Resurrection (Skulduggery Pleasant, Book 10)

by Derek Landy

  “Yeah,” Never said, “maybe. Or maybe it wears thin when you’re watching it. Maybe if you were having those adventures yourself, it wouldn’t seem quite as bad.”

  “Yeah,” Omen said quietly. “Maybe.”

  Never’s phone beeped and she checked it, then slid her book into her bag and stood up. “OK, I’m off.”

  Omen frowned. “Who was that?”

  “Who was what?” she asked, walking to the door.

  “Who was that messaging you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re talking crazy. Stop talking crazy now, you hear? All that crazy talk will land you in the crazy house, you crazy biscuit.” And then she was gone.

  Omen stayed in his seat for another ten minutes, spectacularly failing to complete the work that Peccant had set for him. Once the allotted time was up, he hurried to his locker, dumped his bag and climbed the stairs to the fifth floor.

  He slipped into the library. Lounging around in the seating area, Jenan Ispolin and his friends congregated and chatted – loudly. The librarian, a bald old man with an astonishingly white beard, like a skinny Santa Claus, was asleep behind his desk.

  Omen darted behind the bookcases as more Arcanum’s Scholars joined the group. He got into a position where he could peek without being seen.

  “Did you hear?” Colleen Stint said, talking in her usual breathless fashion. “Did you hear what happened?”

  Jenan took his time looking at her. Everyone knew Colleen fancied him like mad, and Omen was sure that Jenan despised her for it.

  “What happened to what?” Jenan asked, like he couldn’t be bothered hearing the answer.

  “What happened to Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain,” Colleen said.

  Omen crept a little closer, making sure he caught all of it.

  “They were in the Narrows,” Colleen continued. “Went to arrest someone. Just the two of them, like. No Cleavers or back-up or nothing.”

  Jenan sat straighter. “They dead?”

  “No,” said Colleen, “but close to it. They got the crap kicked out of them.”

  “Everyone’s talking about it,” said Byron Grace. “There was a Teleporter and a man in black, and he went up against Pleasant and—”

  “Kicked the crap out of him!” Colleen finished, shooting a glare at Byron for daring to interrupt. “Like, threw him about the place. I heard he pulled the skeleton’s head off.”

  Jenan sat forward. “Seriously?”

  Colleen folded her arms. “That’s what I heard.”

  Jenan took a moment to absorb the news. “Well now,” he said, “looks like we chose the winning team.”

  A few of them laughed at this. Omen’s frown deepened.

  “You think it’s them?” Lapse asked, too stupid to put things together by himself.

  “Of course it is,” said Jenan. “We’ve been told for ages that they’re a force to be reckoned with, right? Who else could do something like that? This is it, boys and girls. This is where it all kicks off.”

  “About time,” muttered Gall.

  Byron took a seat, like he was exhausted, his bag spilling open on the ground beside him. “We don’t know for sure,” he said.

  Jenan shot him a look that boiled with hostility. “What did I just say? There’s no one else who could do something like that. The guy in black? I bet that was Lethe himself.”

  “Yeah,” said Byron, “maybe.”

  Jenan stood. “What the hell is wrong with you, Grace? You going soft all of a sudden?”

  Byron paled. “No.”

  “You’re full of the big talk when all we’re doing is planning,” Jenan said, “but the moment it turns real your spine turns to jelly. Is that what’s happening?”

  Byron shook his head, but didn’t answer.

  “Everyone, listen up,” Jenan said, looking round. “These aren’t games we’ve been playing. This isn’t dress-up. This is real life, baby. The plan has been set in motion. We have all been set in motion. We were told they had big plans for us. Well, this is where it starts. If you’re having doubts now, at this stage … I’m sorry to tell you that you’ve missed your chance to back out. You’re here now, and that means you’re in. No excuses. Does everyone, and I mean everyone, understand that?”

  Nods all round. Even Byron.

  Jenan retook his seat. “Good.”

  The librarian snorted and woke, raising his head. “Quiet down there!”

