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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 member 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.”

“No, you don’t.”

“It’s always the same two things. The first is Axelia Lukt.”

“Well, obviously.”

“I heard about that, by the way. Tough luck.”

“Yeah.”

“And the second thing you’re daydreaming about is Valkyrie kicking the door open and saying she needs your help to save the world. Am I close?”

Omen said nothing.

“See? Knew it. That’s not going to happen, but you want to believe, so much, that they’re going to swoop in and take you away from all the normal stuff that you’re not actually doing any of the normal stuff.”

Omen picked up his knife and fork again, and started cutting into his chicken. “Can we stop talking about this? I know you mean well, but you’re starting to annoy me.”

“I don’t want to annoy you, Omen,” Never said gently. “I don’t want to be the serious one in any friendship I have, I really don’t. I hate being the serious one. I’m the funny one. I’m the quirky, gender-fluid friend with a heart of gold and abs of steel.”

“You don’t have abs.”

“That’s only because I don’t like to sweat. My point is, I don’t want to be the one to give you bad news. But no one else cares enough.”

They ate in silence.

Once they’d finished, Never reapplied a little lipgloss. “How do I look?”

Omen sighed. “Low-key glamorous.”

This got a smile. “That’s what I’m going for. Are you mad at me?”

“No,” said Omen. “You can, you know, tell me whatever you think you need to tell me, just like I can choose to listen to you, or choose to ignore you. Because we’re friends.”

“We are friends,” Never said, smiling. “But you can’t ignore me. Nobody ignores me. I’m way too cool.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“So what do you think about all this Leibniz Universe stuff, eh? Isn’t it crazy?”

“It is crazy.”

“Omen, do you know what the Leibniz Universe is?”

“Not really.”

“It’s Mevolent’s universe.”

“Well, why don’t they call it that? I’d remember it if it was called that. Who’s this Leibniz person anyway?”

“Nobody knows.”

“Do you think he’ll come through? Mevolent, I mean?”

Never brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. “Naw, I don’t think so. He can stomp around his own dimension as much as he wants because there’s no one there to oppose him. But here, we have a whole world that’d fight back.”

“Yeah,” said Omen. “Maybe. But you know the way all the wildlife – all the deer and rabbits and squirrels and stuff – run out of the forest when there’s a wildfire? What if it’s like that? What if the mortals are just trying to get away from what’s following along behind?”

“You’re worrying over nothing,” said Never. “We don’t know what things are like over there now. All we have are the reports Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain made after they got back, and that was, what, eight years ago? Besides, we already killed our own Mevolent. If the other one shows up, we’ll just do the same to him.”

“How, exactly? No one knows who or what killed our Mevolent.”

“Skulduggery killed him,” Never said, shrugging. “Everyone knows that. Just because it’s not in our textbooks …”

“If Skulduggery killed him, he’d talk about it,” said Omen. “He talks about everything else.”

Never sighed. “Because you know him so well?”

“I don’t claim to know him well. I’m just saying that he wasn’t the one to kill Mevolent.”

“It doesn’t make any difference. If we get invaded, we’ll still send them packing. They have magic, but we have magic and technology.”

“So do they.”

“But we have nukes.”

“Seriously? You’d nuke them?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know. It’s a bit … drastic, isn’t it?”

“War is a drastic thing,” said Never. “Ooh, that should be on a bumper sticker.”

“I think I’d keep the nuclear bombs as a last resort,” said Omen. “We have the Sceptre of the Ancients, don’t we? Skulduggery and Valkyrie stole it from Mevolent’s dimension, too, so using it to push back his army would be … uh …”

“The word you’re looking for is ironic.”

“Is it? OK. It’d be ironic.”

“That’s a good plan, Omen. Ignoring the fact that no one’s been able to even find the Sceptre since Devastation Day, that’s a wonderful plan.”

“Well, like, we have other God-Killer weapons. One little nick from the sword and even Mevolent drops dead.”

“The sword’s broken.”

“Then the spear,” Omen said irritably, “or the bow or the dagger, whatever, it’s the … What?”

“Nothing. I’m just quite impressed that you could name all four God-Killers.”

“Really? Three-year-olds can name the God-Killers.”

“Yeah, but they’re three, Omen.”

Omen nodded. “Because infants are smarter than me. Yep, I get it. That’s funny.”

Never grinned. “Feeling overly sensitive today, are we? I wouldn’t blame you. Tell you what, I won’t tease you again until you really, truly deserve it, I promise. Come on, tell me more about how you’d beat Mevolent.”

“No.”

Never laughed. “Oh, please? I was really enjoying that conversation.”

“Tough.”

“So you’d use the God-Killers on him, and …?”

Omen shrugged, looked away, happened to glance at the door just as Miss Wicked walked in. Tall, blonde and terrifying, he watched her look around, and immediately glanced away when her eyes fell upon him.

“Oh, God,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” Never asked.

“Miss Wicked caught me looking at her.”

“She’s coming over.”

“Is she?”

“Coming straight for you.”

“Are you joking? Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Omen,” Miss Wicked said, and Omen yelped and swivelled in his seat.

“Hello, miss,” he said. “I mean, hi. I mean … yes?”

She looked down at him. “Omen, you have been summoned.”

He blinked. “I have?”

“Tomorrow morning,” she said, “ten o’clock, in the headmaster’s office.”

He paled. “But … tomorrow is Saturday.”

“It is.”

“But there’s no school on a Saturday.”

“The school is still open at weekends, Omen.”

“But there aren’t any classes …”

“Correct. Which means I shouldn’t be coming in. And yet I am.”

“Is … is this because of the test?”

“Why would I be coming in if this was because of a test? No, Omen, this is not about a test. Grand Mage Ispolin, of the Bulgarian Sanctuary, is visiting Corrival Academy and he has requested that both of us be present when he arrives.”

“Jenan’s dad? Why would he want me to be there?”

“Jenan has yet to return home. I’m sure the Grand Mage wants to discuss the events that led to his son running away.”

“Am … am I in trouble?”

“I really don’t know, Omen.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Grand Mage Ispolin is probably going to try to have me fired.”

“But why? You didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Your vote of confidence will go a long way, I’m sure. Ten o’clock, Omen. Don’t be late. I have no truck with tardiness.”

She walked away.

This, Omen thought, was not at all the call to adventure he had been hoping for.