by Derek Landy
Valkyrie’s mum fed another spoonful to Alice. “He’s only got one arm.”
“Oh, yeah, the arm thing.”
Valkyrie stared. “Why couldn’t you have started with that? Wouldn’t that be the most obvious characteristic?”
Her dad looked confused. “But his hair is really sandy, and he always wears those polo shirts. He’s always in them, no matter the weather.”
She sat back in her chair. “Right, so that’s Tommy Boyle. I’ve seen him around town. So what? What’s that got to do with a boyfriend?”
“His son. His name is Aaron. Very nice lad. He’s your age. Tommy was saying that Aaron’s never had a girlfriend, and I said he should go out with you, so Tommy’s bringing him over to introduce you.”
“Oh, Desmond,” Valkyrie’s mum said. “Oh, Desmond, no.”
“What? What’s wrong? We’re just introducing them, not arranging their marriage. They might like each other.”
“Get on the phone,” Valkyrie said, “and tell him you’re calling it off.”
“I can’t do that, Steph. It’d be rude. Just meet the boy. Have a chat. No pressure.”
“Lots of pressure, Dad! Loads of pressure! I can’t believe you did that!”
He folded his arms. “I don’t see what you’re both getting so upset about. I thought you’d be happy. You haven’t had a boyfriend since Fletcher, so any day now you were going to walk in with this strange fella on your arm and say, Hey, Dad, hey, Mum, this is my new boyfriend. And then we’d have to get to know him and get used to him, and figure out if he’s a good sort. Who knows what kind of lad you’d bring back to us? Fletcher was older than you so the next one would probably be older still, and have tattoos or piercings or ride a motorbike or something. I don’t want you going out with someone in their twenties. You’re too young for that. I’ve met Aaron Boyle and he’s a nice lad, Stephanie. He’s quiet and polite and he’s the sort of boy I wouldn’t have to worry about, because with all your self-defence stuff you’d probably be able to break him in two.”
“Call Tommy,” Valkyrie said, “and cancel it.”
“Ah, Steph …”
“Des,” her mum said, “I know that you’re doing this because you love Stephanie and you want all her boyfriends to treat her with respect, but that isn’t up to us. We just have to trust our daughter to be a good judge of character.”
An image of Caelan popped into Valkyrie’s head and she beat it back with a big mental stick.
“But Aaron’s a lovely guy,” her dad whined. “And I can’t call Tommy. I just can’t. I don’t know his number.”
“I’m not talking to you until this is cancelled,” Valkyrie told him, and went back to eating cereal.
Her father sagged. “But what if I go over there and Aaron answers the door? Then I’ll have to tell him that my beautiful daughter wants nothing to do with him. Something like that, it’d crush a fragile soul like his.”
“You should have thought about that when you arranged this whole thing,” said Melissa. “And until it’s done, I’m not talking to you, either.”
He looked at his wife with big imploring eyes, but she ignored him and focused her attention on Alice. Up to that point, Valkyrie’s sister had been gurgling away quietly, but even she stopped talking. That was the final straw. Valkyrie’s dad got up.
And then the doorbell rang.
“No,” Valkyrie said.
“Ah,” said her dad, checking his watch. “He’s a bit early.”
Valkyrie jumped to her feet. “You told them to call round this morning?”
“Tommy’s got things to do this afternoon. I thought it’d be best. What do you want me to do? Will I tell them to go away?”
“Yes! Tell them I’ve gone horse-riding, or something.”
“You haven’t ridden a horse in years.”
“They don’t know that!”
“Aaron will be very disappointed.”
“Dad!”
He went to the front door. Valkyrie heard a murmured conversation, then her dad returned to the kitchen table. “Well, I hope you’re happy,” he said. “I’ve just turned away a boy and his father and they both looked very disappointed.”
“Well, that couldn’t be helped. Did you tell them I was horse-riding?”
