Resurrection

by Derek Landy

  “Hey, I’m not judging,” said Pleasant. “We have a lot in common, you and I. Especially now, with the overt murderous impulses. But I never took Valkyrie under my wing. She was never my protégée. She was always my partner. She made her own decisions and her own mistakes. Maybe that’s where you went wrong with Jeremiah. Maybe you were so focused on teaching him that you never allowed him to find his own place in the world.”

  “The mistake I made with Jeremiah was not killing Valkyrie Cain the first moment I saw her.”

  Pleasant chuckled. “Yeah, she has that effect, all right.”

  Lights flashed behind, and a siren gave a short blare. As Pleasant’s façade flowed up over his skull, Cadaverous glanced in the rear-view. Two cops were getting out of their car and approaching.

  Pleasant got out first, then Cadaverous. Ignoring instructions to return to their vehicle, they approached the uniformed men. The cops raised their voices and backed away, pulling batons as they did so. Confidence renewed, they came forward now, furious that their authority had been so directly challenged.

  The first one swung at Pleasant and Pleasant smashed his face into the bonnet of the patrol car.

  “Hey!” the other cop cried, taking his eyes off Cadaverous. Cadaverous grabbed him, crushed his throat and let his body crumple.

  “All I’m saying,” Pleasant said, his false face slipping away as he got back in, “is that you got unlucky with Jeremiah. He just wasn’t cut out for this. Maybe next time, you’ll find someone who is.”

  Cadaverous put the car into gear and they moved off. “Luck had nothing to do with Jeremiah’s death, and you may try to convince me otherwise, but you will fail. Valkyrie Cain is mine to kill.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Pleasant said, and they spoke no more until they found the small house on the very tip of the peninsula and got out of the car. Pleasant put his hat on. The stiff wind didn’t even try to budge it. Cadaverous followed him to the front door.

  It opened before they reached it, and a man with wild greying hair stepped out. The wind had fun with his hair.

  “Tanner Rut?” Pleasant said, walking towards him with his hand extended. “Skulduggery Pleasant, very pleased to meet you.”

  “You can stop right there, Mr Pleasant,” said Rut, and Pleasant duly stopped. “I haven’t had any visitors in over thirteen years. I got used to the solitude. I liked it. Now you two. A skeleton and an old man. I’ve heard of the great Skeleton Detective, of course, but what about you, old-timer? Got a name?”

  “Cadaverous Gant.”

  “Never heard of you.”

  “Nor should you have.”

  “What do you want?”

  “We need you to come with us,” said Pleasant.

  “What if I don’t want to?”

  “We’ll have to insist.”

  Rut shook his head. “I got nothing to do with the Sanctuaries,” he said. “I stay out of their business, and they should stay out of mine. I’m a natural-born sorcerer.”

  “We’re all natural-born sorcerers,” said Pleasant. “The word you’re looking for is Neoteric.”

  Rut laughed. “That’s a stupid name. I just use magic differently from you Sanctuary types, that’s all. Either of you want any tea? I’m making tea.”

  “I don’t drink,” said Pleasant.

  “I’ll have some tea,” said Cadaverous.

  Rut nodded, and walked into the house. Cadaverous and Pleasant followed. A small house, the kitchen part of the living room. Cold in here, despite the roaring fire. They watched him fill the kettle and put it on to boil.

  “What are you going to do,” Rut said, “if I resist?”

  “We’ll drag you,” said Pleasant. “Or carry you. Politeness is not our primary concern.”

  “Yeah? Then what is?”

  “You just have to be alive when we deliver you.”

  Rut looked at them both with narrowed eyes. “This isn’t Sanctuary business, is it?”

  “No,” said Pleasant. “It is not. To be honest with you, the Sanctuaries don’t even know you exist. I had to hear about you from a gentleman named Lethe, who claims you’re something of a serial killer. Is that true?”

  Rut shrugged. “Used to be.”

  “You gave it up, did you? Realised it wasn’t for you?”

  “It was a phase, I think. It passed.”

  “You killed eighteen people.”

