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“I’ll help.”
“I have to tell you, Omen, this sounds like it’s a bigger deal to you than it is to me. Put your name down there like a good lad, and I’ll explain what you’ll have to do.”
14 (#ulink_67b8bd29-8125-5004-9d08-e0ec481e17bc)
Valkyrie was curled up on the couch with Xena, watching Saturday evening TV, when she saw Skulduggery drop slowly from the sky and land outside the window.
She moved the dog to one side and got up, padded on bare feet to the hall and opened the door.
Skulduggery’s jacket had bullet holes in it.
“You look like you’ve had fun,” she said, leaning against the doorjamb.
“I punched many bandits,” Skulduggery responded. “Temper did, too, but I punched more. Not that it was a competition. But, if it had been, I’d have won.”
“Well, I’m proud of you for winning what wasn’t a competition. Have all the refugees passed through the portal?”
“Not even close. By the time we were returning, there were perhaps two thousand waiting to go through, with plenty more arriving every few minutes. China finally sent in a battalion of Cleavers to offer protection.”
“Well, that was nice of her,” said Valkyrie. “Any sign of Mevolent’s army?”
“Not so far.”
“Well, you know, be grateful for small mercies, or whatever it is that people say. Also, have you seen your jacket?”
“Ah,” he said, “yes. Most unfortunate.”
“Do you even have anyone to fix it any more?”
“Of course. Ghastly wasn’t the only tailor in town – just the best. I see, by the way, that the Bentley is in one piece.”
“Naturally,” said Valkyrie, taking the car keys from the side table and handing them over. “When I borrow something, I return it in pristine condition, and I am shocked that you would ever doubt me.”
“I never doubt you,” he replied, and handed her a key in return.
She raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”
“A spare,” he said, “for the Bentley. In case I ever lose my own.”
“You’re giving me a key to your car?”
“Just to mind.”
“Does this mean we’re now sharing the Bentley?”
Skulduggery stiffened. “Dear me, no. Not in the slightest.”
She clutched the key to her chest. “You mean I now own the Bentley? You’re giving her to me?”
“OK, I’m changing my mind about this whole thing,” he said, and reached for the key.
“No take backsies,” said Valkyrie, and shut the door.
15 (#ulink_72b18b68-ddb4-5869-8fe4-ee36d8bb7061)
The President of the United States was in a bad, bad mood.
Martin Maynard Flanery had been elected fair and square and, try as they might, the leftist losers and the liberal media couldn’t take that away from him.
His presidency was beyond legitimate. He had won the electoral college on a scale no one had ever seen before or even dreamed possible. Yet he had done it, because he was smarter than everyone else, shrewder than everyone else, and smarter than everyone else. He was a winner.
“I’m a winner,” he said to the Oval Office, but the Oval Office didn’t respond.
There was a knock on one of the doors.
“Not now!” he called out. Beyond that door was a line of people, all with demands on his time, with reports and briefings and files and folders that would clutter up his perfectly bare desk. He didn’t want to let them in. He could feel them hovering out there, full of nervous energy that would get under his skin. Even thinking about it made him uncomfortable.
Flanery stood, went to the window, stared out through the bulletproof glass. From here, he could see Secret Service agents, sworn to protect him, trained to give their lives for his.
But would they? Would they die to protect him? He narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t trust them to do what they’d sworn to do. If his time as president had taught him anything, it was that he couldn’t trust anyone.
He had enemies everywhere.
There was a knock on the other door, and, before he could order them to go away, the door opened and Wilkes slipped in.
“I’m not to be disturbed,” Flanery snapped.
“Oh,” said Wilkes, freezing in midstep. He looked around, eyes flicking to the empty desk. “What … what are you doing?”
Rage boiled. “You don’t ask me questions!” Flanery snarled.
“No, sir,” said Wilkes, immediately wilting. “Sorry, sir.”
Flanery gripped the back of his chair. “I’m thinking,” he said. “I’m planning. I’m deciding. I’m doing many things.”
“Yes, sir,” said Wilkes. “Um, I’ve received requests from a few members of staff. They really need to speak to you on some pretty urgent matters …”
It was pitiful, the way he stood there, riddled with weakness. Flanery hated weakness. He hated Wilkes.
“Have you handled the witch?” Flanery asked.
Wilkes winced. He didn’t like talking about the witch in the Oval Office. He’d even proposed they use code words. Flanery enjoyed seeing him squirm.
“She is under control, yes, sir.”
“How can we be sure she won’t refuse my orders again?”
“I, um, I made it very clear what the repercussions would be.”
“What did you say?”
“I, ah, relayed, uh, what we had discussed in—”
“Uh!” Flanery blurted. “I relayed what we had, uh, duh, duhhh … Why can’t you just answer the question, eh? Why can’t you do that? What did you tell her?”
