Derek Landy - Mortal Coil

“I’m gorgeous,” he said.

Valkyrie sighed. “Are you, now?”

“Do you ever just look at me and think, God he’s gorgeous? Do you? I do, all the time. I think you’re gorgeous too, of course.”

“Cheers.”

“You’ve got lovely dark eyes, and lovely dark hair, and your face is all pretty and stuff. And I love the way you dress in black, and I love the new clothes.”

“It’s a jacket, Fletch.”

“I love the new jacket,” he insisted. “Ghastly really made a lovely, lovely jacket.” He grinned.

“You look wide awake,” she said. “You’re never wide awake at this hour of the morning.”

“I’ve been researching. You’re not the only one who likes to read books, you know. Apparently, my power will increase if I work at it a little, so I thought I’d give it a try. I was told there was this book in Italy, written by a famous Teleporter – dead now, obviously – that could really help me, so I went there and got it.”

“Good man.”

“But it was written all in Italian, so I left it on the shelf and went to Australia for ice cream.” He brought his other hand out from behind his back, holding an ice-cream cone. “Got one for you.”

“Fletcher, it’s winter.”

“Not in Australia.”

“We’re not in Australia.”

“I’ll take you to Sydney for five minutes, you can eat the ice cream while we watch the sunset, and then we’ll come back to the misery here.”

Valkyrie sighed. “Your power is wasted on you.”

“My power is brilliant. Everyone wishes they had my power.”

“I don’t. I quite like being able to hurl people away from me just by moving the air.”

“Well, every non-violent person wishes they had my power, how’s that?”

Valkyrie frowned. “I’m not a violent person.”

“You punch people every day.”

“Not every day.”

“Val, you know I think you’re great, and I think you’re the coolest chick I’ve ever met, and the prettiest girl ever – but you get into a hell of a lot of fights. Face it, you lead a violent life.”

She wanted to protest, but no argument sprang to mind. Fletcher stopped holding out the ice cream, and started licking it instead, already forgetting what they’d just been talking about. Valkyrie checked the time, forcing her attention back to the here and now.

“Are you getting me anything for Christmas?” Fletcher asked, and Valkyrie found herself grinning despite everything.

“Yes. You better be getting me something.”

He shrugged. “Of course I am.”

“It better be amazing.”

“Of course it is. Hey, this time next year, you’ll have someone else to buy presents for. When’s your mum due?”

“Middle of February. I’m going to be asked to babysit, you know. How am I supposed to do that?”

“Get your reflection to do it.”

“I’m not leaving the baby with the reflection . Are you nuts? But I don’t even know how to hold a baby. Their heads are so big. Aren’t babies’ heads abnormally large? I’m not sure I’m going to be a good big sister. I hope she doesn’t take after me. I’d like her to have friends.”

“You have friends.”

“I’d like her to have friends who weren’t hundreds of years older than her.”

“Have you realised that you’re referring to the baby as ‘her’?”

“Am I? I suppose I am. I don’t know. It just feels like it’s going to be a girl.”

“Do you think she’ll be magic?”

“Skulduggery says it’s possible. Of course, that doesn’t mean she’ll ever find out about magic. Take my cousins, for example.”

“Ah, the infamous Toxic Twins.”

“They’re descended from the Last of the Ancients the same as I am, but we’ll never know if they can do magic, because they don’t know magic even exists .”

“So if you don’t want your sister involved in this crazy life of yours, you can just not tell her. And in twenty-five years, she’ll be looking at you, going, ‘Hey, sis, how come we look like we’re exactly the same age?’ Will you tell her then that magic slows the aging process?”

“I’ll probably just tell her that my natural beauty makes me look eternally young. She’s my little sister – she’ll believe anything I tell her.”

“To be honest, Val, I love the fact that this is happening. Once you have a sister, or a brother, that looks up to you and needs you, it might make you stop and think before rushing into dangerous situations.”

“I do stop and think.”

“And then you rush in anyway.”

“There’s still stopping and thinking involved.”

Fletcher smiled. “Sometimes I just worry about you.”

“Your concern is touching.”

“You’re not taking me even a little bit seriously, are you?”

“I can’t take you seriously, Fletch, you have a dollop of ice cream on your nose. Besides, we can have this conversation a thousand times – it’s not going to stop me going out there and doing what I do.”

Fletcher finished off the cone and wiped the ice cream from his face.

“Are you so determined to be the hero?” he asked softly.

She kissed him, and didn’t answer. He was wrong, of course. It wasn’t about her being the hero – not any more. It was just about her trying not to be the villain.

neaking up on someone who can see into the future is not as impossible a task as many people think. For one thing, the future changes. Details shift, circumstances alter, and while the universe is struggling to realign itself into some semblance of balance, opportunity has its moment to present itself. The trick is to be a constant destabilising influence in a world that really just wants to be left alone.

Solomon Wreath was confident that he could be just such a destabilising influence. Leaving many of his decisions open to chance, he had approached the tattoo parlour three times already, and by the toss of a coin he had walked on by. The fourth toss of the coin, however, brought him to the door, and had him climbing the narrow stairs, black bag in one hand, cane in the other. No sound coming from above him. No whine of the tattooist’s needle. No chat, laughter or yelp. He could practically sense the trap waiting for him, but this didn’t slow his step.

At the top of the stairs he turned and walked through the doorway, and that was when the skinny man with the Pogues T-shirt came at him with a cushion. Not being the world’s deadliest weapon, the cushion bounced softly off Wreath’s shoulder, and the skinny man did his best to run by. Wreath dropped his cane, caught the man and threw him against a chair that looked like it belonged in a dental surgery. The skinny man fell awkwardly over it.

“Finbar Wrong,” Wreath said, putting the black bag on a nearby table. “May I call you Finbar? I assume you know who I am.”

Finbar sprang to his feet, hands held out in front of him, fingers rigid. “I do,” he said, “and I feel I have to warn you, man, you can’t beat me. I’ve seen this fight already, and I know every move you’re gonna make.”

Shadows curled around Wreath’s cane, and brought it up off the floor and into his waiting hand.

Finbar nodded. “I knew you were gonna do that.”