I discounted the atheists among us.”

  “We’ve avoided considerable controversy with Creed,” Praetor said. “Holding the Cathedral ransom while we forced Scorn out was a risky move, especially with how quickly the Church is growing here.”

  China ran her tongue slowly along the back of her teeth. Her brother had once told her, during one of the many conversations they’d had about her faith, that religion was a virus. It spread fastest when the conditions were right. Endorsing the Church and building the Dark Cathedral was China’s way of controlling that virus, of directing it and containing it. Once she could keep an eye on it, she could stamp it out if needed.

  “We’re done for the day,” she said. “You’re dismissed.”

  Vespers and Praetor offered her their usual gratitude and praise. Drang merely nodded. Then they left the room. Her life consisted of meetings, both long and short, and she was always grateful for the short ones.

  She walked to her apartment, and slipped her chain of office on to the blank-faced bust set into the alcove beside the door. A pretty piece of jewellery, and expensive, though completely meaningless. She’d had it made just to have something different from the brooches that other Grand Mages wore. A token of power, that’s all it was, but China had learned a long time ago that power perceived is power nonetheless. Tokens were important.

  She undressed and slipped her robe on. It was late, and she was tired, but there was still work to be done. The activation of a sigil and the fireplace roared to life. She settled into her favourite armchair, her feet tucked under her, and began to read the topmost file that Tipstaff had left for her. For every advantage that power had brought, it had delivered to her ten times more pressures and responsibilities. The burden of leadership, she had discovered, was a heavy one.

  Sleep would have to wait.

  26

  Omen woke up, and tried to remember his dream.

  He could never remember his dreams. They swam immediately out of reach upon surfacing. The glimpses he could snatch came back to him at odd times throughout the day, nonsensical images and feelings of déjà vu. His dreams weren’t like Auger’s. Auger dreamed of bad people doing bad things. Sometimes his dreams had actually come true. Sometimes he could decipher them, adding this piece to that piece, forming a picture, a crazy jigsaw of future events. Vivid dreams, Omen supposed, were just another part of being the Chosen One, while vague nonsense and logical dead ends were part of being the Chosen One’s brother.

  The morning light was pale, and lit up the small dorm room without enthusiasm. Outside it was cold. There was a wind, and it pushed at the window – not enough to rattle the pane, but enough to make it flex with a broken rhythm, like a weak heartbeat.

  In the bed along the far wall, Gerontius still slept, and in the one nearest the door, Morven snored, the sheets twisted around his lanky body like they’d attacked him during the night. Omen couldn’t call either boy a friend, but they were nice enough to him, and he felt obliged to keep out of their way as much as possible. Moving quietly, he got out of bed, tried and failed to find his slippers, and padded out into the hall, the floor cold on his bare feet.

  He used the toilet and went to the window, not really expecting to see anything, but his eyes widened when he saw the red ribbon tied around the drainpipe across the way. Suddenly he wasn’t sleepy any more. Wishing now that he’d bothered to find his slippers, and really wishing he’d put his dressing gown on over his pyjamas, Omen hurried to the end of the boys’ block. The door, as promised, had been left unlocked. He sneaked through, hid from Mr Stymie as he passed, the old man muttering to himself like he was asking a question and expecting an answer, and carried on. Finally, he came to another door and knocked once and entered.

  Skulduggery Pleasant sat in the store cupboard on an elegant chair he’d undoubtedly taken from somewhere else. He looked up from what he was reading, a file of some sort, and folded it over before slipping it into his jacket.

  “I’m here,” Omen whispered.

  “So I see,” Skulduggery said, speaking at a normal volume. “Nice pyjamas.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I was joking.”

  “Oh.”

  “They’re terrible.”

  “I like the colour.”

  “It clashes with itself.” Skulduggery was wearing a black three-piece suit with a black shirt and tie. His cufflinks were silver. His shoes were polished. It was all so cool. “How are you, Omen? Are you well?”

  “I’m fine,” said Omen. “Did you check out Mr Lilt?”

  “We did,” Skulduggery said.

  “I’ve done a little more snooping,” Omen said. “I spied on them, on Mr Lilt and the study group. I think Mr Lilt is going to kill Byron.”

  “Who’s Byron?”

  “One of the Arcanum’s Scholars. Byron Grace. He’s all right, actually. He’s not that bad.”

  “Is he part of the group that wants to kill all mortals?”

  “Yes,” Omen admitted, “but I don’t think his heart’s really in it. Mr Lilt was saying he’ll probably have to kill him. Mr Lilt, that is, killing Byron. Anyway, I was thinking maybe you could take Byron into protective custody? Maybe he’s got information we could use. Do we do protective custody, or is that a mortal thing?”

  “We do it,” said Skulduggery, “but I doubt we’ll have to. Parthenios Lilt has been arrested.”

  Omen blinked. “Because of me?”

