Kitabı oku: «Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 10 - 12», sayfa 6
13
A shadow in the billowing steam. Valkyrie narrowed her eyes. “Did you see that?”
“I saw something,” Skulduggery said.
“What was it? It looked like—”
Something flared in the distance, a sudden fire or explosion. Valkyrie walked towards it.
“Careful,” said Skulduggery, but he sounded so far away. “There’s a wall in front of you.”
She knew that. Behind the steam and the shadows, she knew there was a solid wall. She knew she was still in the cellar. She knew what was real and what wasn’t.
Only there was no wall. Frowning, she kept walking, hands out in front, and with each step she expected to come into contact with the wall and yet each step brought her deeper and deeper into the steam. She turned, looked back.
“Skulduggery?” she called.
He didn’t answer. She couldn’t see him.
She heard something, though. Someone whistling a tune. A familiar tune. Something old. Sweet yet sad. ‘Dream a Little Dream of Me.’ It moved from right to left. She went to investigate, but something about the tune made her pause, and she realised she didn’t want to know who the whistler was. She stayed still, listening to the tune fade.
A line of people trudged out of the nothingness, walking right into her, dissipating upon contact. She watched them, their heads down, their footsteps heavy. Men and women and children, bags on their backs, bags in their hands. Faces tired and anxious. Scared, even. A continuous line. So many of them.
The steam stole the people away, and she turned and there were flames all around her. A town was burning. Screams mixed with car alarms. Before her, two figures, side by side. She recognised Omen Darkly, his face older, and bleeding. Beside him, a handsome boy, clutching his injured shoulder. She became aware of figures behind her and she turned, saw their forms without faces, felt their anger, their hatred, their aggression. Omen and the other boy, his brother perhaps, clicked their fingers and summoned fire into their hands.
“You actually think you’re going to win?” somebody asked, and she turned, saw the Plague Doctor a moment before the steam stole him away. She looked back and the burning town was gone and Saracen Rue was dead on the ground, his throat torn open.
Valkyrie held her hand over her mouth. “Skulduggery!” she called. “Skulduggery, where are you?”
Cadaverous Gant emerged from the steam, holding a rag doll in his left hand, a rag doll in a blue dress. He walked so quickly that she put out a hand to stop him and his image broke apart, and beyond him she saw Tanith Low, her blonde hair cut to above her shoulders, backing away from something, fear in her eyes.
She turned, the clouds swirling, and she glimpsed China Sorrows lying in a field of broken glass, blood drenching her blouse, her eyes open and unseeing. Valkyrie turned away to shouts, to jeers, and saw a stream of energy blast through the chest of a girl, saw her fall back, hair covering her face, and when Valkyrie went to catch her the images swirled away and Valkyrie could see herself, on her knees, tears running down her face. Defeated. Alone.
And she knew she was watching her own death.
Valkyrie’s legs gave out and she collapsed. She didn’t try to get up again. She stayed where she was, her eyes tightly shut, hands over her ears.
“Make it stop,” she muttered. “Make it stop.”
A fingertip, under her chin.
This was real. This reassured her. Valkyrie breathed, calming, and opened her eyes, but it wasn’t Skulduggery crouching before her, it was a woman with silver hair, and Valkyrie jerked away, fell back, and the woman laughed.
“All this pain,” the woman said. “All this death and destruction. It’s because of you, my dear. All because of you.”
“You’re … you’re not real.”
“I will be,” the woman said, and smiled. “You will make me real. I know who you are. I know your secret.” The woman stood. “I am the Princess of the Darklands, and I’m coming for all of you.”
Her image drifted away on the thinning steam, and Skulduggery plunged through, scattering it completely.
“Did you see that?” Valkyrie asked.
“Some of it,” he said, helping her up. “Not all.”
“Her, I mean. Did you see her? The woman with the silver hair?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t,” he said, guiding Valkyrie to the chair.
She slumped down on to it, her limbs leaden. “She spoke to me.”
