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“During the war, he denounced Mevolent as having strayed too far from the teachings of the Faceless Ones.”
“He thought Mevolent was too soft?” Valkyrie asked. “Mevolent? The guy who tried to take over the world and kill all mortals?”
“Ah-ah. He never said he wanted to kill them all, just that he wanted to kill some of them and enslave the rest.”
“And this new guy denounced him. He sounds lovely.”
“You’re going to like him, I just know it.”
They watched the people go by.
“You didn’t tell Tipstaff what you’re working on,” she said.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Any particular reason?”
Skulduggery shrugged. “I don’t have to. I don’t report to anyone here. If they’re smart, they’ll keep out of my way and let me do my job. Sometimes that happens. Sometimes it doesn’t.”
The monument in the Circle, across from the fountain, was a huge, three-sided clock, its inner workings exposed to the elements. The clocks were each stopped at different times, representing different stages of Devastation Day. The first clock was frozen at the moment Darquesse broke through the energy barrier protecting the city, the second clock was trapped at the moment she set off that devastating explosion in the eastern quarter, and the hands of the third clock were eternally stuck at the moment Darquesse left this reality, believing she had destroyed everything worth destroying.
It appeared, however, that a clock wouldn’t be a clock, even one as symbolic as this, without the ability to tell the actual time, so within every face there were the shadows of hands that weren’t there. This, Skulduggery had explained to Valkyrie upon her return, was a metaphor for life carrying on after catastrophe. They were also pretty accurate, which was a plus.
Checking the time, Valkyrie waited until no one was within earshot. “You’ve got me for twenty-two hours and thirty-three minutes,” she said, “and Temper Fray is still missing. What’s the plan?”
“We’re going to need someone to go undercover, I’m afraid. Nothing dangerous, I assure you. At least, it shouldn’t be. I presume it won’t be dangerous in the slightest, but it might be just a little bit dangerous, if we’re unlucky. Which we usually are, let’s be honest.”
She looked away so he wouldn’t see the doubt in her eyes, but it was too late.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“I can’t do it,” she said softly.
“Can’t do what?”
She cleared her throat. “Can’t go undercover, Skulduggery. I just can’t. I’m not … I’m not at my best and I’m not ready for it. I don’t even want to be here, for God’s sake. I’m sorry, I don’t want to let you down, but surely there’s someone else we can send. There has to be.”
His head tilted. “There is.”
She frowned. “Really?”
“I wasn’t going to send you, Valkyrie. You’re far too conspicuous, especially in Roarhaven. No, this will have to be somebody new. Somebody totally unconnected to either of us. Somebody no one would ever suspect of doing anything remotely adventurous. Luckily, I have just the boy in mind.”
6 (#ulink_b213b034-ddbb-5b46-b602-d60938fcae12)
The prophecy told of the first-born son of Caddock Sirroco and Emmeline Darkly, a boy of intelligence and strength with a courageous heart who, in his seventeenth year, would face the King of the Darklands in a battle that would decide the fate of humanity.
Omen Darkly was not that boy. Omen Darkly was the second-born son of Caddock Sirroco and Emmeline Darkly, albeit only by a few minutes, and, as such, he got all the leftovers.
Auger, the first-born, was tall and good-looking. Omen had yet to really start growing, and he was worried about a new rash of pimples that had appeared on his chin overnight. Auger’s dark hair looked styled even when messy, but Omen’s hair, the colour of wet sand, looked messy even when styled.
There were other problems, too. His waist, for example. Yes, it was wider than he’d have liked, but more troubling was that the way it was shaped made it impossible for shirts to stay tucked in. There were possibly some issues with his feet, too, as shoelaces stubbornly refused to remain tied. But, even beyond the physical, Omen struggled in comparison to his brother. Auger would have come top of his class even if he didn’t work hard, but work hard he did. Omen had never mastered working. Given the choice between studying a textbook or daydreaming, he’d choose daydreaming every time. He liked some subjects well enough, in particular the languages of magic, but he just didn’t have the drive that his twin possessed. He didn’t have the focus. And he certainly didn’t have the natural talent.
