Resurrection

  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.

  16

  “Surprise,” said Never, taking the seat beside Omen in the Dining Hall and flicking the hair out of her eyes. “Someone is actually sitting beside you for breakfast. Wonders – will they never cease?”

  Omen frowned. “People sit beside me all the time.”

  “Rarely by choice, though. Admit it, Omen, you’re delighted to have someone to talk to this early in the morning, aren’t you?”

  Omen didn’t answer. But he was.

  “However, the truly amazing thing,” Never continued, “is that I’m sitting beside you even though you’ve been avoiding me all day.”

  “It’s … first thing in the morning.”

  “Don’t deny it, Omen. When you deny a truth, a kitten dies.”

  The din in the hall – chattering voices, clinking utensils, the heavy tread of feet and the tortured scrape of chairs – had not yet reached deafening proportions, so, when Never leaned in and lowered her voice, Omen could hear her perfectly.

  “You better tell me what’s going on and you better not lie. You’re a terrible liar. I always know when you’re lying because your ears go red. Are you going to eat that?”

  “It’s my breakfast,” said Omen.

  “I know. Are you going to eat it?”

  “I’m eating it now.”

  Never sighed. “Then are you going to finish it?”

  “Probably. Where’s your breakfast?”

  “In my stomach, where all breakfasts belong. Can I have that sausage?”

  “The one on the end of my fork? No. It’s mine. Look.” Omen took a bite. “See?”

  Never turned her head, so she was looking at Omen out of the corner of her eyes. “You’re definitely acting weird.”

  “No, I’m not,” said Omen. “I’m acting normal because I am normal.”

  Never flicked her hair again. She liked flicking her hair. It was one of her things. “You couldn’t be normal if you tried. Not with your family.”

  “Well, I don’t know what you want me to say. But I’m not acting weird.”

  “You were walking around yesterday, peering at everyone and trying to listen in to their conversations.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Whatever.” She used the air to lift a bread roll from the basket. Even though teleportation was her natural gift, and she was the only one in Mr Renn’s class who could actually teleport, Never was pretty good at everything, Elemental magic included. She was definitely better at it than Omen.

  Omen hesitated. “Do you, uh, do you think they noticed?”

  “Who?”

  “Everyone.”

  “That you were spying on them? Naw.” She dropped the bread roll back. “People tend to ignore you. It’s a gift you have. So what were you up to?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Never glared. “Since when do we keep secrets from each other?”

  “We keep loads of secrets from each other,” Omen said, frowning. “Literally, loads.”

  She shrugged. “We should stop that. A friendship like ours is a friendship that relies on one hundred per cent honesty at all times.”

  “Then is it true what I heard about you and Rasure Cross?”

  “One hundred per cent honesty from this moment on,” said Never, smoothing down her skirt. “Hey, did you hear? Skulduggery Pleasant was here yesterday.”

  Omen stuffed some egg into his mouth. “Yeah?”

  “Chocolate said she was in French and she happened to glance out the window and there he was.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “She said Valkyrie Cain was with him.”

  “Right.”

  Never’s face had already soured. “I thought they’d split up.”

  “I, uh, I don’t think they were ever together in that way …”

  “You know what I mean. I thought she’d gone off to live out her life in America. That’s what I was hoping. She probably missed the limelight too much, had to come back to get everyone talking about her again.”

  “OK.”

  “Chocolate said that she looked just like Darquesse.”

  “Well, obviously.”

  “Yeah, I know. I just expected her to look a little different from all the videos, you know? You’d think she’d have dyed her hair a different colour or something. It’s like she’s proud of what she did.”

  “Ah … I don’t think that’s fair …”

  “She’s walking around the same city she half destroyed, Omen. What else would you call it? And why are you defending her?”

  “Because it wasn’t her, was it? It was Darquesse.”

  Never had that look on her face.

  “Stop,” Omen said quickly. “We’re not talking about this again. We have different opinions and I know how angry you get when we talk about it, so let’s not, OK? Not today. I have too much on my mind.”

  She stared at him. “You have what?”

