by Derek Landy
Tanith didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, but from the look of panic on Valkyrie’s face she knew this was bad.
“Then I woke up,” said Signate. “There were people fighting. There were those Cleavers, like you said, the Redhoods, and there were so many of them and there were people in robes and …”
Skulduggery tilted his head. “What happened, Mr Signate?”
“I’m … I’m not a fighter. I’m not a soldier. There was nothing I could do. I ran to an injured Cleaver, one of ours, the only one I could get to, and I shunted us both back here.”
“The Cleaver’s being tended to in the Medical Wing,” said China. “I think we can assume the rest have been killed.”
“What about Ravel?” Valkyrie asked, like it was the only question that mattered.
“I saw him,” said Signate. “Only for a moment, but I saw him. He was running. He may have got away in all the confusion. I’m sorry, I just don’t know.”
China looked at Skulduggery. “Well?”
“We need him back,” Skulduggery said. “The one constant when it comes to Darquesse has been her insistence that Ravel be punished.”
Tanith frowned. Punished?
“Shunting him out of her clutches has undoubtedly got her attention, but if we want to draw her in, we need him here.”
“More than that,” China said, “Darquesse has a tendency to develop new abilities at a frightening rate. If she learns how to shunt and she goes after Ravel, if she finds him before we do, we’ve lost our only chance to predict where she’ll be.”
“We need to go,” Skulduggery said. “Now.”
“I agree,” said China. “But you have to realise that Mevolent is now aware of our incursion, and he may very well be expecting another visit. If I order—”
“You don’t have to order it,” Skulduggery said. “I volunteer.”
“Me too,” said Valkyrie. Then she hesitated. “Well, if …”
Skulduggery looked at her. “If what?”
“If you want me. There’s probably not a whole lot I’d be able to do.”
He looked back at China. “Then we both volunteer. But us two – no more. A larger group would be easier to detect.”
China nodded. “Agreed. Mr Signate, you will shunt my detectives over and you will facilitate their return trip. Skulduggery, Valkyrie, I would like to tell you to take an hour to prepare, but time is of the essence. If Ravel is on foot, you need to start tracking him down immediately. If Mevolent’s forces have taken him … you’ll need to get him back.”
Skulduggery nodded. “We leave in five minutes.”
Valkyrie hurried over to Tanith.
“What the hell is going on?” Tanith asked when they were out in the corridor again. “Mevolent? He’s dead.”
“Our Mevolent is dead,” said Valkyrie, “but about a year ago we shunted into an alternate reality where he’s very much alive and pretty much ruling the world.”
“And you’re going back there? And what’s this about Ravel? Why does Darquesse want to punish him?”
Valkyrie hesitated.
“What is it?” Tanith asked. “You’re holding something back, something bad, but we don’t have time for that any more. We have minutes before you leave. So just tell me what this terrible thing is that’s happened and get it over with.”
Whatever it was, Tanith’s anger wasn’t going to bring it to the surface any quicker.
Valkyrie licked her lips. “They told me you tried Ghastly’s place before you came here.”
“I did. He wasn’t in.”
“No,” Valkyrie said quietly. “He wasn’t.”
49
STOPPING FOR GAS
mazingly, Danny falls asleep.
It isn’t easy. The Cadillac’s trunk is smaller than it looks, and it’s cold and uncomfortable and every bump in the road jars his injured shoulder. But after an hour or so he closes his eyes, and only opens them again when the car slows to a crawl. He checks his watch in the red glow of the tail lights. He’s been asleep for nearly two hours.
The car stops, and he can hear muffled voices, and then car doors opening and closing. He stays very quiet, tracking one set of footsteps as they lumber away, and another as they get closer. There’s a loud rattle, and for a moment he doesn’t know what it is, then metal bangs lightly against metal and he knows even before the gurgle and splash sounds that they’re at the pumps of a gas station.
There’s a knock on the lid of the trunk.
