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“We’ve been talking about this,” he said.
Tantalus scowled again. “Who’s we?”
“Forby and me,” Sebastian said.
“And what exactly have you been discussing?”
Sebastian chose his words carefully. “I don’t know a whole lot about this stuff, but I do know that while it is possible to track energy signatures through dimensions, to go looking for one, even one as powerful as Darquesse’s, would be a waste of time.”
Forby nodded. “That’s true.”
“But then I asked Forby,” Sebastian continued, “if it would be easier to track the Faceless Ones instead, seeing as how there’s a whole race of them.”
Tantalus’s eyes narrowed. “Why would we want to do that?”
“We all know that Darquesse left this reality to find a new challenge. Fighting the Faceless Ones was that challenge.”
“The Plague Doctor posited the idea that Darquesse might very well still be fighting them,” Forby said, “so to find them would be to find her.”
“And apparently, that’s entirely possible.” Sebastian paused. “We just need some Faceless Ones’ blood.”
Tantalus laughed. “Oh, is that all? Well, I’ll nip down to the shops, shall I? Anyone want anything else while I’m picking up a jar of Faceless Ones’ blood? How are we for milk?”
“I know where there’s some blood,” Lily said.
They all looked at her.
“There’s a scythe in the Dark Cathedral,” she said. “I saw it on a tour I took there. They have it sealed off with a bunch of other stuff. The little sign said that it was splattered with the blood of one of the Faceless Ones that came through at Aranmore. Would that do?”
Sebastian looked back at Forby, who shrugged.
“I don’t see why not,” he said.
“So what are you suggesting?” Tantalus asked. “That we break into the Dark Cathedral and steal this scythe right from under their noses? Do you have any idea of the amount of security they have? Do you have any idea what they’ll do to us if they catch us?”
“Probably kill us,” said Lily. “I don’t think I should go.”
“No one’s going!” Tantalus snapped. “The only way this wouldn’t be a suicide mission is if someone knew a secret way in. Do you? Do any of you?”
Beneath his mask, Sebastian smiled, and raised his hand.
11 (#ulink_b9863ee6-096b-553f-b507-a7ab46978e33)
Valkyrie woke and lay there, scrabbling for the last threads of a departing dream. It was almost within her grasp – a normal dream, this time – when her thoughts tumbled in, filled her head, sent the dream scattering. She reached for the bottle of water by the bed, found it empty. Her throat was parched.
She got up. It was cold. She pulled on her bathrobe, tied it and hugged herself as she unlocked her bedroom door. The landing was dark. Her fingers trailed across the wall, finding the three light switches. She pressed the middle one. The light came on downstairs. Hugging herself again, she went down, narrowing her eyes against the glare until she was used to it.
She left the light, walked through the gloom to the kitchen. She could see well enough. Xena raised her head when she stepped in, just to check, and then went back to sleep. Valkyrie smiled at her, opened the fridge as quietly as possible, took a bottle of water and turned to go. Abyssinia stood watching her.
Valkyrie yelled in shock and dropped the water, white lightning crackling around her fingertips. Xena leaped up, barking, came running over, ignoring Abyssinia entirely to sniff at Valkyrie’s legs, tail wagging with sudden excitement. Abyssinia looked away, her mouth moving, holding a conversation Valkyrie couldn’t hear with somebody she couldn’t see.
Valkyrie let the energy die. Abyssinia was looking down, not at Valkyrie at all. Valkyrie was seeing her, but she wasn’t seeing Valkyrie. She started to fade. In seconds, she was gone.
Valkyrie slid down to the floor, her back against the fridge. Xena came and sat beside her, then laid her head across Valkyrie’s lap. Her fur was warm and soft and reassuring.
“Good girl,” Valkyrie whispered. “Everything’s going to be all right. Good girl.”
She reached for the bottle of water, and took a swig.
She stayed like that until the sun came up.
12 (#ulink_e1a6b76d-01e4-5768-b2dd-34ce5adfba3c)
Omen was a morning person. He didn’t like getting out of bed, but when he did he was invariably bright and optimistic. Mornings, he often thought, were bursting with potential. Every morning was the start of what could become the best day ever.
True, the brightness tended to dull a little once the day began to beat him down, and his optimism never lasted that long when faced with the disappointment that came with being who he was, but that didn’t change how much he liked mornings. Especially a Saturday morning, when half of the students went home for the weekend and the other half chatted and hung out and bonded as people. He imagined.
This Saturday, however, was determined to squish him before he’d even had his breakfast.
His room-mates had snored. This was not unusual. What was unusual was the sheer determination they displayed, as if they were working together to deny him sleep. From then on, it was one minor catastrophe after another. He’d dropped his toothbrush in the toilet. His phone hadn’t charged. Grendel Caste sneezed on his breakfast. And now here he was, sitting outside the Principal’s Office.
Filament Sclavi walked by, then stopped and turned round. He sat down next to Omen.
“I heard,” he said.
“Heard what?” Omen asked, even though he knew.
“You asked out Axelia Lukt, and Axelia Lukt said no.”
