by Derek Landy
Jenan stood up, bringing an end to the conversation. “We’re here because the fact that they grabbed Lilt changes nothing. I got a message last night telling us not to worry. As long as we don’t do anything stupid, we’re safe. We haven’t done anything wrong. We haven’t broken any laws. Not yet.”
“Who sent the message?” Colleen asked.
“You’ll find out in a moment,” said Jenan. “OK, it’s time to move to less salubrious surroundings. Ceremonial masks on.”
The Scholars took out their masks and slipped them on, and Jenan led the way to the back room.
Omen’s feet wouldn’t budge. His body had frozen. This was a bad idea. This was a supremely bad idea.
His hands moved, slipping the golden mask over his head, fixing it in place, and the moment it was secure his legs woke up. He covered the distance in three seconds, joining the group as they squeezed through the doorway into a room with a large glass door that opened out on to a balcony.
Jenan, the tallest of them, shut the door once they were all in. He didn’t glance twice at Omen, and he didn’t do a headcount. There was a table in the middle of the room with chairs all around it. If they sat, Omen’s ruse would be over before it had truly begun.
One of the Scholars went to sit.
“Don’t bother,” said Jenan. “You’ll want to be standing for this.”
“For what?” somebody asked. Sounded like Gall.
Jenan didn’t answer. He just took out his phone and checked the time. “Any moment now,” he said. “Clear a space there.”
There was a little shuffling as everyone crowded into the same side of the small room.
“Somebody close the curtains,” Jenan instructed.
People turned their heads, gold masks revolving, but nobody actually moved. Finally, Omen went to do it, and the Scholars looked away. The curtains were heavy, and when they were closed the room darkened considerably. Omen stayed where he was, at the back.
“What are we waiting for?” Byron asked.
“You’ll see,” said Jenan, and then, like it had all been rehearsed, three people teleported into the room before them.
The masked man in the middle wore an outfit of black rubber. The man to his left had platinum hair and a smile. The woman to his right was drop-dead gorgeous, and wore a tuxedo. Omen didn’t have the first idea who they were, but the others certainly did. There was a collective gasp.
“Hello, my friends,” said the masked man. His voice was distorted, soft and loud at the same time, like he was whispering into a microphone. “It’s an honour to finally meet you. Parthenios has told us so much about you all.”
Jenan spoke up, his own voice tight with excitement. “Mr Lethe, it is a huge honour for us, too. We just want you to know that we are ready, we are so ready, to fight for the cause. Blood has to be spilled and we, all of us here, we are ready to spill that blood for you, sir.” Crazily, he saluted.
“Jenan, is it?” Lethe asked, and shook his head. “We don’t salute here, Jenan, and there are no sirs in our group. I’m not above you. I’m not issuing orders. I’m a soldier, just like you are. We’re partners. Comrades.”
“Comrades,” repeated Jenan, nodding like this was the greatest word in recorded history.
“I know we’ve suffered some setbacks,” Lethe continued. “Losing Mr Lilt to the enemy … that’s a loss. I’m not going to stand here and lie to you. Parthenios was a valued part of our team, and his arrest … that’s a problem for us. But we shall overcome our enemies by standing together. I look around this room and I’m filled with … pride. With love. We’re the same. Everyone in here. The same.”
Colleen started to say something, but all she could manage was a croak. This drew some nervous laughter from the other Scholars, and the lady in the tuxedo smiled. The smile was unsettlingly wide.
“I’m sorry,” said Lethe, “what was that?”
Colleen tried again. “Is it true you beat Skulduggery Pleasant?”
Now the lady chuckled.
“I don’t like to brag,” said Lethe with good humour, “so all I will say is that bones were broken and they weren’t exactly mine.”
The Scholars laughed, and clapped, but kept the claps soft.
“Skulduggery Pleasant is no big deal, though – not really. He feels pain like anyone else. I made him feel pain when we met, and I’ll make him feel pain again. But I’m not the only one who can do that. We can all do it. We can all take down their best people. We’re all capable. We just need to be smarter than them, braver than them, better than them. Everyone in this room can do that. Everyone in this room has the potential to be that. And you’ll get to prove it very, very soon.”