But he wasn’t jealous. For all Omen’s faults, and he recognised that he had many, he at least didn’t blame his twin for his own shortcomings. His brother was a good guy. His brother was a great guy. His brother was the greatest guy alive, in fact, because in three years’ time he’d turn seventeen and fulfil the Darkly Prophecy and fight to save the world. Can’t get any greater than that.
So Omen didn’t mind being constantly overlooked. He was used to it at home, and he was used to it in school. Everyone wanted to hang around the Chosen One. Nobody wanted to hang around the Chosen One’s brother.
Sometimes, in his quieter moments, Omen would fleetingly wonder what life would have been like if he had been born first. He bet it would have rocked.
But again no jealousy. No bitterness. Just easily quashed curiosity. He didn’t mind.
He watched Auger pass in the hall. A First Year kid tripped and dropped his books, and Auger helped him pick them up. He joked with the kid and the kid flushed with happiness and walked away with his books in his arms and a new confidence in his step. The Chosen One had that effect on people.
Omen kept watching, as a boy with bronze hair and a girl with a wide smile joined his brother. Auger’s friends were almost as cool as Auger himself, having earned their place at his side by not giving a damn about his celebrity status. Omen knew that Auger, in fact, would have sought them out once they’d satisfied his mysterious checklist. It took a lot to be Auger Darkly’s friend, and Kase and Mahala had passed that test without ever knowing they’d taken it.
Omen closed his locker and slung his bag over his shoulder, then headed off to his next class.
This was his third year at Corrival Academy, deep within the heart of Roarhaven’s cultural district. Protected from the surrounding streets by four massive walls with a massive tower at each corner, the school would have been the biggest structure in the city were it not for the Dark Cathedral and, of course, the High Sanctuary. Within those massive walls of the school stood the main building of stone and staircases and balustrades and balconies, and another half-dozen adjunct buildings dotted around the campus and courtyards.
Omen liked the place well enough, and liked Roarhaven, too. It was a lot better than where he’d grown up. The magical community in his hometown near Galway was small and suspicious of their mortal neighbours. His parents, in particular, were guilty of harbouring a deep and abiding distrust of anyone born without magic. Of course, they distrusted most people born with magic, too, so he had been glad to leave it all behind and come here, to the most exclusive school in the world. The fact that he had only been invited to attend because of the Darkly Prophecy did not matter to him one little bit.
Omen even liked the uniform. He said he didn’t, claimed he hated it to anyone who would listen, but it was actually pretty cool, all things considered. Black blazer worn with black trousers or skirt, white shirt and tie. Each of the Years, from First to Sixth, had a different colour, starting with yellow and ending with black. As a Third Year, Omen’s tie and the piping on his blazer were both purple. The school crest, a dragon and three burning towers, was captured in a patch worn on the left breast, and the uniforms looked cool no matter the size or weight of the student. Omen may not have won any Student of the Year prizes (they usually went to Auger), and he wished he could fit into a uniform a size or two smaller, but he definitely felt that all-too-rare sensation of pride whenever he donned those clothes.
Now he joined a line of smartly dressed students as they filed into class. He did his best to tuck in his shirt, then sat at his desk and pulled a book out of his bag.
“Where’d you get to?”
Omen looked up. Never’s ash-brown hair was tied back today, which meant he was identifying as male. This was unusual for a Tuesday. Normally he was a she by this stage of the week, although Omen knew by now that to assume anything of Never was a mistake. Back in First Year, she had stood up in class and declared loudly that he would not be held to anyone’s expectations but her own. He sat next to Omen in most of their classes together.
“I had a study period,” said Omen. “Where were you?”
“Maths,” said Never. “Where you should have been.”
“We have maths next class.”
“No, we had maths last class. Peccant has you down as ditching.”
“Aw, man.”
“You should really look at your timetable every once in a while.”
“He hates me so much.”
“You’re not his favourite, it has to be said.”
The door at the front of the class swung open and Miss Wicked walked in. Immediately, the chatter died. Miss Wicked was one of those teachers who demanded obedience from even the unruliest of students. In his three years of attendance, Omen had never seen her angry, had never heard her raise her voice, and yet she somehow remained intimidating despite this calm demeanour.