  “Sorry,” said Jenan without even looking at him.

  The librarian went back to sleep.

  Omen’s gaze fell upon Byron’s open bag, and the golden mask that peeked out.

  He wished his brother was here. Auger would not only know what to do, but he’d also be able to do it. And, if it went wrong, he’d be able to get out of it. Omen, though, was the screw-up of the family. Omen’s efforts were doomed to failure. He knew this.

  And yet, if what Colleen had said was true, the stakes were high. And high stakes meant chances needed to be taken, no matter how ill-advised they might be. And this chance was incredibly ill-advised.

  Omen crouched, held out his hand and touched the air.

  He visualised interlocking blocks from his fingertips to the bag. Pushing was easier. He could have pushed the bag over without even trying. But pulling … that was where things got tricky. He’d done it before, though. Not in class, and not in exams. He’d done it at home. Auger had taken him through it. Omen had been calm, then. He tried to be calm now.

  So he ignored the rapid beat of his heart, and the jagged spikes of adrenaline that made his hand tremble, and he focused on the imaginary blocks … and the mask moved.

  Jenan and the others kept talking. No one noticed the mask lifting itself out of the bag.

  Omen laid it gently on the carpet and left it there for a moment while he shook out his hand. He took a deep breath, reached out again, focused on hooking his fingers into the air just right and pulled.

  The mask moved slowly across the ground.

  Bit by bit, it got closer. For a terrifying few seconds, it was out in the open, and Omen lost his grip. He’d allowed his mind to wander, to imagine what Jenan and the others would do if they caught him. Would they kill him? It seemed ridiculous, that a bunch of his classmates would actually try to kill him, but, if they really were involved with this anti-Sanctuary thing, killing a witness might not be something they would baulk at. Certainly Jenan wouldn’t hesitate to throw Omen off the balcony. That’d be something he’d probably enjoy.

  Omen pushed such thoughts from his mind, reached out again and pulled the mask closer. Now it was under a small table, blocked from the view of the others. It was going well. It was actually going well. It was actually going to work. Omen smiled, and his fingers moved with too much enthusiasm and the mask shot off the ground. He snatched it from the air as it sped past his face, falling backwards and lying there, eyes wide, waiting to hear the shouts of alarm.

  But Jenan and the others kept talking, and Omen let himself breathe again.

  Someone new came in and Omen got up.

  “Good, good,” he heard Parthenios Lilt say, “everyone’s here. Let us move to less salubrious surroundings. Ceremonial masks on.”

  Omen stayed hidden, clutching the mask with both hands.

  “Uh,” he heard Byron say.

  “Is there a problem, Mr Grace?” Lilt asked.

  “My … my mask isn’t in my bag, sir.”

  The library went very quiet.

  “Mr Grace …” Lilt said.

  “I put it in there, sir,” said Byron. “I know I did. It must have fallen out or …”

  “Mr Grace, these masks are a symbol. These masks mean something. They meant something to Rebus Arcanum and they mean something to us.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Byron.

  Lilt sighed. “I have a spare in my office, on the shelf near the window. Go and fetch it.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Byron. “Thank you.”

  Omen
heard him hurry out.

  “We’ll probably have to kill poor Byron before too long,” Lilt said sadly. Then his tone brightened. “OK, everyone, into the back room. We have much to discuss.”

  21

  Cadaverous preferred the silence. The others – Lethe and his gang of misfits – hadn’t returned to the prison yet, so he didn’t have to suffer through the banality of their conversation. There was no one there to engage with, anyway, no true discussions to be had. Debate with people so limited was a pointless exercise. He didn’t even hear the convicts, tucked away in their cells, as they begged for freedom. He was not their jailer and he would not be their saviour. He was just an old man listening to the voice in his head.

  You are close, Cadaverous. Come to me.

  Cadaverous enjoyed this time alone. He wandered the prison corridors and searched the offices, stepping over discarded scythes and fallen automatic weapons while he checked for hidden passages.