A tentative hand rose. “What are we going to do?” asked Gall.
“You’re going to strike, my friend,” said Lethe. “You’re going to bring terror to the heartland of America and then you’re going to watch, you’re going to sit back and watch, as the mortals tear themselves apart in their panic and their fear. Mortal society will crumble. They’ll hurt each other, hunt each other, kill each other and, when they find out about us, they’re going to turn all their murderous rage our way. The Sanctuaries around the world will not have a choice. They’re going to have to fight. We, all of us, are going to start a war the mortals can’t win, and we’re going to do it together. Mr Lilt, he told us he would trust you all with his life. He told us you were devoted, just like us. But, now that he’s in chains, you’re going to need a spokesman.”
Jenan stepped forward. “I’ll be leader.”
The woman laughed. “I like him,” she said. “He’s certainly bottling his blood’s worth.”
Lethe nodded. “I have no idea what that means, Razzia, but I’m sure you’re right. He has ambition. Ambition is good. Leadership is good. But our groups don’t have leaders. They have representatives. They have spokespeople.”
“Then I’ll speak for this group,” said Jenan.
“It looks like you already are,” Lethe said, sounding amused. “Very well. If nobody has an objection, let Jenan Ispolin speak for First Wave.”
“First Wave?” Byron echoed.
“Your group,” said Lethe. “You need a name, don’t you? Arcanum’s Scholars is a study group. It’s for kids, isn’t it? But you’re not kids. What you are is the first wave. You will strike first. You will draw first blood. When mortals think of sorcerers, they will think of you first.”
Omen paid attention to the man with the platinum hair when he noticed him frowning. The man’s eyes were narrowed, and flicking from one gold mask to the next. He was counting.
Terror seized Omen’s chest and he moved slightly, stepping behind the others. He saw the frown deepen, and the count began again.
“We will be in contact with Jenan in a few days,” Lethe was saying. “From this moment on, we are doubling our precautions. Our revolution, which one day will have seemed inevitable and unstoppable, is still a fragile thing. Parthenios’s capture serves as a reminder that even the best of us can falter. We must be vigilant. We must be ready.”
The man with the platinum hair put his hand on Lethe’s arm and spoke to the group. “How many of you are there?” he asked.
“Nine, Mr Nero,” said Jenan immediately.
“Then why are there ten gold masks in this room?”
Everyone turned, stepping away from each other and counting for themselves. Except for Omen. Omen just stood there.
The counting faded as the space around him widened.
“And who,” said Lethe, stepping forward, “might you be?”
Omen backed up, face burning under his mask. He felt the thick curtains behind him. Through them, the door handle. He turned it, felt the door open.
Jenan pushed roughly through the Scholars. “Out of the way,” he snarled, reaching out. “Who the hell are—?”
Omen surprised himself by shoving Jenan hard in the chest, sending him backwards into the others, and then he barged through the curtains, out on to t
he balcony, where the wind turned his sweat cold and there was nowhere to go but down. There was a balcony below him, and a balcony below that, and he swung one leg over the side, but his hands gripped the railing and he couldn’t go any further. Shapes moved behind the curtain, filling it, too many of his classmates trying to get through at the same time, all of them coming to – what? To push him? To kill him?
Nero teleported on to the balcony and Omen cried out and jerked back, lost his balance, started to fall, but Nero reached out, grabbed his wrist.
Omen hung there, his body committed to the fall, his mouth open, his heart an empty thing in his chest, and all he could feel were Nero’s fingers around his wrist.
Nero smiled, and let go.
Omen shrieked as he fell. He was past the first balcony before he even saw it. He reached for the second and banged his arm and kept falling. He saw a face at an open window and Filament Sclavi reached out, tried using the air to stop Omen’s descent, but Omen broke through and kept falling, and then there was a strong wind buffeting him closer to the wall and a hand reached down, closed around his wrist.
Omen slammed into the side of the building and hung there for a moment, gasping. He was two floors from the ground, and now he was being pulled upwards to the balcony.