“You doing OK in there, Danny my boy?”
Danny frowns. He sincerely doesn’t know how to answer that.
“Danny?” Gant says again. “You OK?”
“I’m fine,” Danny calls. He realises how loud his voice sounds. It takes a moment for the most obvious plan in the world to occur to him, and he starts shouting. “Help! Somebody help me! I’m trapped in here! Call 911!”
He hears Gant’s chuckle. “That’s the spirit. How are the legs? Pretty cramped, I would imagine. And the bladder? I don’t know about you, Danny, but long journeys tend to put a squeeze on things, if you know what I mean. If you want to use the restroom, just let me know.”
“I want to,” Danny says at once.
“You sure? You wouldn’t be saying that in a bold attempt to be let out of the trunk and make your escape, now would you?”
“I need to go,” says Danny. This isn’t a lie. He’s suddenly become aware of the pressure that has built up.
The gurgling stops, and the trunk clicks and lifts. It’s night, and the gas station’s lights fill Danny’s eyes and he gropes blindly about as he sits up. He feels Gant’s long, strong fingers at the ropes that bind him, then they loosen and fall away. Gant helps him clamber awkwardly out of the trunk. Once out, he stays bent over, rubbing his legs to get some feeling back into them. Gant goes back to filling the car.
The road is unlit but the gas station is of a more than modest size. There’s another car at the pumps, a station wagon, and two more in the parking slots. That means people. That means a way out. Danny straightens up.
“Go use the restroom and then come back,” Gant says. “No dilly-dallying.”
Danny nods, and limps stiffly across the forecourt. His left shoulder isn’t as badly injured as he had feared. It hurts like hell and he can barely move it, but the pain has lessened considerably. His leg, though, has improved a lot. He keeps his limp, keeps up the act, but by the time he pushes open the door and enters the gas station, he’s fairly confident he could break into a run if he has to. First place he looks is the counter. Jeremiah Wallow stands there, stuffing a Twinkie into his mouth as he waits for the attendant to come out of the backroom. Jeremiah catches Danny’s eye, puts a finger to his cream-covered lips.
Danny goes to the men’s room. There are two urinals and one stall, and the stall is empty. The window is too high to get to and too small to squeeze through. Danny relieves himself, then goes back to the door, peeks out, and steps into the ladies’ room across the way. It too is empty. Where the hell is everybody?
He goes to the door. How long will Jeremiah wait until he comes looking? Will he come alone, or will he call for Gant? He’ll probably come alone. He’ll wander down, thump his fist against the door of the men’s room, tell Danny to hurry up, and then Danny can spring at him, knock him out with … what, exactly? Danny doesn’t have a weapon. He’s seen a heap of old TV shows where people were knocked out by a swift chop to the back of the head, but he doubts he’ll be able to do that. What then? Will he charge, tackle Jeremiah, bring him to the ground? But what if Jeremiah gets on top? He outweighs Danny by maybe eighty pounds, and Danny has never been much of a wrestler.
No. The more he thinks about it, the less and less it seems like a good idea to choose this place as a battleground. Taking a breath, Danny limps out of the restroom as calmly as he is able.
“You took your time,” Jeremiah says from the counter.
“I’m hungry,” says Danny.
&nb
sp; Jeremiah shrugs. “Grab yourself something to eat, then. But I’m not paying for it.”
Danny scans the shelves of quarts of oil and wiper fluid. Nothing sharp, nothing heavy, nothing that can be used as a weapon. He follows the aisle to the sandwiches, and picks two, carries them to the counter.
Jeremiah is licking cream from his moustache. “How’s that trunk working out for you?” he asks, grinning.
“It’s cold,” Danny says. “Where are we going?”
“Mr Gant’s house.”
“Is it far?”
“Far enough.”
“How long will I have to stay in that trunk?”