  He blushed. “I, uh, I have a lot to think about.”

  Never laughed. “You have too much on your mind? Oh my God.”

  “Please forget I said that.”

  “I will never, ever forget you said that. Oh my God, you sound just like my mother.”

  He sagged. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

  “No. I’m not. At all. Mum.”

  Omen sighed, and swallowed the last mouthful of his breakfast before putting his knife and fork on his empty plate. “I’m going to go get ready for class now, because at least in class no one laughs at me quite as much as you do.”

  Never grinned. “Bet you don’t even know what class we have.”

  “Actually, I do,” said Omen. “We have history, with Mr Lilt.”

  “A man gets in his car,” said Parthenios Lilt, perched on the edge of his desk. “It’s night. The drive home is going to take him an hour. His favourite TV show starts in forty minutes. He starts driving. He goes a little faster than he really should. It starts to rain. His windscreen wipers aren’t that great. The road is slippery. He’s tired. He hasn’t slept well. He’s thinking about an argument he’s had with his boss. He gets to a sharp bend. He skids and crashes. What caused the accident?”

  The class was silent. Lilt looked around, eyebrow raised expectantly. After a few moments, Megan Epithet put up her hand.

  “He’s never heard of the Internet?”

  Lilt frowned. “Sorry?”

  “He can watch his show online whenever he wants,” Megan said. “He doesn’t have to hurry.”

  “Ah,” said Lilt. “No, I think you’re missing the point a little.”

  “The sharp bend,” said Never. “If it’d been a straight road, he wouldn’t have had to turn and he wouldn’t have crashed.”

  “But he’s taken that bend every day for twenty years and he hasn’t crashed before tonight. Can you really say the bend is the problem?”

  “The rain,” said someone else.

  “The speed,” said another.

  Lilt held up his hand. “I’ll put you all out of your misery. There is no one thing that caused the accident. It’s a combination of things. Each factor, on its own, didn’t make him crash. But put together … the crash looks inevitable. And so it was for World War Two. Reparations. The rise of nationalism. Ap
peasement. Europe’s reluctance to—”

  The door opened and Jenan stepped in. Lilt glanced at the clock.

  “Three minutes left of class, Mr Ispolin.”

  “Yeah.”

  “‘Yeah’?”

  Jenan straightened. “Yes. Sir.”

  “Are you going to tell me where you’ve been?”

  “I was called in to the Principal’s Office.”

  Lilt sighed. “Misbehaving again, Jenan? What did you do this time?”

  Jenan scowled. “Didn’t do anything.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t. I’m sure Mr Rubic invited you in for a friendly chat about the weather.” Lilt waved him to his seat. “Go on, you may as well sit down. Try not to cause any more disruption.”

  Jenan went to his desk and Lilt chewed his lip. “Where was I?”

  “World War Two,” said Megan.

  “Yes, thank you. And what were the Sanctuaries doing during all this escalating tension? Were we getting involved? No? Why not?”

  “The Scandza Accord,” Jenan said as he slouched into his chair.

  Lilt nodded. “You are on your way to redeeming yourself already, Jenan.”

  The thought occurred to Omen that naming Lilt as a suspect was one thing, but if he really wanted Skulduggery and Valkyrie’s approval he’d be better off getting some actual proof. He smiled, liking that idea immensely.

  “Can someone remind me what the Scandza Accord is?” Lilt asked. “Omen?”

  God, no. Not again. Omen sat up a little straighter in his chair. He knew the answer. He knew he did. It was there, in the clutter of his mind. He just had to find it. “It’s the, uh, the thing.”

  A few people laughed.

  “The thing, Omen?”

  “The agreement,” Omen said, blushing. “The agreement that Sanctuaries would never interfere in mortal affairs.”

  “The official agreement,” Lilt corrected. “It was unofficial policy for centuries before the Elder Councils of the world thought it’d be a good idea to put it down on paper. So, if we weren’t to get involved and prevent a war and a Holocaust that killed millions, what were we to do? Anyone?”

  “Observe and protect the mortals from magical threats,” said Never.