Derek Landy - Last Stand of Dead Men

“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—”

“Wait,” Skulduggery said. “You’re talking about Department X.”

“Who are they?” Valkyrie asked.

“They don’t exist,” Skulduggery said. “There have always been rumours of mortal governments forming death squads to go out and exterminate sorcerers. Department X was supposedly a British and Irish joint task force, shrouded in mystery and conspiracy. Except, as I said, they don’t exist. Any time someone in power starts to ask questions, we send people like Geoffrey Scrutinous in to convince them they’re being silly.”

“That may be so,” said Wreath, “but these mortals admitted to Baritone that they had just taken out, in their words, the most dangerous targets they’d ever hunted. They told Baritone he wouldn’t believe the whole story if he heard it – they said the targets they killed bled light . Sound familiar?”

“Sounds like Warlocks,” said Valkyrie.

“And that’s all Dragonclaw gave the Warlock in question?” Skulduggery pressed. “A sorcerer’s urban legend?”

Wreath shrugged. “It’s the only juicy little titbit concerning the Warlocks that we possess. I can’t imagine what else it could have been. Obviously, word got out that we knew something and Charivari sent his little friend to investigate.”

“And there’s nothing else we should know?”

“Nothing else of value. The only other item of interest was that one of the soldiers mentioned their orders had been given by an old man with a long grey beard and another man he couldn’t identify.”

Valkyrie ignored the ring, and frowned. “What, he didn’t know him?”

“No,” said Wreath. “Baritone was under the impression that the soldier couldn’t even remember him.”

“All of this,” Skulduggery said, “strikes me as something you could have told me over the phone.”

Wreath laughed. “Now that is very true, Skulduggery. However, we don’t like each other very much, so I wasn’t about to tell you anything. And how else was I going to see my favourite student on her special day without popping up uninvited outside her window? Such behaviour strikes me as being vaguely unhealthy, wouldn’t you agree?”

“A visit from you strikes me as very unhealthy,” Skulduggery said.

Valkyrie got to her feet. “I’m going to cut this short before you start hitting each other. Solomon, thank you for your help and thank you so much for the present – it was really nice of you.”

“My pleasure,” he said, coming forward and kissing her cheek. “Happy birthday again.”

Skulduggery put on his hat and walked out. Valkyrie caught up with him at the elevator, right before the doors slid closed. They started their descent.

“What do you think it all means?” she asked.

Skulduggery didn’t respond.

She sighed. “Are you sulking?”

“Me? No. I don’t sulk.”

“You sound like you’re sulking.”

“I’m just waiting for the violent urges to subside.”

“Why don’t you like Solomon? He’s really not that bad.”

“I’ve known him a lot longer than you have.”

“Fine. Be like that. So this mystery man giving orders, the one who couldn’t be remembered … We’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”

Skulduggery activated his façade as they reached the ground floor. The face was plain, the expression grim. They walked to the exit. “Three years ago, Davina Marr was enlisted to destroy the Sanctuary in Dublin by a man she couldn’t remember clearly. A similar man turns up five years ago and is revealed to be behind some Warlock killings. Sean Mackin, that lovable teenage psychopath, was released from his Sanctuary cell three months ago by a man he can’t quite remember. It would appear that this is the same man, and he has a significant connection to Roarhaven.” They left the hotel, walked to the Bentley.