Skulduggery Pleasant

“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_bda87a45-7d9d-554c-8060-fd7605f128ba)

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.