“No, I couldn’t find a way to make that believable. I just told them you had diarrhoea.”
Valkyrie closed her eyes. “Mum?”
“Yes, Steph?”
“Kill him for me, will you?”
“With pleasure, dear.”
Valkyrie went upstairs. She checked for messages on her phone, then took a shower. She stood under the spray and closed her eyes. It had been twelve months since she’d split up with Fletcher – a split that hadn’t exactly broken her heart, since she’d been the one who’d dumped him. In the weeks that followed, however, she’d been surprised to realise she missed him. She missed the obvious things about having a boyfriend, naturally, but more than that, she missed the friendship he brought.
It was around that time, though, that the reflection had stopped malfunctioning and started behaving the way it should, and Valkyrie began to see other advantages to its continued existence. One of these advantages was simply having someone to talk to, someone she didn’t have to hide anything from. Someone she couldn’t hide anything from. It was liberating, in a way.
It could also be disturbing. There were things Valkyrie didn’t want to think about, didn’t want to talk about or even admit to herself. Things like Darquesse, and how good it felt to let her take control. But the reflection had no sense of shame, and so it spoke without fear until Valkyrie told it to shut up. Which it did, immediately and without any feelings to hurt.
Valkyrie dried herself off, walked to her room with her dressing gown bunched in her hand while her mother continued to scold her father downstairs, and touched the mirror. The reflection stepped out, smiling. Valkyrie knew it wasn’t a real smile, that the reflection wasn’t actually amused, but it was doing what it was made to do, pretending, and so she didn’t mind that much.
“Poor you,” the reflection said. “What is your dad like?”
“He’s something else,” said Valkyrie as she dressed. “Definitely doesn’t live in the same world as the rest of us.” She pulled on her boots and zipped up her jacket. “There. How do I look?”
“Amazing.”
“You’re not biased?”
“That’s entirely possible, but you still look amazing.”
Valkyrie laughed, and jumped out of the window.
oarhaven sat beside a dark and stagnant lake, and was surrounded on all sides by barren lands of coarse grasses and dead trees. Nothing ever grew in Roarhaven. No birds ever sang.
The Sanctuary squatted on the edge of town, a low, circular building like a rusted hubcap that had come spinning off a passing car and then had just fallen over. The building itself went five floors beneath the surface, and was riddled with tunnels and secret passageways. Everything was dark and damp and smelled vaguely of mould. On the third floor down there was a large room filled with cabinets, and it was to this room that Valkyrie and Skulduggery were headed, to look for information about this Argeddion guy the werewolf had dreamed about.
“I’m so excited right now,” Valkyrie said as they neared.
“Stop complaining.”
“Finally, a reason to go into the fabled Mystical Hall of Magical Cabinets.”
Skulduggery looked at her. “That’s not what it’s called.”
“A chance to sort through millions of files and really do some good old-fashioned detective work. This is where the job gets glamorous. This is where I come alive.”
“You can stop being sarcastic any time now.” He led the way through the doors, and they walked along the rows of cabinets.
Valkyrie sighed. “Wouldn’t it be simpler if this was all on a computer somewhere? It’d take up a bit less space, for a start.”
“Computers crash,” said Skulduggery. “El
ectronic information can be hacked. Sometimes, hard copy is the way to go.”
“But there’s so much of it,” she whined. “Please tell me that there’s some sort of cool magical search system where the name we seek will suddenly appear to us.”
“Yes,” said Skulduggery. “It’s called Alphabetical Order.” He opened a cabinet, skimmed over the files, then opened another one.
Valkyrie thought about helping, then decided against it. She’d probably just get in the way. “Is Argeddion really a problem?” she asked.
“You don’t think everything that’s happened has been a problem?”
She shrugged. “It’s been an inconvenience, and it’s been unfortunate, because of the people who have been hurt or killed. But if Argeddion was really going to affect the world, or if this Summer of Light thing is bad news, the Sensitives would have seen something, wouldn’t they?”
