by Derek Landy
“As far as we know, China’s not sending any Cleavers,” said Valkyrie.
Temper sighed. “Then maybe you could talk to her? She’s got a soft spot for you, Val, everyone knows that.”
“If we could actually get in to speak to her, maybe,” Valkyrie replied. “But we’ve been trying to arrange a meeting with China for weeks, to discuss our progress – or lack of progress – in this Abyssinia situation, and all we hear is how busy she is.”
Temper chewed his bottom lip for a moment. “Those refugees are easy targets. They need someone to keep them safe.” He sighed. “I guess the shower can wait.”
Valkyrie raised an eyebrow. “You’re going back through?”
“Looks like it.”
“Can’t you send some of your City Guard friends through instead?”
Temper smiled. “I’ve been a Roarhaven cop for five months, and in that time I have discovered that the City Guards are not friendly people. Commander Hoc has changed things since you were in charge, Skulduggery. We report only to him, and he reports only to the Supreme Mage. My colleagues don’t trust me – probably because they see me talking to the two of you so regularly.”
“They think you’re our spy,” Skulduggery said.
“Yes, they do.”
“Good thing you’re our spy, then.”
“It certainly keeps things simple.” Temper looked back towards the portal. “Either of you want to join me?”
Valkyrie held up her hands. “I have things to do today, and bad memories of that place. Thanks, but I think I’ll stay in this dimension.”
“You mentioned bandits …” Skulduggery said.
Temper nodded. “Bands of them.”
“Bands of bandits. That doesn’t sound good.”
“It really doesn’t.”
Skulduggery looked at Valkyrie.
“Good God,” she said, “you don’t have to ask me for permission to go play with your friends.”
“It’s just there are bandits,” Skulduggery said. “I like bandits. There’s no guilt involved when you hit them.”
“When have you ever felt guilty about hitting anyone? Go. Battle bandits. Have fun. I’ll make a few calls, see if anyone can help us track down the guy who makes Quidnunc’s serum.” She held out her hand. “Keys.”
Skulduggery tilted his head. “Sorry?”
“Car keys. You drove us here, remember?”
“But … can’t you get a taxi?”
“Back home? That’d cost a fortune.”
“Have Fletcher take you.”
“It’s a school day, and Fletcher’s busy being a teacher. Come on. Keys.”
He hesitated, then handed them over. “The Bentley is a special car.”
“I’m not going to crash it. I’m going to make a copy of the key, by the way. Just so you know.”
“Drive very slowly. Especially round corners. And along straight roads.”
“Can you please trust me?”
“I trust you with my life,” Skulduggery said. “Just not necessarily my car.”
6
Decorum. That’s what it was all about.
Cadaverous Gant insisted on doing things the way they were supposed to be done. It may have been an old-fashioned philosophy to live by, but it was clear-cut, and he appreciated that kind of simplicity in this world — a world he increasingly disapproved of.
When he’d been a young man, he hadn’t approved of progressives. When he’d been a professor, he hadn’t approved of the lackadaisical approach his students took to their studies. When he’d been a serial killer, he hadn’t approved of people interrupting the murders of said students.
It was why he built his house, after all.
A wonderful house in St Louis, built to his own design by a succession of contractors who didn’t know what the others had worked on. Piece by piece, the house had come together, a labyrinth of corridors and traps and doors that opened on to brick walls.
The perfect lair for a serial killer.
His father had taught him all about the proper way to do things. Here’s how to chop down a tree. Here’s how to catch and skin your dinner. Here’s how to take a beating. And, when his father was gone, it was institutions that had taken over, reinforcing this work ethic, carving him into the man he had become – a man who understood decorum and the proper way to do things.
Which brought him to Abyssinia, the Princess of the Darklands.
Over the past few months, ever since she had been reborn, she had been wearing a variety of flowing robes and elegant dresses, garments that worked well with her delicate features and her long silver hair. Cadaverous had watched, approvingly, as she experimented with styles and fashions, searching for herself in mirrors and in the admiring eyes of her devoted followers.
But the dresses and robes, it seemed, had only reminded her of the centuries she had spent as nothing more than a dried-out heart in a little box, so she had abandoned them and gone for something new — a red bodysuit, tighter than necessary and more than a little garish.
Cadaverous didn’t know where the Darklands were, but he doubted this was appropriate attire for their princess. And that was another thing that annoyed him, this lack of a straight answer. She’d been calling herself that for years, back when she’d been a voice in his head as he lay on that operating table, guiding him back from death, giving him a purpose. A focus. His mortal life had ended with that heart attack, and it had come crumbling down around him with that illegal search warrant, but he had seized the focus her voice had given him right when he’d needed it most.
His old life was nothing. His career in academia had been a waste. Those young people he’d killed mere practice. The sharpening of a blade. The loading of a gun. Preparation for what was to come.
The magic that had exploded within him had altered his perceptions in ways no mortal could possibly comprehend. Suddenly his life was so much bigger. He no longer needed his old house of traps and dead ends — now he could transform the interior of whatever building he owned into whatever environment he could imagine.