  Rut shrugged again, didn’t offer up an excuse. “Are you here to kill me?”

  “Well,” said Pleasant, “not us …”

  Rut poured boiling water into twin mugs. “Milk?”

  “No,” said Cadaverous.

  “Sugar?”

  “I changed my mind. I don’t want tea. I just want to get out of this decrepit shack before I start inhaling spores.”

  Rut dropped the mug, and dived behind the counter.

  “This is ridiculous,” Cadaverous muttered, going after him.

  Rut emerged with a goddamn scimitar in his hand, a gigantic curved sword with an extravagant golden hilt, and he whirled that monster over his head like a madman and Cadaverous had to stumble gracelessly away to avoid being separated from his lower half.

  For a heartbeat, Cadaverous thought Pleasant was just going to watch, but at the last moment the skeleton stepped in, diverting Rut’s attention. The blade swooped round and Pleasant ducked right then dodged left, barely keeping himself in one piece. He got some space between them and lobbed a fireball that Rut actually cut through.

  Cadaverous straightened up. “I’m leaving!” he shouted.

  Pleasant and Rut stopped fighting.

  “I’m sorry?” Pleasant asked.

  “I’m leaving,” Cadaverous repeated in a more dignified tone. “I’m going to go. You can continue fighting.”

  “I’m not sure I get it,” said Rut.

  “There’s no trick,” said Cadaverous. “I’m just going to walk out of here.”

  Pleasant tilted his head. “What about our mission?”

  “He’s got a goddamn sword. Look at it. It’s huge.”

  “But there are two of us.”

  “I’m not trained in this kind of thing,” Cadaverous said. “I’m only good against untrained mortals, when I’m on home turf or when I can cheat. Look, this doesn’t have to be a big deal. Keep on fighting, put him in shackles and I’ll be in the car.”

  Cadaverous walked for the door, but Pleasant blocked his way.

  Cadaverous sighed. “The unavoidable truth of the matter is that I’m an elderly man. The pair of you may technically be older, but I’m the one with the seventy-eight-year-old body. It hurts when I bend over. It hurts when I don’t bend over. It just hurts.”

  “This is a very odd situation,” Rut murmured.

  “Quiet, you,” said Pleasant, pulling out his gun and shooting Tanner Rut in the shoulder. Rut went down, screaming, his sword clattering to the floor.

  The smell of gunpowder wafted through the small house, and the gun swung slowly until it was pointing straight at Cadaverous’s belly.

  Cadaverous regarded the skeleton without expression. “I was wondering when you were going to take your chance.”

  “Now seems like as good a time as any.”

  “Lethe won’t like it. If you kill me, then he’ll kill you.”

  “Lethe’s not going to kill me,” Pleasant said. “Abyssinia and I have a history. She won’t let him.”

  “She has a history with me, too. She talks to me more than she does the others. In her eyes, I’m a favoured son. She’s not going to look kindly on my murder.”

  “I know her better than you, Cadaverous. She’ll get over it.”

  Cadaverous kept his voice even. “Are you quite sure about that, skeleton? Can you claim to know her plans? Can you claim to know her so well that nothing she does would surprise you?”

  The gun stayed level. Tanner Rut stopped screaming. He’d passed out on the floor.

  Pleasant put his gun away. “You can carr
y him to the car,” he said. “Make yourself useful.” He walked out.

  Cadaverous exhaled, then took hold of Rut’s ankles and dragged him out of the house.

  51

  “You look terrible,” Auger said, sitting at the end of the bed. The school’s Medical Wing was quiet. All the other beds were empty. Omen’s head was still a bit fuzzy so he just lay there, waiting for Auger to say something else. Seconds limped by.

  “Concussion,” Auger said at last.

  Omen tried a shrug.

  “How did you get concussion?”

  “Hit my head.”

  “How?”

  “By accident.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Hit my head by accident.”

  Auger watched him. “Mum and Dad called,” he said.

  Omen frowned. “You told them?”

  “They knew. The school has to alert the parents if someone gets injured.”