Mr Peccant glared down at him. “Little fool,” he growled. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Omen didn’t answer. The mask had dislodged slightly, obscuring his vision. He did his best to help as Peccant dragged him in and then let go, leaving Omen to tumble through to the floor.
Still, better to tumble to the floor of Peccant’s office than to smash to the courtyard below it.
Peccant strode in after him. “Tomfoolery!” he said, the word exploding from his mouth like a curse. Peccant was the only person Omen knew who used words like tomfoolery. “What did you think you were playing at? Eh? Take off that bloody mask, for goodness’ sake!”
Omen didn’t take the mask off.
“This is what happens when children are allowed to lark about unsupervised! This is what happens!”
The office was impeccably neat. The only thing out of place was a black book that had fallen from the desk, presumably when Peccant had leaped to the balcony. Helpfully, Omen picked it up. It was more of a ledger than a book, now that he took a closer look, and there was a crest on the cover, a wolf and a snake.
“Give me that,” Peccant snapped, yanking the book from Omen’s hands. He threw it into a desk drawer and slammed it shut. “And take off that ridiculous mask! Do you even realise how inaccurate it all is? Rebus Arcanum despised the society that wore those masks. For a history teacher, Lilt does like to leave out a lot of little things like details, doesn’t he? If he hadn’t been arrested for whatever he was arrested for, he should have been arrested for being a damn fool and a bad teacher!”
Omen stood on trembling legs while Peccant went back to the balcony, craning his head upwards. “Where did you fall from? Which window? Is there anyone else being irresponsible up there?”
Omen reached for the door. Opened it. Nobody outside. He stepped out, started walking. Picked up speed. He took off the gold mask and dropped it.
“Hey!” Peccant yelled from inside his office, and Omen ran.
28
“Slow down,” Valkyrie muttered, following Skulduggery through twisting alleyways. “You’re being conspicuous.”
Skulduggery glanced back at her. His façade this morning was of a pale man with arched eyebrows and a widow’s peak. He held his hat in his hand, but his black suit was exquisite and he did nothing to hide the confidence he demonstrated in his every step. Try as he might to disguise who he was, he was still drawing stares.
“Much as it wounds my ego,” he said, “they’re not actually looking at me.”
She frowned, turned her attention to the people they passed. He was right. It was her face that was widening eyes. It was her presence that was generating whispers.
“How much further?” she asked, walking beside him now with her head down.
“A few more turns.”
He’d been up all night, but she was the one who was tired. Not for the first time, Valkyrie found herself envying his lack of a need for sleep. She had once loved sleep, had looked forward to being swallowed up by her slumber every night, but now sleep was something she chased. It was a furtive little animal that, even when caught, wriggled and scratched to free itself. And, of course, it brought with it the nightmares.
They arrived at a door like every other door on this small street, and Skulduggery knocked.
A small woman answered, a smile on her well-fed face.
“Lillian Agog?” Skulduggery asked, extending his hand for her to shake. “Skulduggery Pleasant. This is my partner, Valkyrie Cain. We spoke on the phone. How do you do?”
“I’m doing fine, Mr Pleasant,” said Lillian. “Come in, the both of you. Please excuse the mess. I’ve been rushed off my feet lately. Rushed right off them.”
Skulduggery stepped in, and Valkyrie stepped in right after him. It was a very tidy house. Lillian led them into the small living room that smelled slightly of must and contentment, and they sat side by side on the couch.
“You must think I’m awful,” said Lillian, going straight to the fireplace, “living in squalor like this. Squalor!”
“Not at all,” Skulduggery said.
“You’re too kind, Mr Pleasant! Too kind!”
Lillian clicked her fingers, summoning fire into her hand, and tossed it on to the bundle of sticks and rolled-up newspaper in the hearth. Once the fire was roaring, she sank into her armchair, her eyes bright. “Now, don’t think me rude, but I’d heard you didn’t have a face.”
“Ah,” Skulduggery said, and his façade flowed away, revealing the skull beneath.