She was tall and brilliant and blonde and slender, and she had a tongue as sharp as her cheekbones and always wore pencil skirts and high heels. Omen was a little bit in love with her.
“Today we are going to be discussing Necromancy,” Miss Wicked said in that precise way of hers, where every word was perfectly formed. “Can anyone tell me the names of some prominent Necromancers of the past?”
Hands went up, Omen’s included.
“Axelia,” Miss Wicked said.
Omen almost sighed. Axelia Lukt was the prettiest girl in school, with hair almost as blonde as Miss Wicked’s and big blue eyes and the cutest Icelandic accent Omen had ever heard. Omen had had many conversations with Axelia, conversations where he’d joked and laughed and made incisive comments about world events. He’d been charming, funny and considerate, and the fact that she hadn’t yet fallen in love with him was a puzzle he just couldn’t solve. Maybe the fact that all of these conversations had taken place entirely in his head had something to do with it, or perhaps it was because he had yet to engage her in an actual, physical, real way. Whatever the reason, girls remained a mystery to him, but he was determined to figure it out.
He’d started practising in the mirror.
“Morwenna Crow,” Axelia said, answering the question while simultaneously proving that a better volunteer could not have been chosen. “Melancholia St Clair. Lord Vile.”
Miss Wicked nodded. “Lord Vile. The most notorious. Can you tell me the object into which he poured his power?”
“His armour,” said Axelia. She was so smart.
“Very good. Necromancy is death magic. Shadow magic. As such, it is a lot more volatile than Elemental magic, or even most Adept disciplines. Necromancers store a good portion of their power in an object that they either wear or carry around with them.”
“Necromancers are sad little lunatics,” said Jenan Ispolin, his lanky frame lounging back in his chair. “My father rounded them all up years ago, dragged them out of their little temple and kicked them out of our country.” Jenan’s father was the Bulgarian Grand Mage, and his smirking son rarely let anyone forget it. Like Omen, Jenan belonged to a Legacy family, where everyone was encouraged to take on the same surname – but, whereas the Darkly name had somewhat positive connotations, the Ispolin name brought to mind brutality under the auspices of law. “That’s what you do to people like that.”
Miss Wicked observed him. “People like what, Jenan?”
Jenan sat up a little straighter, and cleared his throat. “Uh, Necromancers, miss.”
“Necromancers are sorcerers, the same as you or I. Are you going to condemn them for their chosen discipline?”
“No, miss,” Jenan said, flushing red. “I just meant … when the Death Bringer was around, she—”
“Her name, please?”
“Melancholia, miss. When Melancholia was around, she tried to kill billions of people. That was the Necromancer plan all along. My father said they were all murderers and he didn’t want them in our country so he … he kicked them out.”
“And what if some of your classmates harbour a desire to join a temple and study Necromancy?” Miss Wicked asked. “How do you think they feel right now, to hear you speak of them this way?”
Jenan shrugged. “Dunno, miss. Don’t care.”
“We have a Necromancer on our teaching staff, here at the Academy. Are you calling her a murderer, too, Jenan?”
He shrugged again. Defiant this time.
Miss Wicked nodded, like she had reached a conclusion she had no intention of sharing. “I see,” she said.
There was a knock on the door and a blushing First Year came in. He hurried up to Miss Wicked, passed her a note, and hurried out as fast as his little legs could carry him. Miss Wicked glanced at the piece of paper, then looked up.
“Omen,” she said.
Omen sat straighter. “Yes, miss?”
“Your presence is required elsewhere.”
A creeping dread came over him. Peccant must really be on the warpath if he was taking Omen out of class. “Do I really have to go?”
Miss Wicked gave a half-smile, and a part of him, beyond the dread, delighted in being able to amuse her. “Yes, you do. Take your bag and report to the South Tower.”
Omen frowned. “Mr Peccant isn’t going to throw me off, is he?”
“I have no more information than that, I’m afraid. You’ll have to take your chances. Off you go.”