Wilkes swallowed. “I told Magenta that if she ever disobeyed your orders again, she’d never see her family.”
“And what did she say?”
“She … she started crying, Mr President. She apologised, and said she would do as she was told in future.”
Flanery pursed his lips. “She cried, did she?”
“Yes, sir.”
He smiled. “I’d have liked to have seen that. I bet that was something to see, this high-and-mighty witch reduced to tears. Was she on her knees when she was crying?”
“Um … no, sir.”
“Next time, make sure she’s on her knees.”
“Yes, sir.”
Flanery sat behind his desk again. “I want you to call Abyssinia,” he said. “Tell her I’ve decided to move up the operation.”
Wilkes went pale. “Sir?”
Flanery pretended not to notice his shock. “The mainstream media are producing more fake polls saying I’m the most unpopular president in history. They’re turning the people against me, Wilkes.”
“The people love you, sir.”
“I know that!” Flanery snapped, his anger rising again. “But they’re being lied to. They’re being misled. We need to do something to unite the country behind me. So move up the operation.” Wilkes hesitated, and Flanery glared. “Well?”
“Mr President,” Wilkes said, “that might not be possible. The plan is … is delicate, sir. We have to get our people in place and Abyssinia has to get her people in place, and the timing has to be just right.”
“They’re calling me the most unpopular president in history, and you want me to wait on timing?”
“Sir, Abyssinia’s plan requires—”
Flanery leaped up and Wilkes flinched.
“Abyssinia’s plan?” Flanery roared. “Abyssinia’s? This is my plan! I’m the one who thought it up! I’m the genius here! She’s nothing but another witch! What do we do with witches, Wilkes? What do we do with them? We make them get on their knees and weep. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes … yes, sir.”
“And then what do we do with them?”
“I’m … I don’t know …”
“We burn ’em, Wilkes. We burn the witches.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The same goes for the freaks and weirdos and sorcerers and whatever else they’re called. They’re all gonna burn, Wilkes, and when they do the entire country will stand behind me and they’ll shout my name and they will love me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wilkes wouldn’t meet Flanery’s eyes.
16 (#ulink_4d7eed83-a469-56f2-ae91-bdc5abe802c9)
The fifteen-minute drive to Haggard took over twenty minutes. Valkyrie decided on the scenic route, right along the coast, the road clinging to the shoreline like the hem of a dress. There was a boat on the water, somebody parasailing. It looked fun.
She could have driven for hours, but Haggard reached for her, pulled her in, and no matter how slow she went, her childhood home drew closer, until she was suddenly parked outside. She turned off the engine and took a breath. She was excited to see her family. She wanted to see them. But there was a part of her that crouched in the shadows of her mind, and that part whispered to her, telling her to turn round, to leave them in peace. They’d be happier without her, it said. They’d be happier if she left them alone. Safer.
She’d killed her own sister, after all, just so that she could use a weapon. It didn’t really matter that she’d resuscitated her immediately afterwards. What kind of person, the voice whispered, could bring themselves to do that to someone they loved?
Valkyrie got out of the car, slammed the door shut. She wasn’t going to let the voice win today. She wasn’t going to let all those bad feelings come crashing down on her, like they had so many times in the past.
She was getting better.
She walked up to the front door and paused, immersed in a feeling she still hadn’t become familiar with. This was her home and yet it wasn’t. Her childhood lived here. The young girl called Stephanie Edgley lived here. This was where she’d watched TV and read her books and done her homework. This is where she’d listened to her mum and dad crack jokes and riff off each other. This was where her little sister hurtled around the place. This was the house where normal lived.
She walked in. The house was warm, and smelled of good food cooking. She went immediately to the kitchen. Her mum was chopping carrots, her back to her.
Valkyrie opened her mouth to say something, and realised she didn’t know what that something should be. She waited for the chopping to stop, then she just said, “Heya.”
Her mum looked round, and a smile broke out and she hurried over. “Sweetheart,” she said, wrapping Valkyrie in her arms. Valkyrie spent so long trying to figure out how much pressure to apply to her own hug that it was over before she’d really committed to it.
“Do you want a cup of tea?” her mother asked. “Sit down, I’ll put the kettle on.”
Valkyrie nodded and smiled as her mum busied herself with the mechanics of tea-making. The kitchen looked exactly the same, apart from the refrigerator. The refrigerator was different.
“You got a new fridge,” Valkyrie said.
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Well, three or four years ago. Didn’t you see it when you were here for your birthday?”
“I don’t think I came into the kitchen.”
“Oh, well, there it is: the sort-of-new fridge. Now, dinner won’t be ready for about a half-hour or so. Are you hungry? I think we have some biscuits, unless your father ate them.”
“I’m OK.”
“You’re sure? They’re chocolate chip.”
“I’m fine.”
The front door opened and closed.