  “It’s just a concussion. You’ve had plenty.”

  “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you. They were wondering what you’ve been up to.”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s what I told them. I told them nothing. I said Omen hasn’t been getting up to any mischief. That’s not what Omen does. He leaves all that stuff to me.”

  “Because I do.”

  Auger nodded. “Because you do. That’s right. You leave all the stupid stuff to me. That’s kind of our deal, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes, it is. I’m the Chosen One, so I have the crazy life. You’re the normal one, so you have the normal life. That’s how we operate.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “You didn’t know that I have the crazy life?”

  “I didn’t know we’d divided it up. When did we do that?”

  “When we were born.”

  “I mustn’t have been paying attention.”

  “It’s our system,” said Auger. He pointed to himself. “Chosen One.” He pointed to Omen. “Lucky one.”

  Omen raised an eyebrow. “Lucky one? Really?”

  “Yeah. Aren’t you? I mean … aren’t you?”

  “I suppose so,” Omen said. “In a way.”

  Auger adjusted his position slightly. “So our system, our deal, is predicated on you staying out of trouble. It’s predicated on you staying safe, and uninjured, and non-concussed. What part of that do you not understand?”

  “The word ‘predicated’.”

  Auger leaned closer. “What’s going on with you? What’s happening?”

  “Nothing. I hit my head. It was an accident.”

  “Was it Ispolin?”

  “Jenan had nothing to do with this,” said Omen.

  “I’ll kick his ass.”

  “Please do, but he still had nothing to do with this.”

  “Then why has he gone?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s gone,” said Auger, leaning back. “He and his buddies. All of the Arcanum’s Scholars, they packed their things, left their schoolbooks and vanished. Nobody even saw them leave.”

  “Huh.”

  “That’s all you’ve got to say? Because I heard that Jenan attacked you earlier. Like, seriously attacked you, and then attacked Miss Wicked when she got involved.”

  “Yeah,” Omen said. “Yeah, that happened. He was slightly nuts at the time, though. He said he was going to kill me.”

  “They’ve expelled him.”

  “Probably a good policy.”

  “His dad’s going ballistic, apparently. ‘How dare you expel my son, don’t you know who I am?’ That kinda thing. The fact that Jenan’s vanished with all the others hasn’t helped calm him down. You think they’re off sulking somewhere, or is it something else?”

  “How would I know?”

  Auger kept observing him. “Valkyrie Cain was here this afternoon,” he said. “Nothing to say to that, either? That’s interesting. Valkyrie Cain ran through the school, blood everywhere, at roughly the same time you had your accident.”

  “You think she did this to me?”

  “No. Probably not. Still, it’s a bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Suppose it is.”

  Auger sighed. “You’re really not going to tell me, are you? OK, that’s fine. We’re allowed to keep secrets. But if you won’t tell me what’s going on now, then will you at least tell me if you need my help later on? Can you do that?”

  “Of course,” said Omen.

  Auger nodded, and stood. “That’s all I need to hear. Catch you later, dude.”

  He walked to the door.

  “Hey, Auger? Did Mum and Dad … did they ask how I was?”

  Auger hesitated just a moment too long before turning. “Of course,” he said. “They told me to pass on their love. Said to get better soon.”

  “Right,” said Omen. “Thanks.”

  The nurse dismissed him and Omen went back to his classes. Axelia Lukt passed him in the corridor and gave him a smile, and his heart turned into a million butterflies in his chest.

  “Hey,” Filament said, walking up. “I heard what happened with Jenan. Are you OK?”

  “I am, yeah,” Omen replied. “I’m fine.”

  “He should be arrested, not just expelled. You could have been brain-damaged. You might still be brain-damaged. How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “You’re not holding up any fingers.”

  Filament sagged. “Oh, you poor thing.”

  Omen had to laugh, which raised the corners of Filament’s mouth.

  “But Jenan didn’t give me the concussion,” Omen said. “That was my fault. I hit my head.”

  Filament frowned. “I heard he hit your head.”

  “Naw, he just choked me.”