“To a future version of you.”
“No, Skulduggery – to me. She was speaking to me, now, just a few seconds ago. She touched my chin. I could feel it.”
“That’s not possible.”
“I know that. But I’m telling you it happened. She said she knew my secret. What secret? Do I even have any secrets? She said she was the Princess of the Darklands and that she’s coming for all of us. You didn’t see her? Hear her?”
“All I saw were the lines of people, the fire, Saracen, and then China. You’re sure she touched you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I mean … I’m pretty sure. I could feel – or at least I think I could feel …” She sighed. “I don’t know. The whole thing was kind of overwhelming.”
“What else did you see?”
“Tanith. She was fighting someone – big surprise. I saw Cadaverous Gant, that Plague Doctor guy, and Omen and another boy – I think it was his brother. You know what that means, don’t you? Omen stays involved. We can’t let that happen. Asking him to keep an eye out for suspicious behaviour is one thing, but actually mixing him up in this stuff is just too much. He thinks this is all a grand adventure, but we’re going to get him killed.”
“Did you see him die?”
“No, but that’s hardly the point, is it? We can’t endanger the lives of two innocent boys.”
“I’m afraid we might not have a choice with Auger. The Darkly Prophecy relates directly to a King of the Darklands – obviously a relation to the woman you saw. He’s already involved, and it’s got nothing to do with us.”
“But Omen isn’t. There’s nothing in that stupid prophecy about Omen, right? Skulduggery, promise me you’ll fix this.”
“I’ll speak to him,” Skulduggery said.
“You need to make sure he stops. He has to understand that we don’t want his help any more.”
“I’ll pay him a visit.”
“Let him down gently, though, OK? He seems … I don’t know. Fragile.”
Skulduggery tilted his head. “Does he?”
“You don’t think so?”
“No, actually. He doesn’t have your strength, but I detected a certain durability about him.”
“He can be durable on his own time, then, because I don’t want him to take one step further into this thing.”
“Very well.”
He watched her take the packet of leaves from her jeans.
“Are you sure you want another of those?”
“My head is splitting.”
“I’m not surprised. But an over-reliance on painkillers is not something you want to develop.”
She folded one, put it in her mouth. “They’re leaves, Skulduggery. I’m not exactly going to get addicted to leaves, am I? It’s not like they make me feel good. They just stop my head from exploding.”
“Non-exploding heads is something we want to encourage,” he admitted, and helped Valkyrie up.
By the time she’d climbed the stairs, her strength had come back to her. She stepped outside and the cold air froze her through her damp clothes. She hurried to the Bentley, let Xena in and got in after her.
Skulduggery slipped behind the wheel. “Congratulations,” he said, starting the engine. “You have looked into the future. You are a bona-fide psychic.”
“Yay,” she said without joy. “I’m not going to start reading people’s minds, am I? I find it unbearable enough reading their faces.”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “I’ve never seen such a range of abilities in one person before. We don’t know your limits yet. We don’t even know if you have any. This is actually quite exciting.”
“Then you can be quite excited and I’ll just sit here and worry.”
He turned his head to her slightly. “Did you see anything else?”
“I saw enough,” she said, and looked out of the window.
14
The First Years were playing basketball on the outside court. Omen could see them from his desk. No magic was allowed, though, so it looked like a pretty dull game. He watched Rubic and Duenna walk across the small courtyard, deep in discussion. Not an unusual sight, the principal and vice-principal talking and walking, and certainly not enough to arouse Omen’s suspicions – but what better recruiters could the anti-Sanctuary have than the leaders of the school?
Omen sat back in his chair. The last class of the day was geography. The teacher’s name was Valance. He was an Adept, though Omen didn’t know which discipline he’d specialised in. So far, there didn’t seem to be anything suspicious about Valance’s behaviour. He just talked about geography a lot.
Omen cast a surreptitious eye over his classmates. They all looked pretty normal – bored and impatient for the lesson to be over. Apart from Chocolate, but then Chocolate loved geography. She was weird like that.
