Skulduggery Pleasant

“Good man,” said Miss Gnosis.

“I’ll do it.”

“All right then.”

“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_21ec01e5-efec-576d-9015-77217280886e)

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_5b3c0ff5-f404-592f-83c7-2272ab0ab4de)

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.