“Ah,” said Omen. “That’s what you heard. I’m surprised people care enough to gossip.”
“People gossip even when they don’t care,” said Filament. “It’s what people do. So how are you? How is your heart? Is it broken?”
“Naw,” said Omen. “It’s ever-so-slightly dinged. It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Filament looked at him. “You don’t have to be brave in front of me, Omen.”
“I’m … not. I swear.”
Filament patted his arm. “I can see that you are fighting back the tears.”
“I’m really not, though.”
Filament smiled sadly. “Then why is your lower lip quivering?”
“I think that’s just what it does.”
“You know what? You should ask her again.”
“You think she’s changed her mind?”
“Not yet, but she might if you pursue her. Have you never seen a romantic comedy? Have you never seen the nerd get the hot girl? How does he do it? He proves himself worthy of her affection. He devotes himself to wooing her.”
“Am I the nerd?”
“Well, you’re certainly not the hot girl.”
Omen laughed a little. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“My sisters – I grew up with sisters – they love the romantic comedies. Have you seen 10 Things I Hate About You? Heath Ledger pursues Julia Stiles. You should sing to Axelia during morning assembly.”
“That’s a terrifically bad idea.”
“A Partridge Family song, maybe.”
“I’m not sure who they are.”
“They were a musical group. One of my older sisters, she loved David Cassidy when she was a teenager. David Cassidy was in the Partridge Family. According to my sister, he was the main Partridge.”
“Did they have costumes, or …?”
“I don’t know if they dressed up as partridges, I just know the David Cassidy song. But you can’t do that song – that was used in the movie. You want another one, a song that may once have been cheesy, but now is sort of cool.”
“I don’t think I’m going to sing to her, though.”
“That’s a pity,” said Filament. “It would work. I’m sure of it. But there are other ways to woo a lady. Send flowers every day. Write her poems. Or appear at her door one evening with cue cards professing your love.”
“Is that wooing, though? Or is it, you know … stalking?”
Filament frowned. “How can it be stalking? It’s for love.”
“I get that, I do, but everything you’ve just mentioned sounds a little like harassment. I’d really prefer to be the guy who, you know, is rejected and then is kind of cool about it. I don’t want her to regret knowing me – that’s basically what I’m trying to say. I don’t want to be the bad guy, or the guy who can’t take the hint. You know?”
Filament didn’t respond.
“Filament?”
“Your words have made me sad,” Filament said.
“Oh.”
“All those romantic comedies I watched.”
“It’s fine for movies.”
“No,” said Filament. “No. I shall never watch another. From here on out, it will be horror movies and only horror movies. Not even musicals.”
“Musicals are OK.”
“Maybe one or two musicals, like Grease.”
“Grease is funny.”
“It was nice talking to you, Omen, even if you did make me sad.”
“I’m really sorry about that.”
“I will try to be as brave as you.”
“I’m not being brave, though.”
Miss Wicked approached. “Filament,” she said, “it’s a Saturday morning. Do something better with it than sitting outside the Principal’s Office.”
“Yes, miss,” Filament said, and hurried away.
Miss Wicked frowned at Omen. “It’s ten o’clock. Why are you out here?”
“I, um, I haven’t been told to go in.”
“Our appointment is for ten,” she responded, striding to the door. “We go in at ten.”
She walked in and Omen hopped up and hurried after her.
He’d never been in Principal Rubic’s office before. He was immediately struck by the number of books on the shelves and the huge window behind the desk. Rubic himself sat at his desk, an elderly man with a face that longed for a beard it didn’t have. Standing before him was a tall man with dark hair swept back off a high forehead, a man who looked just like his son.
“Ah, Miss Wicked, Omen,” said Rubic, waving them in, “I was just about to call for you. Of course, you will both recognise Grand Mage Ispolin, here from the Bulgarian Sanctuary. The Grand Mage is, very naturally, concerned about Jenan’s well-being.”
“It’s been seven months,” Ispolin said, “and nothing has been done.” His accent, like that of so many sorcerers, was both distinct and soft, the result of hundreds of years of living. “My son remains missing, and this woman is still teaching at this school. I’m here to demand answers.”
“Of course,” Rubic said, “of course. Your concern is understandable.”
“For seven months, I have been met with nothing but excuses from the High Sanctuary.”
Rubic nodded sadly. “Investigations of this nature do, unfortunately, tend to take a lot of time, Grand Mage.”
“I am aware of the amount of time investigations take,” Ispolin said slowly. “What I am interested in learning is why this woman is still employed here.”
“I believe you know my name,” Miss Wicked said.
Ispolin looked up. “What?”
“My name,” she said. “I believe you know it. Please use it. Every time you say ‘this woman’ I look around, wondering who you’re talking about. I am here, I gather, because of the altercation outside the boys’ dormitories. Is that right?”
“That’s right,” Ispolin said. “When you attacked Jenan. Is this the type of teacher you have here, Mr Rubic? One who goes around assaulting your students?”
Omen cleared his throat to speak, but could only croak. Ispolin glared at him.
“Yes? You have something to contribute?”