His newly found magic allowed him to distort reality itself.
If only he’d experienced it as a younger man. If only he’d grown up with magic, cultivated it, the possibilities could have been infinite. Who would he have been? he wondered. What would he have become?
He would have stayed young. That he knew for certain. The magic would have rejuvenated him. Instead of looking like a seventy-eight-year-old man, he would have looked twenty-two. He would have stayed strong and healthy. His back wouldn’t have twisted; his shoulders wouldn’t have stooped. He’d still be tall and handsome and his body wouldn’t ache and fail him.
The others around him were far older, but looked a third of his age. Razzia, the tuxedo-wearing Australian, as beautiful as she was insane. Nero, the arrogant whelp with the bleached hair. Destrier, the little man, fidgeting in his ill-fitting suit. They were all damaged, in their way, but the faces they showed to the world hid the worst of it behind unlined skin.
For all his irritations, he did appreciate Abyssinia for opening his eyes to a world beyond his old one. The question that weighed heaviest on his mind, though, was why she had taken so long.
She stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of Coldheart Prison’s control room, looking down at the tiers of open cells as the convicts – the ones who had elected to stay – huddled in small groups. Discontent had been spreading through this floating island like a slow-moving yet incurable virus. It was not an easy thing to keep hundreds of people fed on a daily basis, and it had fallen to Cadaverous to somehow deal with the problem.
“Do you think my little army is plotting against me?” Abyssinia asked.
“Probably,” Razzia answered.
“They wouldn’t dare,” said Nero.
“That’s what I would do,” said Abyssinia. “I would lead a charge and overthrow the people standing right where we’re standing. Then I’d take this flying prison and use it like a
pirate ship, plundering whole cities around the world.” She sounded almost wistful.
“We freed them,” said Nero. “They owe us. And they could have left with the others, but they chose to stay. That shows loyalty.” He looked around. “Right?”
Destrier was too busy muttering to himself to reply, and Razzia just shrugged.
“Cadaverous,” said Abyssinia, “you’ve been unusually quiet of late. What do you think?”
He chose his words carefully. “I think they are unhappy.”
“Because we have failed to feed them?”
She didn’t mean we, of course. She meant Cadaverous.
“That is undoubtedly part of it, yes.”
She turned to him. “And what is the other part?”
He could have said anything. He could have demurred. He could have made it easy on himself in a hundred different ways. Instead, he said, “When we freed them, we made promises. We promised them purpose. We promised them revenge. We promised them power. We have yet to deliver on any of these things.”
He didn’t mean we, of course. He meant Abyssinia.
“You think I have been distracted by the search for my son,” she said.
Before he could respond, the door opened and Skeiri and Avatar strode in. Skeiri was a slip of a girl, dark-skinned and serious, while Avatar was muscle-bound, handsome and eager to serve. They had emerged from their cells all those months ago, and Cadaverous could see a time in the not-too-distant future when Avatar, in particular, was the one issuing the orders, much like Lethe and Smoke had done, and Cadaverous would have to obey. Again.
They held someone between them, a man with blood dripping on to his shirt, his wrists shackled, his magic muted. Avatar and Skeiri stepped back as Abyssinia approached.
The prisoner narrowed his eyes. They were remarkably piercing eyes. “I’ll never—”
“Shush,” said Abyssinia. “Listen to me. I want you to resist. I’m going to enter your mind and find out where you’re keeping Caisson. And I want you to try to stop me. You’re one of Serafina’s top people – you’ll know how to keep a psychic out of your head. Use all your training. Use all the tricks. Give me a challenge.”
The prisoner’s jaw clenched. It was a remarkably square jaw. “You won’t get anything from—”
“That’s the spirit,” Abyssinia said, and the prisoner’s face contorted. He clutched his head and let out a whine, his knees buckling. He dropped to the ground, face still stricken, and then, as soon as it began, it was over, and he sagged.
“My son is in a private ambulance,” Abyssinia said. “They’re keeping him sedated and moving. Right now they are somewhere in Spain. He’s accompanied by five of Serafina’s sorcerers.” She looked down at the prisoner. “You disappoint me. That was far too easy.”
He shook his head, the colour returning to his face. He murmured something and Abyssinia hunkered down.
“Pardon?” she said. “What was that?”
He met her eyes. “I wasn’t ready.”
“Oh!” she said. “I do apologise. Are you ready now?”
He cried out, face twisting, hands clutching at his head.
“You’re three hundred and fourteen years old,” Abyssinia said. “You watched your childhood friend die in a freak accident. The smell of tequila makes you physically sick. You’ve had a song you hate running through your head for the last three days, a song called ‘Uptown Girl’.”
The prisoner gasped and fell forward, and Abyssinia placed her hand on him. “Were you ready for me then?”
She drew the life out of his body, his skin cracking, his bones creaking, and his strength flooded her and she stood, kicking the empty husk of him to one side. She took a moment, shivered with her eyes closed, and calmed herself. She looked at Avatar. “Find this ambulance. Do not act until I say so.”
“Yes, Abyssinia,” Avatar said, bowing.
