Skulduggery Pleasant: Last Stand of Dead Men (5 page)

“Probably,” said Valkyrie.

“And now look at me!” her dad said. “Eighteen years on and I have two daughters, and the smaller one can barely walk in a straight line, let alone do ballet. What age are you, Alice? Four? Five?”

“Eighteen months,” said Valkyrie’s mum.

“Eighteen months and what have you to show for it? Do you even have a job? Do you? You’re a burden on this family. A burden, I say.”

“Toast,” Alice responded, and squealed as her dad scooped her up and did his face-hugger walk round the kitchen.

“I’m pretty sure that when that speech started it was about you,” Valkyrie’s mum said, “but then he kind of got distracted. Des. Des, don’t you think it’s time to give Steph her birthday present?”

“Present!” Alice yelled, as her dad held her over his shoulder by one ankle.

“Fair enough, wifey. I suppose it can’t be put off any longer. Steph, now that you have large sums of money, you can of course buy one of these brand-new if you so wanted. But I like to think that a second-hand one, bought by your parents, would have a sentimental value that you just wouldn’t be able to get in a—”

Valkyrie sat up straight. “You got me a car?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She stood. “Oh my God, you got me a car?”

“Again, I didn’t say that. It might not be a car. It might be a drum kit.”

“Is it a drum kit?”

“No. It’s a car.”

“Toast!” Alice yelped.

“Ah, yes, sorry,” Valkyrie’s dad said, setting his youngest daughter back on the ground. She wobbled and fell over and started laughing.

“You are so dumb,” her dad murmured.

Valkyrie ran to the front door, yanked it open, and froze. There, in the driveway, was a gleaming Ford Fiesta. And it was orange.

She’d been in an orange car before. One of Skulduggery’s spare cars had been orange. But this … this …

She couldn’t help herself. “It looks like an Oompa-Loompa,” she blurted.

“Do you not like it?” her mum asked at her shoulder.

“I asked for the colour specially,” her dad said. “The salesman said it wasn’t a good idea, but I thought it might be extra safe and there was a possibility it could glow in the dark. It doesn’t, though.” He sounded dejected. “If you want a different colour, we can take it back. I mean, the salesman will probably laugh at me, but that’s OK. He was laughing enough when I drove off in it.”

Valkyrie walked up to the car, traced her fingertips along the side. The interior was dark green. Just like an Oompa-Loompa’s hair. She looked back at her parents.

“You got me a car. You got me a
car
.”

Her mum dangled the keys. “Do you like it?”

“I love it!”

Valkyrie caught the keys and slipped in behind the wheel. Her car had a very nice dashboard, and a very nice smell, and her car was very clean. She adjusted her rear-view mirror in her car and slid her seat back in her car and it was her car. It wasn’t the Bentley and apart from the colour it wasn’t very flashy, but it was
her
car. “You are the Oompa-Loompa,” she said, patting the dash, “and I love you.”

She put on Pixie Lott as she got ready, sang along as she danced round her bedroom, doing the hip-grinding thing in the mirror whenever the chorus popped up. The white dress tonight, she reckoned, laying it out on the bed. Tight, white and strapless – her dad was going to have a fit when he saw it. But this was her night, and she was going out with her friends, and she was going to wear whatever the hell she wanted. She was eighteen, after all.

As she sang into the hairbrush, she realised that she was actually looking forward to spending time with Hannah and the others. A girls’ night out – the first girls’ night out since school had ended. It was going to be fun. The fact that she had butterflies struck her as weird, though, until she tried to remember whether or not she’d actually met all of her friends, or if some were friends the reflection had made and then simply transferred the memory to Valkyrie’s mind. She laughed at the oddness of her life, and then her phone rang and she paused the music.

“Happy birthday,” Skulduggery said.

“Thank you,” she grinned. “Guess what my parents got me.”

“An orange car.”

Her grin faded. “How did you know?”

“I’m looking at it.”

“You’re outside?”

“We got a call. You’re not doing anything, are you?”

She looked at her dress, at her shoes, and felt the butterflies slowly stop fluttering. “No,” she said, “not doing anything. I’ll be out in a minute.”

She hung up, and sighed. Then she tapped the mirror in her wardrobe and her reflection stepped out.