“They don’t see everything,” Skulduggery murmured, and looked up. “In fact, they see very little. In the past they have missed huge, world-changing events. In 1844, a psychic called Ethereal Ethel – yes, she chose that name herself – had a vision. She saw into the future, to Sunday the twenty-eighth of June, 1914. Do you remember why this date is significant?”
“Did Ireland win a big football match that day?”
“You would have learned about this in school. I also went over it as part of your close-protection training.”
“Oh, was this about Ferdie?”
“Please don’t call him that.”
“Archduke Franz Ferdinand, then.”
Skulduggery returned his attention to the cabinets. “Go on.”
“He was assassinated in Sarajevo. There was an attempt on his life with a grenade that didn’t kill him but injured the people around him. He wanted to visit the hospital on his way back, so he deviated from the agreed route and promptly got himself killed like an idiot, which basically kick-started World War One. So Ethereal Ethel had a vision of his assassination?”
“No. She had a vision of a woman in Greece who would invent a new kind of shoe.”
“Oh.”
“Every psychic missed the assassination. It changed the world, and they all missed it.”
“What about the shoe?”
“The Greek woman invented the shoe, then was run over by a train. Ethel missed that bit as well.”
“She wasn’t a very good psychic.”
“No, she wasn’t,” he said, searching through another cabinet. “But that’s what you get when you rely on prophecy to highlight oncoming threats – you’re going to be caught by surprise nine times out of ten. It’s a trap you must not fall into.”
“But psychics saw Darquesse’s arrival, and look at me, here I am.”
“You’re talking about it like it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, like the only reason you’re Darquesse is because they had a vision about you. That’s not what happened. Self-fulfilling prophecies don’t exist. The threat you pose as Darquesse did not come about because of what they saw. You didn’t learn your true name because of a vision. You learned your true name from the Book of Names, and once you became a threat, they started having the visions. When a psychic does have a vision, they are rarely wrong. The problem is they don’t see everything that’s going to happen.”
“Right.”
“You look confused.”
“I feel confused. The Death Bringer—”
“Was a scientific inevitability, not a prophecy. You’re not the Chosen One, Valkyrie. There is no Chosen One, there never was and never will be. The very idea is ridiculous. You’re your own person, independent and free to choose.”
“But we saw Darquesse. We saw what she does.”
“We saw a possible future, and if we’re very unlucky, that future will happen. But you’re not going to destroy the world just because people have seen you destroy the world. You’re going to destroy it for your own reasons.”
“That really fails to make me feel better.”
“I realised that halfway through. Sorry.” He slid the cabinet shut and stood there, tapping his fingers. “Nothing here. No files on Argeddion, no notes or cross-references or mentions of the Summer of Light. How annoying. We walked all the way in here and now have nothing to show for it. What a waste of walking. We could have walked somewhere else and be having a great time by now.”
“Yeah,” said Valkyrie as they started back, “it’s a real tragedy, all right. Maybe we should get the word out that we’re looking for him.”
“Already taken care of, but it could be days or weeks before we hear from anyone – if anyone out there does know him.”
They climbed the stone stairs into the main corridor network. “Do you think the Sensitives would have any information?” she asked. “Maybe we should call in on Finbar.”
“Finbar is out of the psychic business, Valkyrie, you know that.”
“But he’d do it for us. He likes us.”
“I’m sure he adores us, but it’s not that he won’t use his powers, it’s that he can’t. The Remnant possessing him like that, it overloaded his mind. And the mind is a delicate thing. If he tries opening it up to the psychic highways and byways, he may well never get it back. Besides,” Skulduggery continued, “I’ve already alerted a Sensitive to be on the lookout.”
“You have been busy.”
He shrugged. “What do you think I do at night while you’re sleeping? I asked Cassandra Pharos to let us know if she senses anything.”
Valkyrie’s smile faded. “Oh.”