He smiled to himself. He liked this. Having a secret. Having a mission. Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain had come to him. Not to Auger, not to anyone else. To him. That meant something. A moment like that, he reckoned, a moment that singles a person out, validates their entire existence, gives their life meaning … Well. Something like that could be the start of something amazing.
“Omen.”
Omen looked up. “Wuh?”
“Did you get all that, Omen?” Valance asked, clearly aware that Omen had not. “Could you repeat it back to me?”
“Uh …”
“I don’t believe that’s a part of it.”
“No, sir,” said Omen. “What I meant was … I didn’t actually catch it, sir.”
Valance nodded. “I see. Which part?”
“Sir?”
“Which part didn’t you catch? Or, to put it another way, what’s the last part you did catch?”
Omen wished he didn’t blush so easily. “Uh …”
“Yes, Omen? Was it the volcanic ash part, or the igneous rock part?”
“Volcanic ash, sir.”
“Ah,” said Valance, and Omen knew instantly that it had been a trap. “Even though I’ve spent the entire class talking about the history of the European Union, the last thing you heard was me talking about volcanic ash, which you would have learned about in First Year. What Year are you in now, Omen?”
“Um, Third, sir.”
“So for the last two years you haven’t caught anything I’ve said?”
Omen lowered his head. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Sorry, Omen, what was that?”
“I wasn’t paying attention,” Omen repeated, louder this time.
“I am shocked,” Valance said. “Shocked and appalled. Could you do me a favour, Omen? Could you try to pay attention? Could you do that for me? Or, at the very least, could you try not to be so obvious when your attention wanders? I am a very sensitive educator, and this will not have done my confidence any good whatsoever.”
Everyone else was enjoying this immensely. Omen kept his eyes on his desk. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank you,” Valance said, and went back to teaching.
Omen copied down the notes and did his best to listen and look attentive, until the bell rang and he joined the others in filing out into the corridor. He dumped his bag in his locker and went walking, hands in his pockets, head down but eyes up.
Searching for the recruiter.
He passed the main gate, glanced at the street beyond. Only Sixth Years were allowed out after the school day had ended. They could spend their afternoons in Roarhaven and only had to be back for Evening Study. Omen, like everyone else, was stuck in here all day, five days a week. Of course, with his parents being the kind of parents they were, he rarely got to go home on the weekends, either. Not that this was necessarily a bad thing. He much preferred walking the school’s empty corridors on a Saturday and Sunday evening than sitting in his bedroom being criticised by his mum and dad.
He wandered for hours, spying. He passed the staffroom where the faculty watched the Global Link on TV, catching up on news of all things magical from around the world. He followed students, listening in to snippets of conversation, and trailed after various teachers, veering off when they started to notice. He enjoyed trailing after Miss Wicked the most. Of course, she was also the quickest to sense him, and his face burned with the heat of a thousand suns as he panicked and turned abruptly left. He walked into a wall and stayed there, like he’d meant to do it all along.
He got to the fourth floor without uncovering any evidence of enemy conspiracies. He saw Peccant coming the opposite way and dived round the corner. He waited there, back pressed flat against the wall. Students passed, ignoring him. He didn’t care about them. All he cared about was that Peccant should pass by, too.
Peccant turned the corner, stopped suddenly and glared. “Mr Darkly.” His voice was deep, his eyes narrow, his face lined. His hair was grey and his suit was tweed. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Omen stepped away from the wall, and tried smiling. “Yes, sir?”
“Where were you this morning, Mr Darkly? You were supposed to be in my class, were you not?”
“I got mixed up, sir.”
“Mixed up?”
“I got my timetable mixed up, sir. I’m really sorry.”
Peccant loomed over him. “And where were you?”
“In a study class, sir.”
“Supervised by whom?”
“Miss Ether.”
“And do you usually have a study class supervised by Miss Ether on a Tuesday?”
Omen swallowed. “No, sir.”