Jeremiah shrugs. “We might be there by morning. We might not. From here on out we travel by back roads. Things are gonna get a sight bumpier for you.”
Danny puts the sandwiches on the counter beside the till. “Jeremiah, can I ask you a question? Who are you? Why are you doing this? Why are you so interested in Stephanie?”
“That was three questions,” Jeremiah says. “Four, if you count the asking of the first question as a question. I’ll answer one of them. Which one you want answered most?”
Danny hesitates. “Why are you so interested in Stephanie?”
“Because she’s special. She’s not like you regular people. She’s special like I’m special, and Mr Gant is special. Special people are littered through this world and some of them are nice and some of them are nasty. Mr Gant and I, we are unashamedly nasty, and it’s our job to find the nice special people, like Stephanie, and pluck them from this earth like you’d pluck a flower from a garden.”
“What makes you special?”
Jeremiah’s tongue finds that last dollop of sugared cream on his whiskers, and he sucks it in between his soft pink lips. “Everything,” he says.
Danny looks at him, and the stillness of their surroundings suddenly veer from strange to unnatural. “Where is everyone?”
Jeremiah looks back at him innocently. “Everyone?”
“The people who work here,” says Danny. “The people who own those cars outside.”
Jeremiah’s head twitches towards the backroom. “They’re all in there,” he says. Says it like it’s nothing. Says it like it isn’t even something worth saying.
Moving slowly, Danny steps round Jeremiah, and limps behind the counter. Jeremiah doesn’t try to stop him. His mouth dry, Danny puts one foot into the backroom, glimpses the bodies stacked in the corner, and immediately steps back.
“She’s following us,” Jeremiah says, eating one of the sandwiches Danny has left on the counter. “Mr Gant has seen that pickup of hers, way back in the distance. Mr Gant talks about fishing sometimes. He says this is like reeling in a fish once it’s hooked. You bring it closer and closer until it’s out of the water and flapping around on the deck of your boat. Course, in this case she doesn’t even know she’s got a great big hook in her mouth. That just makes it funnier.”
There’s a loud honk from outside. Gant getting impatient. Jeremiah takes his gun from his pocket, points it at Danny’s belly. “Time to go. Want to take your other sandwich?”
“I’m not hungry any more,” Danny says, his voice quiet.
Jeremiah gives another little shrug. “Suit yourself. Back in the trunk for you.”
50
THE CARD TRICK
arquesse stood in the rain until she was nice and wet. Levitt was watching her. She liked Levitt. He was a quiet man even when he had a Remnant inside him. She appreciated the fact that he never spoke. The ability to shut up was something she respected in a man.
When she was wet enough, she walked up and knocked on the door. Knocking on the door was nice. She could have smashed through it. She could have made it disappear. She could have turned it into a million bubbles. But she knocked, and she waited, and it was nice.
Movement. Sounds. A latch being lifted. The door opened and a man in his early thirties stood there, a pleasant expression on his face. Argeddion.
“Hi,” said Darquesse. “I’m so very sorry for disturbing you, but my car broke down and I don’t have my phone with me. Could I possibly use your phone to call home?”
“Of course,” Argeddion said, stepping to one side. “Come on in. The phone’s on the table there.”
Darquesse gave him a grateful smile and hurried over to the phone. She started dialling a non-existent number as he left her alone in the hall.
“Hi, Mum,” she said. “Car’s broken down. Yes, I know you did, and you were right. Could you come and pick me up? I’m at a house opposite the park entrance – you know the one with the big iron gate? No, it’s fine. His name is …” She took a step sideways, peering into the kitchen. “Excuse me, could I have your name?”
Argeddion came back, smiled as he handed her a towel. “I’m Michael Tolan.”
She took the towel, started drying her hair one-handed. “His name’s Michael Tolan. No, Mum. He’s normal. He’s not scary.”
Argeddion chuckled. “I’m a teacher, not a serial killer.”