She walked back to the window. “Cadaverous.”
She had a task for him. He was surprised. He straightened. “Yes?”
She waved a hand. “The body.”
He frowned. “Yes?”
“Get rid of it.”
7
“Chicken or fish?” the man in the hairnet asked, tongs hovering.
Omen pursed his lips, looking closer at the options available. The dining hall was filling up. There was a queue of students waiting behind him. He knew they were getting annoyed, but he couldn’t help it. Lunch was one of the most important meals of the day – he had to get it right.
“What kind of fish is it?” Omen asked.
“The dead kind,” said the man in the hairnet.
“Is it fresh?”
“Does it look fresh?”
“I don’t know,” said Omen. “You’ve covered it in breadcrumbs.”
The man in the hairnet shook his head. “We didn’t do that. It swims around in the ocean like this, covered in breadcrumbs and missing its head. We just catch ’em and cook ’em.”
“I, uh, I don’t think that’s right.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, boy. I’m a Food Service Assistant. We take an oath.”
“Hurry up,” said someone in the queue.
“Yeah,” said the man in the hairnet, “hurry up. Make a decision, short stuff. Fish, chicken, vegetarian or vegan.”
“What’s the vegan option?”
“Spiralised Asian quinoa salad.”
“And what’s the vegetarian option?”
“Vegetables.”
Omen’s stomach rumbled. “I don’t really like vegetables.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re not a vegetarian.”
“I’ll … um … OK, I’ll have the chicken.”
“The chicken? After all those questions about the fish?”
“Well, you see, I don’t really like fish.”
“Then why did you ask about it?”
“I thought I might try it. Then I changed my mind.”
“You’re the reason I hate my job,” said the man in the hairnet, and he dumped Omen’s lunch on to a tray and handed it over. “Next!”
Omen sat at one of the long tables. Across the hall, Axelia was chatting with her friends. They laughed. He wondered if they were laughing about him.
Never joined him at the table, sitting opposite. She had her hair down, and she was wearing a hint of make-up that really brought out her eyes.
“Lunch guy does not like you,” she said, digging into her salad.
“You were in the queue?” Omen asked.
“I’m the one who told you to hurry up.”
“Oh, cheers for that.”
“I made a promise to myself to interact with you in public at least three times a day. I figure it’ll make you more popular with people.”
“So I can expect a third interaction this evening?”
Never took a swig from her bottle of water. “This is our third interaction. Me telling you to hurry up was our second. The first one was when I threw that ball of paper at your head this morning.”
“That was you?”
“You should have opened it up. It had a picture inside, a caricature of Mr Chicane that was quite satirically brilliant, if I do say so.”
“What do you think of him anyway?” Omen asked.
“Chicane? His eyes are a bit too close together, a feature I captured splendidly in my artwork, but he’s OK.”
“You don’t think he’s a bit … off?”
“In what way?”
“Like … he only teaches for a few weeks every year.”
“Because he has a speciality,” Never said. “He only gives a few modules every couple of terms.”
“I think he’s up to something.”
Never put down her fork. “Omen, as your only friend, I have no choice but to be the one to tell you – stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop this,” said Never. “Stop looking for bad guys and conspiracies. Yes, Lilt was working for Abyssinia, but that doesn’t mean any other m
ember of the faculty is involved. Yet you think there’s something about Chicane, just like you thought there was something suspicious about Peccant, and before him it was, what, the ground staff, wasn’t it? For the last seven months, you’ve been searching for an adventure.”
Omen blushed. “No, I haven’t.”
“I get it. You were part of something huge. We both were. But it’s over.”
Omen gave a little laugh. “No, it’s not. Skulduggery said he’ll call me when he needs me.”
“Why would he need you? You’re fourteen, and you’re not exactly at the top of your class, are you? They don’t need us, Omen.”
“That could change at any moment.”
“Yes,” said Never, “it could. And, if it does, awesome. But the problem is that you’re waiting for it like it’s a sure thing. It’s not. Adventure happens to some people. Skulduggery and Valkyrie. Your brother. It intrudes upon their lives whether they want it or not. But the rest of us don’t live like that. I wish we did. I’d love to be off adventuring with Auger or Skulduggery. Maybe not Valkyrie, because she’s responsible for murdering thousands of people, including my brother.”
“Never, you know that was Darquesse.”
“I didn’t say Valkyrie did the murdering, did I? I just meant she bears some responsibility for her evil dark side going nuts and obliterating a quarter of the city, that’s all. Anyway, I admit it, like you, I’m waiting for the call to adventure. But, unlike you, I’m not putting everything else on hold while I wait.”
“I’m not putting anything on hold.”
“How did you do on that test yesterday? You got the results back, didn’t you?”
“I did fine.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you pass?”
“Almost.”
“And how many assignments have you started?”
Omen folded his arms. “That’s a trick question. We haven’t been given any assignments.”
“We’ve been given four,” said Never.
“Oh.”
Never sighed, and leaned forward. “I know you, Omen. I look across the room and you’re sitting there, daydreaming, and I know exactly what you’re thinking about.”