  “The story going around the school is that he put you in the infirmary. Just to let you know, that story is getting you a lot of sympathy from the girls.”

  “It is? Really?”

  “And it is the good kind of sympathy, not the other kind.”

  “Wow.”

  “I mean, not the kind you usually get.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The pitying kind.”

  “I got that, thanks.”

  Filament laughed. “I am joking. My apologies. My English is not so good.”

  “Your English is perfect and you know it.”

  “Ah, maybe. So what do you think about the Arcanum’s Scholars running away? I think it is hilarious. I can imagine them each packing some sandwiches into a little spotted handkerchief and tying it on to the end of a stick, like in the old cartoons. Then they walk off into the woods where no grown-ups will ever bother them again, ever.”

  “I wish they were that harmless.”

  “Did you hear? One of them fell from a balcony. I tried to help but I don’t think I did any good. It didn’t matter. Mr Peccant saved whoever it was.”

  “I’m sure they’re grateful to you for trying,” Omen said. “If they could thank you, I’m sure they would.”

  Filament shrugged. “Would I want any thanks from them? Probably not. They are a bunch of … what is it? The word? About the crying babies?”

  “Crybabies?”

  “Them, yes. They are a bunch of crybabies. No? You don’t think so?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Filament looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “You are hiding something.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You are. You know something I do not know.”

  “I swear, I don’t. I know very little, in fact. Some might say I know too little.”

  Another smile. “You are a man of mystery, Omen. It is why we are friends.”

  Omen smiled with him, kind of surprised to learn this.

  “Jenan and the rest of them, they are idioti. Oh, apologies. Idioti is Italian for idiots.”

  “Thanks,” said Omen. “I worked that out myself.”

  Filament laughed. “I j
oke. About you, not about them being idiots. Only Byron has any intelligence.”

  “Why Byron?”

  “Well, he is the only one who did not go.”

  Omen stared. “He’s still here?”

  “No, but he is not with them, either. I saw him arguing with Gall and Lapse – those two never go anywhere without the other, have you noticed that? – and then Byron walked off.”

  “And you’re sure he didn’t go back?”

  “I’m not positive … But harsh words were exchanged. Names were called. Mothers were insulted.” Filament shrugged. “Some things, there is no coming back from.”

  “And you don’t know where he went? Where he might be?”

  “I am sorry, I do not. I like Byron well enough, but we are not buddies. Is something wrong, Omen?”

  “No,” Omen said. “I just have … I have to go. Good talking to you, Filament. Thanks.”

  Omen left him looking puzzled, and walked quickly away.

  52

  Magic. Sorcerers. Freaks and weirdoes. So much of that stuff left Martin Flanery confused as all hell. He liked to think of himself as a simple man. The only son of a millionaire investment banker, he’d dragged himself up by his bootstraps and, aided only by his family name and wealth, built himself an empire. Now look at him. Thanks to his own dedication, hard work and super PACs, he had had himself elected President, for God’s sake. A true rags-to-riches story. A tale to inspire the next generation, to show them that the American Dream can still come true.

  He hadn’t liked using the witch to win, but she was just another tool in the toolbox. And that’s what winners did: they used every tool they had at their disposal. That’s what his father had taught him, and Martin had learned the lesson well. Besides, it wasn’t like he brought the witch into the White House or anything. She was kept at a safe distance. Plausible deniability, he guessed it could be called. He’d been learning a lot about that lately – he’d had to, in his dealings with the press.

  Most of his interviews took place in the Oval Office these days. There were people – leftist journalists and other losers, a lot of them online – who complained that there were too many “meaningless” interviews conducted there lately. Flanery didn’t pay much attention to liberal journalists, and paid even less attention to people on the Internet – apart from those who insulted him or challenged him or displeased him in some way – but his staff had convinced him to do this one interview live on air and in the studio. They had this wonderful plan to prep him for the questions ahead of time so that he could appear relaxed and confident. Flanery had sat still for a half-hour of prep before getting bored and telling everyone he was going to wing it. He was a smart person, after all. He could handle a few questions from a friendly interviewer.