“Who usually supervises your Tuesday study class?”
“Uh … you do, sir.”
“And did it not strike you as odd, Mr Darkly, that I was not supervising this study class? Did it not occur to you that, maybe, you had got your timetable ‘mixed up’? Or did you think that I had suddenly become younger, and a woman?”
“No, sir.”
“None of that struck you as odd?”
“No, I mean, yes, I mean … I didn’t think, sir.”
Peccant leaned down. “There we have it. The crux of the problem. You didn’t think. That’s how you operate, after all, is it not? That’s how you work your way through life.”
Omen swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir,” said Peccant, mocking his voice. “So polite. So benign. I find it hard to believe you share even the flimsiest strand of DNA with your brother. Even when he’s caught breaking the rules, at least he does it with gusto. There’s no gusto with you, is there?”
“No, sir.”
Peccant took another moment to glare at him, then straightened up. “You have detention tomorrow. Be there on time or you get double.”
Peccant strode away and Omen stood with shoulders slumped.
“He hates you.”
Omen looked up as Filament Sclavi strolled over, hands in his pockets and an amused smile on his face.
“I have seen him take a dislike to people before,” Filament said, “but that was … what is the word, for the thing? That was malicious. It was as if he were gaining personal satisfaction from it.”
Omen didn’t know what to say, so he just said, “Yeah.”
“You are Omen, yes? Auger’s brother? My name is Filament. How is it going?”
“Going fine,” said Omen without thinking. “Well, I mean, apart from the detention I just got.”
“That does suck, yes,” Filament said. He was only a Fourth Year, but he looked older, about eighteen. He was tall and strong and handsome, like an Italian version of Omen’s brother. The only other thing Omen knew about him was that he was a member of the Eternity Institute, a self-help organisation that had posters up all over the school. “Do you play any sports, Omen?”
“Me?” Omen asked, even though it was obvious that it was him Filament was talking to. “No, I don’t. Never really understood it.”
“You have, um, never understood any sport in particular, or just sports in general?”
“In general,” said Omen. “Could never wrap my head around the, y’know, the point.”
Filament grinned. “So, if I suggested that maybe you try to join the rugby team, you would have no interest?”
Omen frowned. “I’d get squashed.”
Filament laughed. “You would not get squashed.”
“I would, though. Those guys are all huge.”
“Not all of them. Not even most of them, actually. I am not huge, am I? Yet I play rugby. There are some positions, in fact, where being a smaller player is an advantage.”
“Yeah,” said Omen, “for the opposite team. So you can squash them. I don’t think, if I did take up a sport, that rugby would be it, to be honest.”
“Ah, very well,” said Filament. “We play against mortals. We pretend to be like them, pretend to be a normal school, and we are not allowed to use magic, obviously … and sometimes we do well, and sometimes we get our asses kicked. I just thought that having a Darkly on the team would boost morale.”
“I’m really not the Darkly you want. Maybe if you ask Auger …?”
“I have,” said Filament, laughing. “He was really nice about it, but there was no way he would ever say yes. He is probably too busy having his adventures, yes? Hey, is it true, what he did last year? He stopped that human sacrifice guy?”
“It’s true,” said Omen. “At least, I think it’s true. He doesn’t really talk about that stuff, not even to me.”
Filament shook his head admiringly. “It must be some life to live, huh?”
“Must be.”
“And it must be a lot to live up to, as the twin brother.”
“You’d imagine so,” Omen said, “but I try not to try too hard. I’d hate to disappoint anyone.”
“That is probably wise, Omen.” There was a shout from down the corridor, and Filament waved, then turned back. “So hey, it was very good to meet you. I have passed you loads of times, but never had a reason to say hi. So … hi.”
“Hi.”
“And if you ever change your mind about the rugby …”
“The only way that’d happen is after a concussion playing rugby, so …”
Filament laughed. “Very well. I will see you around, then, Omen.”