  A nod. “Directly because of you, Omen. I passed on your suspicions to the City Guard and they wasted no time in kicking down his door. They do so love to kick down doors. Lilt’s involvement opened up a fresh list of suspects, and I have a very strong feeling that we’ll put a stop to whatever the anti-Sanctuary is planning because of it. We owe you a huge debt of gratitude.”

  Omen blushed. “It was nothing. I mean, I just … I just kept my eyes open, like you asked.”

  “What you did was very brave. Never forget that.” Skulduggery stood up.

  “Are you OK?” Omen asked him.

  Skulduggery tilted his head. “Excuse me?”

  “I heard you were hurt.”

  “Ah. Yes, I was, but I’m OK now. It’s a dangerous business.”

  Omen smiled. “I’ll try to remember that. So what do I do now?”

  “I don’t know,” said Skulduggery. “Go to breakfast, I’d imagine.”

  “I mean about the mission.”

  “I have good news about that, actually. Your mission is over.”

  Omen’s smile faded. “It is?”

  “Now you can go b
ack to being normal,” Skulduggery said. “Study. Do your homework. Do what you’re told. All the things that normal people like doing.”

  “Normal people don’t like any of that.”

  “They don’t?”

  “No. Nobody likes doing what they’re told.”

  Skulduggery took a moment to process the information. “Then why do they do it?”

  “I don’t … I don’t know. Maybe they don’t know what else to do.”

  “Huh. Interesting.”

  “Are you being serious, about the mission being over?” Omen asked. “Because I really think I can be more useful. I have one of their masks, the kind the Scholars wear, and I’m thinking I can get into the room where they hold their meetings.”

  Skulduggery slipped his gloved hands into his pockets. “Omen, you’re a good lad. There’s a reason we came to you.”

  “Yeah,” Omen said, “because I’m invisible. Because nobody notices me.”

  “There is that, obviously, but also because of who you are. You’re one of the good guys, Omen. You’re one of us. We knew we could trust you, and you’ve proven us right. But if I can get hurt, and I’m sure you know how wonderful I am, then anyone can get hurt. These people, the anti-Sanctuary, these Arcanum’s Scholars – they’re dangerous. They’re too dangerous to underestimate. I can’t risk you because I don’t have the right to risk you.”

  “You risked Valkyrie’s life when she was two years younger than me.”

  Skulduggery nodded. “And it’s very hard to argue with that logic, especially when the reason is ‘it just felt right’. But it just felt right, Omen. I knew she could handle herself. I knew she’d make it through. I can’t explain it, I just knew. But even she, even Valkyrie, has been damaged by this. Damaged by me dragging her into it all. She does her very best not to show it, but I know her too well to be fooled.”

  “But if you’re so damaging to her, why didn’t you just leave her alone?”

  “Because we’re caught in a loop, Valkyrie and I. A very destructive loop. And I’m sorry, but I’m just not going to damage another good person. Not if I can help it.”

  Skulduggery moved past him, reached for the door handle.

  “But I’m nobody,” Omen said, and he was surprised to find his eyes blurring with tears. “I don’t have anything. There’s no purpose to me.”

  Skulduggery looked back. “There’s a purpose to all of us.”

  “Not to me, and I should know. When you grow up with the Chosen One, all you hear about is destiny, and purpose, and becoming who you were always meant to be. Nobody ever said any of those things to me. Nobody ever asked me what my purpose was, because they knew, they all knew, that I didn’t have one. I’m the leftovers.”

  Skulduggery turned to him slowly. “You don’t honestly believe that, do you?”

  “Yes,” said Omen. “I mean, what else do I have to believe?”

  “If you can’t believe in yourself, then believe in me. Because I believe in you.” Skulduggery held his hand out, and Omen hesitated, then shook it. “Thank you for your help, Omen. We couldn’t have come this far without you.”

  And then he was gone, and Omen was left alone in the cupboard in his stupid pyjamas and his cold, bare feet.

  27

  The news about Lilt spread through the school in whispers and text messages. History class was supervised by other teachers and the students were told to keep quiet and busy themselves with their work. No one whispered the news to Omen, though. No one cared enough to share.

  His moment was gone. His chance at being something, at being somebody, had flowed from his grip like a fistful of water. At break time he sat alone, a ghost, fading slowly back into the furniture. It was what he was good at. It was the only thing he was good at. Any hope he’d ever had of being somebody who’d make any kind of difference had disappeared. What a fool he’d been, to think himself part of the team. Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain and … Omen Darkly? Really? Had he seriously thought that? Had he seriously thought that the two of them, that two legends like that, would take him on as an apprentice? What the hell would they need him for? What would anyone need him for?

  But it had felt so good. That was the really pathetic part. Being a part of it, however briefly, had filled a need within him that he’d never known existed. Up until now he’d been content to be the irrelevant brother. He hadn’t minded that everything was about Auger, that nothing was about him. It was how he’d been raised. He’d never known any different.