“I know,” Valkyrie said. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”

“You deserve a different kind of fun,” the reflection said.

Valkyrie pulled on her black trousers, hunted around for some socks, and grabbed her boots. “It’s fine. Most of them are your friends anyway. I’ve never talked to them. What would I even say?”

“You’re really going to use that excuse?”

“I’m going to use whatever excuse I have to. Where’s my black top?”

“I put it in the wash.”

“It was clean.”

“It had blood on it.”

“Yeah, but not mine.”

The reflection held up a spaghetti-strap T-shirt.

“That’s pink,” said Valkyrie.

The reflection pulled it on. “It looks cute on you.”

Valkyrie raised an eyebrow. “It
does
look cute on me. Wow. I look hot in that. Where did I get it?”

“I bought it last week,” the reflection said, giving a twirl.

“OK, you’ve convinced me.”

The reflection threw it to her and Valkyrie put it on, then zipped up her jacket.

“Do me a favour, OK?” said Valkyrie. “Have a good time tonight.”

“I’ll do my very best,” said the reflection, and smiled. “You try to do the same.”

Valkyrie opened the window. “I’ll be with Skulduggery,” she said. “No trying involved.”

She slipped out as Pixie Lott started playing again, and she jumped.

Right before they reached the hotel, Skulduggery’s gloved fingers pressed the symbols on his collarbones, and a face flowed up over his skull.

Valkyrie raised an eyebrow. “Not bad.”

“You like this one?”

“It suits you. Can you keep it on file, or something?”

He smiled. “Every time I activate the façade, the result is random, you know that.”

“Yeah, but you’ve had it for a few years now. It might be time to start thinking about settling down with something a little more permanent.”

“Are you trying to make me normal?”

“Heaven forbid,” she said, widening her eyes in mock horror. He opened the door for her, followed her through. They walked into the lobby, passed the reception desk and went straight to the elevators. Skulduggery slipped a black card into the slot, and pressed the button for the penthouse. The doors slid closed.

“So …” said Valkyrie.

“So.”

“It’s my eighteenth.”

“Yes it is.”

“The big one eight. I’m an adult now. Technically.”

“Technically.”

“It’s an important birthday.”

“Well, you’re doing fine so far.”

She laughed. “Did you … y’know … Did you get me a present?”

Skulduggery looked at her. “Did you want me to get you a present?”

Her smile dropped. “Of course.”

The elevator stopped with a
ping
, and the doors opened. She was the first out, walking quickly.

“I see,” he said, following her. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“I think you know me well enough by now to figure it out for yourself.”

“You’re mad at me.”

“No I’m not.”

“Despite my handsome face, you are.”

She stopped before they reached the penthouse and turned. “Yes, I’m mad at you. People buy presents for people who are important to them. After all this time, I didn’t think I had to
tell
you to buy me a present.”

“And I didn’t think I had to buy you a present to prove that you’re important to me.”

“Well … I mean … you don’t, but … but that’s not the point. It’s not about proving it, it’s about showing it.”

“And a gift is an accurate measurement? Your parents got you a car. Does this mean you are as important to them as a car is? Do they love you a car’s worth?”

“Of course not. A birthday present is a token gift.”

“A token gift is like an empty gesture – devoid of any kind of value.”

“It’s a nice thing to do!”

“Oh,” Skulduggery said. “OK. I understand. I’ll get you a present, then.”

“Thank you.” She turned back, and knocked on the door. “Who are we here to see?”

“An old friend of yours,” Skulduggery said, and for the first time she noticed the edge to his voice.

She didn’t have time to question him further. The doors opened as one and Solomon Wreath smiled at her.

“Hello, Valkyrie,” he said.

Before she knew what she was doing, she was giving him a hug. “Solomon! What are you doing here? I thought you were off having adventures.”

“I can’t have adventures in my home country every once in a while? This is where the real action is, after all. Come in, come in. Skulduggery, I suppose you can join us.”

“You’re too kind,” Skulduggery muttered, following them inside and closing the doors behind him.