  Two hours after beginning his search of the prison’s lower area, he found rough-hewn steps leading downwards, and downwards he went, feeling the cold and the damp seep into his bones. His flashlight was new, its bulb powerful, but the darkness ate up the beam, swallowed it, as if there were no walls for it to hit, no features for it to catch.

  There was just the dark down here. The dark and the voice.

  You will be rewarded.

  He licked his dry lips. There was only one reward he was interested in, something he had possessed once, all too briefly, before it had been snatched away from him. He hadn’t known what he’d had. He hadn’t known the value of it until it was gone.

  Free me, said the voice, and I will make you young again.

  The walls closed in and the beam swept over the cold stones, which were wet to the touch. The walls brought a new sharpness to his footfall. The reflected light illuminated his frozen breath. He slipped on the steps, almost went tumbling, had to jam his hand against the wall to save himself, opening a cut along his palm. He examined it under the light, watching the blood trickle. He wiped it on his shirt. He couldn’t feel the pain.

  At the bottom of the steps there was a steel door the colour of storm clouds. He took out the set of keys that he’d found in the control room and looked at each key in turn. He found the one most likely to fit and eased it into the lock. It turned smoothly, with a deep and satisfying clunk, and he pushed the door open.

  It was a small room. Circular. No light. No ornamentation. In the middle of the room, there was a metal box on a pedestal.

  Cadaverous approached. The hair on his arms, on the back of his neck, stood on end. The ring held a small key, much smaller than the others. He found it by touch, unable to take his eyes off the box.

  The key turned in the lock. The lid opened ever so slightly.

  Cadaverous pocketed the keys and reached out with trembling hands. He hesitated only a moment, then raised the lid fully. It was surprisingly heavy.

  In the box, there was a heart.

  In his head, there was a voice.

  It said, Good.

  22

  Bad things happen all the time.

  That’s the number-one lesson Valkyrie had learned in the last twelve years. Bad things happen, and they generally happen to good people. Innocent people. Passers-by, caught in the crossfire, consumed by the madness. Like Fletcher.

  She stood by his bed in Reverie Synecdoche’s private medical practice, a three-storey building in one of the more affluent parts of town, and watched him. He didn’t move. A machine helped him breathe.

  She reached out, touched his arm.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “We were stupid and you saved us. It’s our fault you’re here.” She leaned down. Spoke softer. “I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I’m able to do this any more. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to tell him.”

  Voices reached her – Reverie talking to a nurse passing in the corridor outside. Valkyrie squeezed Fletcher’s hand. “Please get better,” she said.

  Reverie walked in and Valkyrie turned.

  “He’s stable,” Reverie told her. “We’ve stopped the bleeding. There is some nerve damage that we’re correcting. It’s a slow process, repairing nerves always is, but he’s going to be fine. Would you like to stay? I can have a chair brought in for you.”

  “Thank you,” said Valkyrie, “but no. The Supreme Mage has requested a meeting. How’s Skulduggery?”

  “We’re putting him back together. Again. His jaw has been reattached, so he just has to wait for his arm to set. He’ll be out within the hour.”

  “Thank you, Reverie. Sincerely.”

  “It’s what we do. I’ll let you know if there’s any change to Fletcher’s condition.”

  Valkyrie thanked her again and left the clinic, taking a tram to the High Sanctuary. For a fleeting moment, she entertained the idea that maybe she’d skip the meeting, get in her car and drive home. She quite liked the thought of forgetting about all of this and just living a normal life, her and her dog. The twenty-four hours she’d promised Skulduggery had ended that morning, after all. She didn’t owe it to him to do this. She didn’t owe it to anyone.

  But she flashed her badge at the door to the High Sanctuary and walked in, leaving the sounds of the city behind her, along with fanciful notions of a quiet life.

  The Room of Prisms had changed since she’d been here last. There were still those slivers of angled glass that dropped from the ceiling and rose from the floor like stalactites and stalagmites. Some of them met in the middle, forming thin pillars she had to slip between. The change had come at the far end of the room, where the steps rose to the ornate throne on which sat the Supreme Mage.