  And then Skulduggery and Valkyrie had come along and told him that he could be a part of something bigger, and it was like a light shining down on him from above. He was singled out. He was special. Not once in his fourteen years had he ever been special. Auger was the first-born. Auger was the Chosen One. From the day of his birth, Omen had been the other one. His parents treated him like an annoyance. The people brought in to train Auger treated him like a prop. See what your brother is doing, Auger? That’s the wrong way to do it. Do it like this. Good boy. And Omen was left in the shadows, always so eager to please, always so compliant. Never complaining. Always grateful for whatever scraps of attention, no matter how meagre, were tossed his way.

  And, for two glorious days, it had all changed, and he’d glimpsed what it was like to be important. It had been good. It had been … fulfilling. He’d never been happier. The realisation hit him like heartbreak. He had actually never been happier.

  Tears came to his eyes again and he wiped them away, roughly, with the back of his hand. Nobody laughed at him, nobody pointed, because nobody saw, and nobody cared. A sea of black uniforms and coloured ties all around him, ebbing and flowing, and not one of them bothered to even mock him.

  Skulduggery was worried about putting Omen’s life in danger, but the truth was if Omen had been killed, nobody, apart from Never and Auger, would have cared. He was a ghost in life and he’d be less than a ghost in death.

  Did you know that the Chosen One had a brother?

  Really? What happened to him?

  What happened to who?

  Omen had liked being special. It had been a good feeling. A warm feeling. He’d mattered. He wasn’t alone. He could see now why brave people did the things they did. Brave things, selfless things … they connected you. They plugged you into the world. He wasn’t plugged in any more. He was adrift.

  Byron Grace passed, walking quickly like he had somewhere to be. A few seconds later, Lapse and Gall stalked by, going in the same direction. Heading for the stairs.

  Omen stood up from the bench. He tucked in his shirt and watched Colleen Stint, clutching her golden mask, dart through the crowd after them. A meeting. The Arcanum’s Scholars had called a meeting without Mr Lilt.

  Omen’s feet were moving. He was walking – no, running – for his locker. His mind caught up to the decision the rest of him had made, and he took the gold mask and stuck it under his blazer, then ran back, taking the long way to the fifth-floor library. He arrived out of breath, his heart thudding, as Perpetua Darling joined the rest of the Arcanum’s Scholars in their usual spot, lounging about on the chairs. Omen spotted the librarian struggling to restock the higher shelves on the other side of the library.

  Omen did his best to get his breathing under control, then sneaked behind a fern and crouched down, watching. The Scholars chatted among themselves for a bit, nobody making anything more than small talk. Jenan had his usual seat, just an everyday chair that he managed to make look like a throne.

  “What are we even doing here?” asked Isidora Splendour, one of Colleen Stint’s best friends. “Mr Lilt’s been arrested. They’ve probably killed him by now.”

  “They don’t kill people they’ve arrested,” said Gall.

  “Shows how much you know,” Isidora responded. “They killed the American Grand Mage, didn’t they? Shot him in his cell.”

  “That was different.”

  “How? Exactly how was it different? Cypher plotted against the Sanctuary and they
arrested him and murdered him.”

  “It’s different because they killed him after he’d told them everything,” said Gall, sounding annoyed that he was being asked to explain himself. “Lilt won’t have told them a thing.”

  “They’ve got Sensitives, idiot.”

  “And Lilt’s got psychic defences, moron.”

  Isidora’s voice rose. “What did you call me?”

  “I called you a moron.”

  “You take that back!” she screeched. “You take that right back!”

  Gall frowned. “You called me an idiot.”

  “Take it back, Gall,” said Colleen, glaring at him while she comforted her friend.

  “She called me an idiot first,” said Gall.

  “You don’t call girls morons!” Isidora wailed. Actually wailed. With tears.

  “Jesus Christ,” Gall said.

  Jenan sighed. “Say you’re sorry.”

  Gall’s face was a mask of confusion. “But she called me—”

  “I know what she called you,” Jenan said. “It was ten seconds ago and I was sitting right here. Apologise anyway before she gets any louder.”

  Gall stared at him, the confusion giving way to resentment, and then he shrugged. “Fine, whatever. Sorry.”

  “You shouldn’t call people that,” Isidora said, her voice shaky with emotion.

  “Right.”

  “There are real morons out there and to use the word as a derogatory term is insulting to them, not just to me.”

  Gall blinked at her. “What?”

  “You’ve just got to think before you yell insults at people. Words hurt, Gall.”

  Byron sat forward. “So let me get this straight. Calling you a moron, Isidora, is insulting to morons?”

  Isidora sighed. “Yes.”

  Colleen hugged her friend. “Stop talking now, Izzy.”