The penthouse was huge and extravagant, though Valkyrie had been in bigger and more extravagant when she dated Fletcher. Back then, he’d spend his nights in whatever penthouse suite was available around the world, and all for free. Such were the advantages of being a Teleporter, she supposed, though these days all that had changed. Now he had a nice, normal girlfriend and he was living in his own apartment in Australia. He was almost settled. It was kind of scary.

She glanced back at Skulduggery, who had already let his false face melt away. He took off his hat and didn’t say anything as Wreath came back with a small box, wrapped up in a bow.

“Happy birthday,” Wreath said.

Valkyrie’s eyes widened. “You got me a present?”

“Of course,” Wreath said, almost laughing at her surprise. “You were my best student in all my years in the Necromancer Temple. No one took to it quite like you did, and although we may have hit a few bumps along the way—”

“Like you trying to kill billions of people,” Skulduggery said.

“—you have always been my favourite,” Wreath finished, ignoring him. “Open it. I think you’ll like it.”

Valkyrie pulled the bow apart and the wrapping opened like a gently blooming flower. There was a wooden box within, and she opened the lid and raised an eyebrow. “It’s, uh, it’s an exact copy of my ring.”

“Not exact,” said Wreath. “Inside, it is different indeed. When students begin their training, they are given objects like the ring you have now – good, strong, sturdy, capable of wielding an impressive amount of power. But after their Surge, they need something stronger, something to handle a lot more power.”

“But I haven’t had my Surge yet.”

Wreath smiled. “I know, and yet you need an upgrade already. In this, as in so many other ways, you are exceptional, Valkyrie. Your ring, please?”

He held out his hand. She glanced at Skulduggery, then slid it from her finger and passed it over. As Wreath walked out of the room for a moment, she took the new one from the box, put it on.

Wreath returned, carrying a hammer. “Now for the fun part,” he said, and put Valkyrie’s ring on the table and smashed it. A wave of shadows exploded from the flying shards, twisted in the air and went straight for the ring on her finger. The ring sucked them in eagerly, turning cold, and Valkyrie gasped.

“Do you feel it?” Wreath asked. “Do you feel that power?”

“Wow,” she said, regaining control of herself. “I do. Wow. That’s … that’s …”

“That’s Necromancy.”

It was startling. It was distracting. It was amazing. “Thank you,” she said.

Wreath shrugged. “Turning eighteen is a big day for anyone. But I am well aware that you did not come to see me for gifts and hugs.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, getting her mind back on track. “Why
are
we here to see you?”

“Your unusually silent partner here has been in touch. It seems you’ve been investigating the events surrounding that Warlock trying to kill you last year.”

“He told us he was doing you Necromancers a favour,” Skulduggery said. “It was in exchange for information. A name.”

“First of all,” said Wreath, “I was kept out of that particular loop. It was not my idea to include the Warlocks in any of our sordid schemes, because I am neither stupid nor deranged. That was all Craven, by way of that idiot Dragonclaw.”

“So what did Dragonclaw tell the Warlock?” Valkyrie asked.

“Please,” Wreath said, “take a seat. What do you know about the Warlocks?”

Valkyrie settled herself on the couch, the ring sending slivers of sensation dancing up and down her arm. “Just the, uh, you know, the usual stuff. They’re not … wow, this ring is cool … they’re not like the rest of us. They have their own culture, their own traditions, their own type of magic …”

Wreath nodded. “A type of magic that, quite frankly, we don’t understand. And all of that is fine because there aren’t very many of them and they keep to themselves. Or at least they did.”

“What’s happened?”

“Someone’s been attacking them,” Wreath said. “Provoking the Warlocks is not a wise move at the best of times, but there seems to be a group of people who are determined to do just that. In the past five years, dozens of Warlocks have been killed. They’ve been isolated from the others, hunted down, and executed. Now there is only a handful left.”

Valkyrie frowned. “The one who attacked us, he said they’re growing stronger every day.”

Wreath smiled. “Warlocks are known for never showing weakness. It’s what I like about them.”

“So what name did he want from Dragonclaw?”

“An associate of mine, Baritone, actually one of the Necromancers who were killed during the battle at Aranmore, was travelling through France a year or so before he died and happened to come across a group of mortals in a bar who were boasting of a job well done. Naturally, he pretended to be a mere mortal just like they were and, from what he gathered, they were ex-Special Forces, funded by secret government money and directed to—”