Omen glanced at Never and got a sympathetic look in reply. He stuffed his book into his bag, headed for the door and tripped over Jenan’s outstretched foot. Omen went stumbling and the class erupted into laughter that was immediately curtailed by Miss Wicked’s arched eyebrow.
Omen left the room and dragged himself to the South Tower. Peccant may have been an excellent teacher, but he was also a terrifying man with an explosive temper, and Omen had always got the impression that teaching was just the wrong vocation for him. Maybe something like State Executioner would have been more suited to his personality. Or Puppy-Killer.
Despite his reluctance to arrive, Omen walked a little faster. To keep Peccant waiting when the teacher was already in a bad mood would not have been wise. Omen took the main stairs up and cut through the Combat Arts block. Not every Corrival graduate was going to work for a Sanctuary, but it was still generally acknowledged that being able to defend yourself was a good thing, and should be encouraged. In this block, they devoted equal time to the physical and magical sides of self-defence. Auger, of course, was the star pupil.
When Omen reached his destination, there was nobody waiting for him. He walked out on to the covered balcony that circled the tower. The wind was pretty stiff up here. He looked out over Roarhaven. From where he was standing, he could see the High Sanctuary and the Dark Cathedral, challenging each other across the Circle zone. Below him, people walked over the bridge that spanned Black Lake. He thought he saw movement beneath the water and he peered closer. The Sea Maiden had her home down there, somewhere in that sparkling darkness. A beautiful woman with long dark hair, Omen had only glimpsed her once, but that had been enough to enthral him. Below the waist she may have been a serpent, but above the waist she was divine.
“Mr Darkly,” a man said from behind. Right before he turned, Omen thought it was Peccant speaking, but it wasn’t.
It was Skulduggery Pleasant. Skulduggery Pleasant was standing there, speaking. Beside Skulduggery Pleasant stood Valkyrie Cain. Valkyrie Cain stood beside Skulduggery Pleasant, and they stood there, looking at Omen, and Omen stood there, looking at them and trying his very best not to geek out.
7 (#ulink_a5bbd361-b437-522e-8194-edaf009f4666)
“I’m your biggest fan,” Omen said before he could stop himself.
Skulduggery Pleasant’s head tilted. “Thank you,” he said. He was wearing the coolest suit Omen had ever seen, and he was a skeleton. Omen had known this, of course he had, but there was a world of difference between knowing there existed a living skeleton and actually seeing him in front of you. There were no wires or strings keeping the bones together, at least none that Omen could see. He was tall, and the brim of his hat dipped low over his eye sockets.
Valkyrie Cain – the Valkyrie Cain – was almost as tall as Skulduggery, and prettier than she appeared in the photographs he’d seen – and she appeared plenty pretty in the photographs. Her black hair was a little longer. She was bigger, too. Slim, but beneath her jacket her shoulders were wide. It was weird seeing her in jeans. Like she was out of uniform.
“My name is Skulduggery Pleasant. This is my associate, Valkyrie Cain.”
“Hello,” Omen said. He sounded reasonably calm, which surprised him. His voice didn’t break, which delighted him. This was a good start, but he could feel the excitement bubbling up from his chest. He hiccuped. “Excuse me,” he said.
“Your name was given to us by one of your teachers,” Skulduggery continued. “Apparently, you are someone we could possibly trust with sensitive information. We need your help, quite frankly.”
Omen nodded. Then frowned. Then tried to smile. Then looked confused.
“This world faces a threat,” Skulduggery went on, “and we think you may be able to help us stop it.”
“Oh,” said Omen, it all suddenly making sense. “No, sorry, you’ve got the wrong brother. I’m Omen Darkly. You want Auger Darkly – he’s the Chosen One.”
“We haven’t made a mistake, Omen. It’s you we want.”
A frown creased Omen’s forehead once more. “Why?”
“Your brother would draw too much attention,” Valkyrie said. “From what I’ve heard, people notice when he walks by. We need someone who disappears in a crowd.”
Omen smiled widely. “That does sound like me.”
“What we’re about to ask you to do shouldn’t be dangerous,” Skulduggery said, “but, if it turns out that way, your skills could come in useful.”
