Resurrection
Valkyrie let Xena roam, and eyed the cottage. “Why are we really here?” she asked.
“I have a theory that needs to be tested,” said Skulduggery. “No more questions. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
He found the key beneath an old pot and opened the front door, and Valkyrie took a dry leaf from the battered packet she kept in her jeans, popping it into her mouth as she stepped through. The cottage was just as she remembered – the comfy sofa, the faded rug, the guitar on a stand in the corner – but the dream whisperers which had hung from the rafters were gone. Valkyrie was glad. They were creepy little things.
“Are you OK?” Skulduggery asked.
The leaf had started to dissolve on her tongue, but she chewed the rest to get rid of it faster. They were great for numbing pain, be it from a broken leg, a gunshot wound, or a mere headache, but no one had yet bothered to make the damn things taste better. “Another headache,” she said as she wandered over to the guitar. “Nothing to worry about.” She picked it up.
Skulduggery’s head tilted. “Perhaps.”
She strummed. Badly. “Perhaps what? It’s a headache. People get headaches all the time. Especially after they’ve been punched in the face.”
Skulduggery took a small bag of rainbow dust from his pocket, held out his hand and let it sprinkle through his gloved fingers. It fell as golden particles. “Do you remember what gold means?”
“Gold means psychic. Which is to be expected, right? Even though Cassandra’s been dead for two years?” She played the first few bars of ‘Stairway to Heaven’, got it wrong and tried again.
“You are quite correct,” he responded, sealing the bag and putting it away. “This cottage contains an abundance of residual psychic energy, enough so that anyone with Sensitive tendencies would be vulnerable to their influence.”
“OK. So?”
“We were nearing Testament Road when you got the headache earlier,” he said. “The part of town where Sensitives can’t go.”
Valkyrie laughed. “Oh, wow. This is your theory? You think I’m a Sensitive?”
“I think it’s a possibility. The full range of your abilities has yet to be explored. Most sorcerers are restricted to one discipline – I’m one of the rare exceptions, being both an Elemental and a Necromancer. But you? You might be something else entirely.”
“I think I’d know if I was a psychic, though.”
“Would you?” Skulduggery asked, and took the guitar from her hands. He walked away from her, playing ‘Heroes’ by Bowie. “Tell me something – have you experienced anything unusual recently?”
“You mean apart from you? Listen, I don’t have clairvoyance. I can’t read people’s minds or see into the future.” She faltered on the last word, then shook her head. “This is silly. I’m not a Sensitive.”
“You don’t know what you are,” he said, turning and starting to sing.
Xena wandered in and he sang to her while she sat, head cocked to one side, and when he was done he twirled the guitar and thrust it away from him, and it floated back to the corner to settle into its stand. The show over, Xena got up, wandered back outside.
“I didn’t know you played,” Valkyrie said.
“Cassandra taught me,” he responded, and looked around like he’d just realised she wasn’t here any more.
Valkyrie let the silence continue for a bit, then broke it. “So we’re here,” she said. “Remembering Cassandra. Singing. She really would have liked that. What’s next? We head back to Dublin and get matching tattoos in honour of Finbar?”
“If you like,” he said. “But, since we’re here, we may as well go downstairs.”
“Why would we want to do that?”
But he was already opening the narrow door beside the cupboard. “Come on,” he said, and went down.
Valkyrie hesitated a long moment before following.
It was dark down there. Cold. Old pipes ran up the bare walls. A straight-backed chair stood in the middle of the metal floor.
“I’m not sure what you’re hoping to achieve with all this,” she said.
He clicked his fingers, summoning flame into his hand. “Your, what do you call it, your ‘aura-vision’ is a psychic ability. How do you know that it doesn’t go deeper? Indulge me this once.”
“I’m always indulging you.”
“Then indulge me once more.” He dropped the ball of fire to the floor. The flames lit the coals beneath and heat immediately started to rise.
“What do you think is going to happen here?” she asked. “I’m suddenly going to have a vision? I don’t have visions.”
“Not yet, but the energy all around you could trigger something, and, if it does, we’ll be able to see it played out in the steam.”
“Or we’ll just be standing here getting a cheap sauna that will wrinkle your suit and ruin my hair.”
“Nothing will wrinkle this suit,” said Skulduggery. “Ghastly made sure of it.”
“We saw him in Cassandra’s vision,” Valkyrie pointed out. “We saw Ghastly with Tanith. We saw them kiss on Devastation Day – only he died before that could happen. Even if I did have a vision, so what? Ghastly’s death proves that visions of the future mean nothing.”
“No,” Skulduggery replied, taking a yellow umbrella from a hook on the wall and passing it to her. “His death proves that the future can be changed if you know what’s coming. And we have no idea what’s coming. We don’t even know who we’re up against, not really, so we don’t know what we have to avoid. Try, Valkyrie. At least try.”
She sighed, then sat in the chair. It was quickly turning hot in here. When the first bead of perspiration formed on her temple, she opened the umbrella as Skulduggery turned the red wheel. Water rushed through the pipes, gurgling like the belly of a ravenous beast. The sprinklers started up, tapping a growing applause on the umbrella. Steam rose, getting thicker, becoming mist, becoming fog. She lost sight of Skulduggery, but heard the wheel turn again, and the water cut off. She collapsed the umbrella, shook it and laid it on the floor before standing.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Now focus,” Skulduggery said. “Or don’t focus. Empty your mind, or maybe fill it.”
“You’re a great help.”
“I don’t really know how this works.”
“Hush,” she said.
She stood there, eyes fixed on the empty space in front of her. She tried to relax her thoughts, but they were in as big a jumble as ever. Her head buzzed. The headache was coming back.
“I don’t think this is working,” she said.
And then something moved ahead of her.
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.”