Derek Landy - Resurrection

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“There’s a bar somewhere around here,” Skulduggery answered. “From what I’ve heard, it’s rife with anti-mortal sentiment.”

“You think the bad guys drink there? What’s it called?”

“The Mage’s Lament.”

“What’s he lamenting,” she asked, wincing slightly, “not ruling the world? Bit of a long shot, isn’t it, checking out a bar the bad guys might frequent?”

“I am merely aware that my twenty-four hours with you are slipping away, so I thought we may as well try a few long shots while we’re together. Are you feeling OK? You’ve gone quite pale.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just have a headache starting up.”

“Probably from all the punching you’ve recently undergone.”

She shrugged. “People don’t like me here. I have to get used to it.”

“So you’re not going to alert the City Guard, have these people arrested?”

“They attacked; I defended. It’s over. Besides, it’s not like the City Guard would take me seriously. They’re probably looking for any excuse to slap the shackles on me.”

“Perhaps you’re right. I suppose I should just be thankful that this mysterious stranger showed up in time to rescue you.”

“He literally landed on the guy’s head. He didn’t rescue anyone. Stop saying that.”

“I just find it amusing that you’d need to be rescued.”

“First of all, I didn’t need anything of the sort. Second, what are you talking about? You used to rescue me all the time.”

“That was different. That was the natural flow of events. I’d rescue you, you’d rescue me, it’s how we worked. It’s how we work still. We’re there for each other, aren’t we? Until the end?”

“I suppose.”

Xena stopped walking, started whining. Valkyrie crouched, ruffling her fur. “What’s wrong with you, huh? What’s wrong with my baby?”

Skulduggery looked around. “I think we’re going the wrong way,” he said, and turned. Valkyrie followed as he walked back the way they came, Xena trotting happily ahead of her.

“It’s not like you to get lost,” Valkyrie said.

“I have many things on my mind. And, judging by the long periods of silence you sink into, so do you.”

“I don’t have to be talking every moment we’re together, do I?”

“No,” he said. “But that’s never stopped you before.”

She shrugged. “The world is a scary place, and it’s only getting scarier. The American president is a narcissistic psychopath. Fascism, racism, misogyny and homophobia are all on the rise. We’ve ruined the environment. Animals are going extinct faster than I can name them. Bullying is everywhere. Nobody talks to anyone who doesn’t share their views. Everyone hates. Everyone shouts. Everyone cries. There is literally no escape for the human race unless someone steps in and orders them to be better. But the only people who could do that are sorcerers, and that would bring about the war with the mortals that Cadaverous Gant and these anti-Sanctuary nutjobs so desperately want. So … y’know. Rock and a hard place.”

“You think cheery thoughts, don’t you?”

“Can’t help it. I’m a naturally optimistic person.”

They reached the Bentley and it unlocked with a beep.

“How’s the headache?” Skulduggery asked.

“Fading,” Valkyrie said. “Are we not sticking around? I thought we had to find The Mage’s Lament.”

“I’ve decided that I don’t like long shots. They’re annoying, and rarely work out. Besides, it’s the middle of the day – I doubt there’s anyone interesting there right now. A better use of our time might be to take a drive up to Cassandra Pharos’s cottage.”

Xena jumped in the car and Valkyrie got in after her. “You really want to take a detour?”

“You never got a chance to say goodbye when you left for America,” Skulduggery said, shutting the door and starting the engine. “Maybe some of your reluctance about committing to coming back stems from a lack of closure.”

“Wow.”

“What?”

“ Closure . Wow.”

They pulled out on to the road and started driving. “Closure is important,” he said. “You moved to Colorado and assumed that people like Cassandra and Finbar would be here when you got back. You never said goodbye.”

“You think I feel guilt about that?”

“You don’t?”

“No,” Valkyrie said, giving him back his hat. “And the only people who should are the people who killed them.”

The morning after the Night of Knives, Skulduggery had called Valkyrie in Colorado to let her know what had happened. She’d spoken to him while wrapped in a towel. The house was quiet apart from the faint splashes coming from the shower. By the time she’d hung up, the water had been turned off and the shower door was opening. She sat on the edge of her bed, tears in her eyes. She didn’t go to the funerals.

They rolled up to Cassandra’s cottage a little after 2 pm. Valkyrie had mixed feelings about the place. On the one hand, Cassandra had always reminded her of the grandmothers she’d lost when she was a kid. She’d been warm, and funny, and fascinating. She’d had stories to tell about each and every facet of her life. Just to be in her company had brought a glorious feeling of being welcome. Of coming home.

But the cottage had a cellar, and in that cellar there was a floor that was a metal grille over a bed of coals. And when the steam swirled and Cassandra played her visions out in 3D, like holograms, the warmth vanished, despite the rising heat, replaced by the cold dread of the horrors to come. It was in those steam clouds that Valkyrie had first seen the rubble of Roarhaven during Devastation Day, and her own face, mere moments before she went on to kill her baby sister.

Valkyrie let Xena roam, and eyed the cottage. “Why are we really here?” she asked.

“I have a theory that needs to be tested,” said Skulduggery. “No more questions. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

He found the key beneath an old pot and opened the front door, and Valkyrie took a dry leaf from the battered packet she kept in her jeans, popping it into her mouth as she stepped through. The cottage was just as she remembered – the comfy sofa, the faded rug, the guitar on a stand in the corner – but the dream whisperers which had hung from the rafters were gone. Valkyrie was glad. They were creepy little things.

“Are you OK?” Skulduggery asked.

The leaf had started to dissolve on her tongue, but she chewed the rest to get rid of it faster. They were great for numbing pain, be it from a broken leg, a gunshot wound, or a mere headache, but no one had yet bothered to make the damn things taste better. “Another headache,” she said as she wandered over to the guitar. “Nothing to worry about.” She picked it up.

Skulduggery’s head tilted. “Perhaps.”

She strummed. Badly. “Perhaps what? It’s a headache. People get headaches all the time. Especially after they’ve been punched in the face.”

Skulduggery took a small bag of rainbow dust from his pocket, held out his hand and let it sprinkle through his gloved fingers. It fell as golden particles. “Do you remember what gold means?”

“Gold means psychic. Which is to be expected, right? Even though Cassandra’s been dead for two years?” She played the first few bars of ‘Stairway to Heaven’, got it wrong and tried again.

“You are quite correct,” he responded, sealing the bag and putting it away. “This cottage contains an abundance of residual psychic energy, enough so that anyone with Sensitive tendencies would be vulnerable to their influence.”

“OK. So?”

“We were nearing Testament Road when you got the headache earlier,” he said. “The part of town where Sensitives can’t go.”