The dinner bell rang, and Omen took one of the smaller staircases down. Never was sitting with his other friends, so Omen sat alone and watched people as they ate in their groups. The Sixth Year boys scared him, so he didn’t spend too long looking at them. The Sixth Year girls intimidated him, so he didn’t spend too long looking at them, either. The Fifth Year girls intimidated him, too, and so did the Fourth Years, so he pretty much stayed away from the girls completely.
His eyes settled on Jenan and his friends. They sat at the table at the far side of the hall, smirking to each other because that’s what they did – they smirked and felt superior. It was their favourite pastime.
It wasn’t a big deal, slagging off mortals. Omen didn’t like it, but it was everywhere, it happened in every part of the school, all the way up through the Years. Even some of the teachers indulged in it for a cheap joke and an easy laugh. But Jenan and his friends – Lapse and Gall, Sabre and Disdain – their comments were made of harder stuff, of sharper words. Their jokes were jagged, edged in bitterness. If a recruiter was to start recruiting in Corrival, Jenan Ispolin would be the obvious place to start.
And they were all part of a history study group, Arcanum’s Scholars, formed by Mr Lilt – a passionate teacher who, now that Omen thought about it, never had a good word to say about any mortal. Lilt sat at the staff table, chatting happily to one of the Combat Arts instructors.
Parthenios Lilt. Omen’s first suspect.
Excitement flared in his belly, as the idea registered with him that he might actually be good at this.
15
“I’m terrible at this,” Valkyrie said, closing the fridge door. Xena cocked her head quizzically. “Doing my own grocery shopping,” Valkyrie explained. “Human is no good at being human.”
Xena offered a whine of agreement.
“Don’t worry,” Valkyrie told her. “I’ve got plenty of food for you. That’s all you care about, isn’t it? As long as you’re fed, that’s all that matters.” She opened a pouch of dog food and emptied it into the bowl on the floor. “Unless I can microwave myself some of yours. It doesn’t look that bad …”
Xena didn’t seem impressed with that notion. She crowded her bowl, shielding it from view as she ate.
“Fine,” Valkyrie said, shrugging into her coat. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Protect the place while I’m gone, OK? And no parties.”
Xena ignored her.
Valkyrie got in the car and drove the fifteen minutes to the Super Saver in Haggard. She picked up the essentials, loaded in a treat or two and took it to the till. As she was waiting to pay, she saw her mother perusing the shelves. Valkyrie stayed very still.
Her mother looked around, eyes low, smiling as Alice came into view. Little Alice, with those dimples and that ever-present smile, showing her mum which box of cereal she’d like. Valkyrie handed over cash, didn’t bother with the change, just grabbed her grocery bags and walked quickly out of the store. To be spotted was to be hugged, was to be showered with love she didn’t deserve. To be spotted was to see the excitement and love in Alice’s eyes – eyes she had seen flutter closed five years earlier, when Valkyrie had killed her in a misguided attempt to save the world. The fact that she had clumsily managed to revive her moments later didn’t change the fact. Killing was killing. Murder was murder.
Valkyrie loaded the bags into the back of the car and got out of there.
She was halfway home when the phone rang. It made her jump. She pressed Answer and Skulduggery’s voice filled the car.
“We have a name,” he said.
“Sorry? A name for what?”
There was a pause from the other end. “You sound like you’re in a bad mood.”
She sighed. “I’m just hungry. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. And the fact that I now have visions has made me hugely grumpy. I don’t want to see the future, Skulduggery, especially if the future looks like that. I’m barely holding it together as it is.”
“What do you mean?”
Her hands tightened on the wheel. “I mean the stress.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. The stress. You know this. I talked about this.”
“You did. But for a moment it sounded like you’ve been going through more than you’ve been letting on.”
“No. Just the stress. So this name you’re talking about – a name for what?”
“For a suspect.”
“Wait, we have a name for whoever’s been recruiting from Corrival Academy?”