“Hear that, Mum? A teacher. Yep. I’m fine. OK. OK, thank you. Love you. Bye. Bye bye bye bye bye.” She put the phone down. “Thank you so much. She’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“You can wait in here if you want.”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t. I’ll wait in my car.”
“It’s lashing out,” he said, “and I’ve put the kettle on.”
“Well,” said Darquesse, “a cup of tea does sound nice.”
He smiled, and she followed him into the kitchen. “Excuse the mess,” he said while he poured the boiling water into a mug. “I’ve just moved into the area, and I’m not used to visitors.”
She sat at the table. “How long have you been a teacher?”
He laughed. “Too long, but I just started at St James’s last September.”
“And how do you find it?”
“It’s a great school. Did you go there?”
“Naw, but a lot of my friends did.” He handed her a mug of tea. “Thank you, Mr Tolan.”
“Outside the classroom, people call me Michael.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Michael. You don’t look like a teacher.”
“No?” he said, leaning against the cooker. “What do I look like?”
“I don’t know. A doctor. Or a scientist.”
“I must look intelligent.”
“Or a magician, maybe.”
“Wow. Well, that’s new. I look like a magician?”
Darquesse shrugged, and sipped her tea. “Magicians come in all shapes and sizes.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Ever tried doing magic?”
He shook his head, amused. “Not that I can recall.”
“You’re missing out.”
“Oh, really? You sound like you know what you’re talking about. Can you do tricks?”
“Illusions, Michael. I can do some. Do you have a deck of cards handy?”
“I should have,” said Argeddion, looking around. “I remember unpacking them here, putting them …”
She watched him search through a few drawers. Finally, he uttered a small cry of triumph, and came back to her with a box of playing cards, still in its clear plastic wrapping.
“Perfect,” she said, taking it from him. He sat down as Darquesse peeled off the plastic, her favourite part, and opened the box, sliding the cards into her hand. She shuffled them thoroughly and fanned them out. “Pick a card,” she said. “Any card.”
Argeddion drew one from the pack, glanced at it, and kept it close to his chest. Darquesse shuffled the pack again, then laid them face down on the table and splayed them with one gentle sweep of her hand.
“That was a brand-new pack?” she asked.
“It was,” he said.
“You bought it? You put it in that drawer?”
“Yes.”
“There is no possible way for me to have interfered with that pack?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Please h
old up your card.”
Argeddion did so.
“The seven of clubs,” she said. “So, if every single one of the cards on this table turns out to be the seven of clubs, you’d have to be pretty impressed, wouldn’t you?”
He laughed. “I suppose I would.”
Grinning, she swept the splayed cards right-side up.
“Um,” said Argeddion, “I don’t think it worked.”
Darquesse looked at the perfectly ordinary pack of cards before her. “Oh, that’s right,” she said. “I hate card tricks. Here’s something else.”
She clicked her fingers and every one of Argeddion’s fingers on his right hand snapped backwards. The seven of clubs fluttered to the floor as he fell out of his chair, screaming.
She went to the window, waved, and a moment later the front door was kicked open, and Levitt walked in. Darquesse didn’t bother with words. She took hold of the back of Argeddion’s shirt and grabbed a handful of his hair. She turned him towards Levitt and pulled his head back. He tried struggling, but he was no match for her.
Levitt’s throat bulged as the Remnant climbed out. Levitt himself collapsed, and the Remnant flitted across the space between them and latched on to Argeddion’s face. Within seconds, it was forcing its way down his throat. She released him and he fell to his knees, the screams replaced by gagging. Another moment and even the gagging was forgotten.
She returned Levitt to his essence while she waited, just for something to do.
Argeddion rose, black veins running across his face. “Interesting,” he said.
“How much can you remember?” Darquesse asked.
He frowned. “I remember everything as Michael Tolan. These false memories they implanted, false experiences … they’re really very good.”
“What about your memories as Argeddion?”