“Marvellous,” said Lillian, staring in wonder. “Simply marvellous. Do you ever get cold?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You don’t have any skin or anything. I’d imagine you’d get very cold this time of year.”
“I don’t actually feel the cold. It’s one of the advantages of being a skeleton.”
“Imagine that,” Lillian breathed. “You know, I’ve never spoken to a skeleton before. I’ve spoken to plenty of people, plenty of them, but never a skeleton. I’ve talked to tall people, and you’re quite tall, but I’ve talked to taller. And short people. Big people and small people. All kinds. But never someone like you. I bet you get asked all kinds of questions, don’t you? About death. About what happens after. Is there a heaven?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. Lillian, we’re here to talk to you about Richard Melior.”
“Richard, yes,” said Lillian. “Lovely man. Just lovely. Oh! My manners! They seem to have abandoned me! Would either of you like some tea?”
“No thank you,” said Valkyrie.
“Coffee, then? I’m sure I can make you some coffee.”
“I’m fine,” Valkyrie said. “We both are. About Richard …?”
“Richard, yes,” said Lillian. “Lovely man.”
“You got in touch with us,” Skulduggery said. “You had someone place a note on the windscreen of my car.”
Lillian nodded. “I asked an old family friend who works at the High Sanctuary. I won’t give you his name, so you’ll have to forgive me, but I don’t want to get him into any trouble. Or her! It might be a her! I don’t want to get her into any trouble, either. He asked me to keep his name out of this, he’s very worried about overstepping marks, and he made me promise, he sat me down and made me promise, to never mention his name. And I said Brian, I said Brian, I’m not going to tell them who you are, you can trust me. He didn’t look entirely convinced that I wouldn’t let something slip, but I think I’ve handled it quite well, don’t you?”
“Very,” Valkyrie said. Her phone buzzed and she glanced at it. A message from her mother. She slid the phone back into her pocket. “So the note, it said you had information on Richard Melior�
�s whereabouts.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Lillian. “I’ve known Richard for a long time, him and his husband. Both lovely men. Lovely. I saw him last night – Richard, that is, not Savant – and I sprang into action, is what I did. I asked Brian for a favour, I passed him the note and now you’re here.”
“And Richard?” Skulduggery prompted.
“I saw him enter an apartment building on Ironfoot Road. A blue door, it was.”
“Ironfoot Road,” Skulduggery repeated, nodding. “That’s very helpful, Lillian. That’s exactly what we needed. Thank you.”
Lillian waved away the words. “Oh, just doing my civic duty! Now, promise me you won’t burst in there and hurt him. He looked quite docile when I saw him. I’m sure he’ll come quietly.”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have that option,” Skulduggery said. “He’s mixed up with some very bad people, and the last time we went to talk to him we barely made it out. I’m sorry to say that we’ll have to use extreme force. Maybe even deadly.”
Lillian paled. “I’m sorry?”
Skulduggery stood and put his hat back on. “But thanks for your help.”
Lillian sprang to her feet, quite lithely for someone of her size. “Wait a moment! Now, just wait! Richard wouldn’t hurt a fly!”
“He already tried to kill us once,” said Skulduggery. “He won’t get a second chance.”
Skulduggery walked for the door, Lillian hurrying after him. Valkyrie got up slowly, watching it unfold.
“He won’t hurt you!” Lillian insisted. “Just knock on the door! Tell him who you are! He’ll give himself up, I just know he will! Mr Pleasant, please!”
“We’ll try to take him alive,” Skulduggery said, “but I can’t guarantee anything.”
Lillian staggered, as if slapped.
Valkyrie passed her. “Thank you for your assistance,” she said quietly.
“Stop!” Lillian cried. “He told me to contact you!”
They both turned. “Did he now?” Skulduggery asked.
Lillian clasped her hands to her bosom, as if praying. “He’s scared,” she said. “You’re right, he’s mixed up with some bad people. He told me that. He’s in a lot of trouble. He said when you went to arrest him, he panicked. He shouldn’t have done it, he’s sorry, but he’s managed to sneak away, and he wants to surrender.”