  Another image from the vision blossomed in Valkyrie’s mind, this time of China Sorrows lying on the ground, blood staining a blouse that looked remarkably similar to the one she was wearing now, the one that went so well with the black, high-waisted trousers. Over that blouse she wore her chain of office, fitted with three glittering jewels. Her hair was black. Her face was perfect. Her eyes were closed.

  Two bodyguards flanked her, standing to attention. On China’s left, a woman with a mask covering everything but her eyes. Her arms were bare and muscled, skin like dark chocolate. A weapon of some sort was strapped to her back.

  To China’s right stood a man in an identical uniform – a sleeveless robe, belted at the waist. His head was uncovered, however. He was a handsome man, looked Indian. He had two metal discs hanging from his belt.

  There was movement reflected in the angled glass, but Valkyrie had to look around a bit before she pinpointed the source. Tipstaff worked his way over to her.

  “Detective Cain,” he said, keeping his voice low, “it’s good to see you. How are your injuries?”

  Valkyrie’s shoulder throbbed dully. “Fine,” she said. “I got off lightly.”

  Tipstaff nodded, looking suitably concerned, then he motioned to the throne. “You’ll have to forgive the Supreme Mage,” he said. “She will be with you in a matter of moments.”

  Valkyrie looked up the steps. “What’s she doing?” she asked. “Power nap?”

  The briefest of smiles on Tipstaff’s lips. “Ha. No. She is accessing the Whispering. A recent development, inspired by your travels in alternate dimensions, actually.”

  She looked at him, waiting for an explanation.

  “When you reported back on the city controlled by the alternate version of Mevolent,” Tipstaff said, “you mentioned the World Well. The Supreme Mage was intrigued by the idea of what is essentially a psychic Internet, and so has had her best people working on one for Roarhaven. We call it the Whispering – a way to connect people and share information. It should be ready to be released to the citizenry in less than a year. Right now, the Supreme Mage is the only one with access. It is a much more efficient way of taking the pulse of the city than endless hours of briefings.”

  “All the information is downloaded directly into her mind?”


  Tipstaff nodded, then shrugged. “We’re trying to find a better term for it than downloaded, though.”

  “Something that sounds more magicky?”

  Another smile. “I suppose. Yes.”

  “Just because it’s a mortal term doesn’t mean sorcerers can’t use it,” Valkyrie said. “Isn’t it one of the purposes of the Sanctuaries to remind us that we’re not above them?”

  “Indeed it is,” Tipstaff said. “Although it’s hard not to feel superior when they have people like Martin Flanery as American president.”

  “Flanery’s an idiot,” Valkyrie admitted, “but, as far as I know, he hasn’t tried to take over the world or kill everyone in it. Can I ask you something, in the spirit of sharing potentially catastrophic global events? Have you guys had any encounters with, or warnings of, a woman with silver hair?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” said Tipstaff. “Do you have a name I could check for?”

  It would have been so easy to tell him, to mention the Princess of the Darklands, but something stopped her. Maybe it was Skulduggery’s newfound caution with information, or maybe it was simply the fact that she didn’t work for the Sanctuary any more. Whatever the reason, she gave a weak shrug and a weaker smile. “I’m afraid not.”

  “I’ll check our records,” Tipstaff said, “see if anyone with silver hair has raised a flag lately.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Anything to help the Arbiter Corps.” Tipstaff looked at his watch. “The Supreme Mage should be surfacing any moment now …”

  Valkyrie looked up as China’s pale blue eyes fluttered open.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Tipstaff said softly, and left.

  “Valkyrie,” China said, taking a moment to get orientated. “What’s Skulduggery’s condition?”

  “He’s fine,” said Valkyrie. “Annoyed, but fine.”

  China sat forward, focusing fully on Valkyrie. “And Fletcher?”

  Valkyrie hesitated. “They don’t know. There have been complications.”

  China shook her head. “He’s become invaluable to me, that boy. He’s a teacher, did you know that? Single-handedly training up the next generation of Teleporters. He’s found his vocation.”