“Do I detect reluctance? What’s wrong with Cassandra? You’ve only met her once.”
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with her. It’s just … You know that dream whisperer she gave me? I burned it.”
“You did what?”
“Oh, come on!” she exclaimed. “It was Blair Witch creepy and you know it! A little man-shaped bundle of sticks that whispered to you at night? How could you not burn something like that?” She quietened again. “But the problem is, with Cassandra being a psychic and all, the next time she sees me she’ll know instantly what I did.”
“She can’t read minds, Valkyrie.”
“She’d be able to read mine. I just know it.”
“I’m sure she’d understand.”
“Well, of course you think that. You have no idea about presents or what they mean. The last present you gave me was a stick.”
“You wanted a weapon.”
“It was a stick.”
“It had a bow on it.”
“It was a stick.”
“I thought you liked the stick. You laughed.”
“I laughed because I thought the stick was a joke and you were about to give me my real present, but then you went home and I was standing there with a stupid stick with a stupid bow on it.”
“You’re welcome, by the way.” Skulduggery stopped, turned his head. “Hear that?”
“What?”
He didn’t answer, he just changed direction and she followed. Gradually she heard the rhythmic slap of flesh on leather, and they walked into a sparse room with only a punchbag hanging from the ceiling. Ghastly Bespoke moved around it, wearing jogging bottoms and nothing else, sweat running over his scars as he made the punch bag regret the day it had come into existence. They stood watching him until he saw them, and he finished with a flurry and stepped away, breathing hard.
“Hello, underlings,” he said.
“Elder Bespoke,” Skulduggery responded, leaning against the doorframe. “Did that bag do something to upset you in any way?”
Ghastly wiped his face with a towel. “It was mocking my choice of friends.”
“Aha, so you were defending our honour.”
“Actually, I was trying to make it shut up before someone passed by. I’m a respected member of the Council of Elders, I can’t be seen to be taking advice from large bags of sand.”
Skulduggery shrugged. “I can see how that might give the wrong impression.”
“I heard
you’ve the word out for someone called Argeddion,” said Ghastly. “Any luck?”
“None so far.”
“Any idea how he’s mixed up in all this? We’re getting a lot of pressure from the international community to get this solved and squared away.”
“Is that who the VIPs were last night?” Valkyrie asked.
Ghastly looked at her. “That was official Sanctuary business. I’m sorry, but I can’t be talking about that with you. I can’t say, for instance, that Quintin Strom turned up on our doorstep as the voice of the Supreme Council, elected by a virtual conglomerate of other Councils around the world, to voice their concerns over matters of Irish security.”
Skulduggery tilted his head. “Simply to voice their concerns?”
“Oh, yes,” Ghastly said. “No other agenda than that, he assured us. And please ignore the fact that he brought a small army of mages with him as bodyguards, an army that stands ready to act at a moment’s notice, or that we have a week to resolve this situation with the mortals or something unspecified will happen.”
“Ah,” said Skulduggery. “An unspecified threat. The worst kind.”
“Indeed,” said Ghastly. “Thank God we’re all friends, that’s all I can say. A more suspicious man than I might grow paranoid with all these foreign agents hanging around, especially with most of our own operatives spread out around the country to try and contain this magical outbreak. Why, if the Supreme Council got it into their little heads to launch an attack, we’d be completely defenceless.”
“It’s a good thing we’re all friends, then,” Skulduggery murmured.
“Indeed it is. So you see how finding this Argeddion person is suddenly very high up on our list of things to do and do quickly.”
“Then we’ll get back to it,” Skulduggery said. “Oh, did you get that jacket I left in to be repaired?”
Ghastly’s eyes narrowed. “I told you to be especially careful with that suit, didn’t I? I told you I was especially proud of my work on that suit. And what did you do? You wore it werewolf-hunting.”
“I only did it to help you, Ghastly. I fear this job robs you of the simple pleasures of tailoring that you need to remain true to your roots.”