“We may have.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And where did we get this name, Skulduggery? Who gave us the name? It was Omen, wasn’t it? It was. For God’s sake, I thought we agreed on this.”
“We do,” Skulduggery said quickly, “and I was planning on talking to him in the morning, breaking it to him in person, and then a short while ago I received his text message. I didn’t expect him to come up with a name so quickly, to be honest. I mean, it’s probably nothing.”
“It’s undoubtedly nothing,” said Valkyrie. “He’s had half a day of being undercover and he has a name for us already? Either Omen is imagining things or he’s the greatest undercover agent in the history of the world.”
“You may be right.”
“So who is it?”
“Who is what?”
“The name.”
“Oh. Parthenios Lilt, a history teacher.”
“And why does our super-spy think the history teacher is a recruiter for the anti-Sanctuary?”
“The history teacher doesn’t like mortals, for one thing.”
“I don’t like mortals.”
“You don’t like anybody.”
“That doesn’t make me the recruiter.”
“Parthenios Lilt leads a study group called Arcanum’s Scholars, a reference to Rebus Arcanum, a supposedly long-dead explorer into Realms Unknown. That’s what he called them. With capital letters and everything.”
Valkyrie stopped at a crossroads as a huge tractor, festooned with lights, rumbled by. “Why is he supposedly long dead and not actually long dead?”
“We never found the body.”
“And what does he have to do with this Lilt guy?”
“Nothing as far as I can see,” Skulduggery said. “That’s just what Lilt calls his study group. Six boys, three girls in all. Omen doubts they do any actual studying – he says they’re just not the type – so the question then becomes what is Parthenios Lilt teaching those students?”
The tractor trundling away, Valkyrie eased out over the crossroads and continued on. “And Omen thinks he’s recruiting them for the anti-Sanctuary.”
“Yes, he does,” said Skulduggery. “I’ve looked into Mr Lilt. I’ve just had a few minutes, but already I’m finding things that lead me to believe he’s led a varied life.”
“He’s a sorcerer. That shouldn’t surprise you.”
“He authored a report for the French Sanctuary on Neoteric sorcerers, nearly forty years ago. He actually coined the term.”
“Then he should have done a better job because it means nothing to me.”
“Neoterics are mages without recognised disciplines,” Skulduggery said.
“Like Warlocks.”
“Not really. Usually, they’re people brought up outside the magical community. They don’t know the rules, so they make their own, and their magic adapts to their personality.”
“So sorcerers who didn’t know they were sorcerers,” Valkyrie said.
“I suppose that’s a fair assessment. From what you’ve told me, Cadaverous Gant is probably a Neoteric. When his magic manifested, it fitted itself around his warped sensibilities and resulted in his unique power. They are relatively rare, thankfully, but usually unstable, unfortunately, so we keep an eye out for them. Most incursions occur because a Neoteric sorcerer has lost control and a mortal is right there to witness it.”
“Jeremiah Wallow was probably a Neoteric, too,” she said, the car going over the humpback bridge on the way to her house.
“Very likely, and Lilt may have had contact with them both. Valkyrie?”
“I’m here.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah. He may have had contact. So Omen might be right.”
“It’s a possibility. I’m heading back to Roarhaven. The High Sanctuary has a copy of the Neoteric Report and I want to reacquaint myself with it. Can you meet me there tomorrow?”
“Sure,” she said, if the nightmares that she knew were coming didn’t drag her down. If she could get out of bed in the morning. If she could even convince herself that she wasn’t dead.
“Is everything OK?” Skulduggery asked. “You sound … distracted.”
“I’m fine.” I’m not. “Just hungry.” Just nuts. “See you in Roarhaven.”
She ended the call, passed the heavy gates and drove up to her front door. She got out, breathed in the cold air and leaned against the car for a moment with her eyes closed. She wasn’t going nuts. She wasn’t insane. She was as healthy as ever. Everything was perfectly normal.
When she opened her eyes again, Darquesse was sitting on her front step. “You’re late,” she said.
