Last Stand of Dead Men Read online

  “This’ll be interesting,” Ravel muttered.

  “Before the Sanctuaries, there were communities. Each of these communities was ruled by twelve village Elders. Each of these twelve would oversee a different aspect of village life, but, when the time came to make important decisions, all twelve votes were counted equally.”

  “We know our own history,” said Ravel. “We also know that when the Sanctuaries were established, the unwieldy twelve was cut down to a more practical three. Even the communities that are around today haven’t kept up with the old ways.”

  “Even so,” Illori said, “lessons can be learned. We propose the establishment of a supporting Council of nine – five mages of our choosing, four of yours – to help you in the running of your affairs. This would leave you with a majority of seven to five, and it would mean you had more sorcerers, more Cleavers, and more resources. Your Sanctuary would remain under your full control and it would be returned to its former strength.”

  Ravel looked at her. “I’m curious as to why you think we would possibly say yes to this.”

  “Because it’s a fair proposal. You retain full control—”

  “We retain full control now,” said Mist. “Why would we change?”

  “Because the current situation is not acceptable.”

  “To you,” said Ravel.

  “To us, yes,” said Illori. “There are members of the Supreme Council who view you as dangerous and reckless and they continually call for action against you. Every mage paying attention is expecting war to break out at any moment. Why would you risk hostilities if the situation can be resolved amicably?”

  “There’s not going to be a supporting Council, Elder Reticent.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the Supreme Council does not tell us what to do.”

  Illori shook her head. “Is that what this is? A matter of pride? You won’t accept our terms because you don’t like being told what to do? Pride is wasted breath, Grand Mage Ravel. Pride is you putting your own petty concerns over the well-being of every sorcerer in your Sanctuary. More than that, it’s putting your petty concerns over the well-being of every mortal around the world. If war breaks out, it’s going to be so much harder to keep our activities off the news channels. If that happens, it’s on your heads. But we can avoid it all if you’d just listen to reason.”

  “The Supreme Council has no right to dictate to other Sanctuaries how to conduct their business,” said Mist. “In fact, the Supreme Council itself may even be an illegal organisation.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “We have our people looking into it,” Mist said.

  “Don’t bother,” said Illori. “We’ve already had our own experts combing through the literature. There is no ancient rule or obscure law that says Sanctuaries cannot join forces to combat a significant threat. It’s what we did against Mevolent, after all.”

  “We are a significant threat, are we?” asked Ravel.

  “You might be,” Illori answered, then shook her head. “Listen, I didn’t come here to threaten you. We are standing on the precipice and the Supreme Council isn’t going to back away. They’re angry and they’re frightened, and the more they think about this, the more angry and frightened they become. They’re hurtling towards war and you’re the only ones who can stop them.”

  “By agreeing to their demands.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re not going to do that, Illori.”

  “Do you want war, Erskine? Do you actually want to fight? How many of us do you want to kill?”

  “If you’re looking to calm things down, calm down those making all the noise. We will not be intimidated and we will not be bullied.”

  Illori laughed without humour. “You keep painting yourselves as the aggrieved, like you were just minding your own business and then the Supreme Council came along and tried to steal your lunch money. You are at fault, Erskine. Your Sanctuary is weak. You’ve made mistakes. We are not the bad guys here. We have gone out of our way to treat you with respect. We released Dexter Vex and his little group of thieves, didn’t we?”

  “What does that have to do with us?” asked Ghastly. “Vex’s little group of thieves, as you call it, consisted of three Irishmen, an Englishman, an American and an African. It was an international group affiliated with no particular Sanctuary, who sought approval from no one before embarking on their mission.”

  “An international group that was led by Dexter Vex and Saracen Rue,” Illori said, “two of your fellow Dead Men. They may not have told you what they were planning, but where would they have brought the God-Killer weapons had they succeeded in stealing them, except back to you?”

  “Vex wanted them stockpiled in order to fight Darquesse.”

  “A more suspicious mind than mine might wonder if Darquesse was merely the excuse he needed.”

  “All of this is a moot point,” Ravel said. “Tanith Low and her band of criminals got to the God-Killers before Vex and she had them destroyed.”

  “And you had her,” said Mist. “Briefly.”

  “What was that?” Illori asked.

  “You arrested her,” said Mist. “The woman who assassinated Grand Mage Strom. You arrested her, chained her up, and she escaped.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “There are those who say Strom’s assassination was the breaking point,” said Mist. “It was his death that has propelled us to the verge of war. He was assassinated here, of course, in this very building. For this, you blame us, even though Tanith Low is a Londoner. But when you finally arrest Miss Low, when you have the chance to punish the killer herself for the crime she committed … she mysteriously escapes.”

  “Are you saying we let that happen?”

  “It has allowed you to refocus your blame on us, has it not?”

  “I haven’t heard anything so stupid in a long time,” said Illori, “and I’ve heard a lot of stupid things lately. We don’t know how she escaped or who helped her. The investigation is ongoing. There are those in the Supreme Council, by the way, who think this Sanctuary had something to do with it.”

  “Of course they do,” Ravel said, sounding tired.

  “They believe both Vex’s group and Tanith Low’s gang were taking orders from you,” Illori said. “Two teams going after the same prizes, independent of each other – doubling the chances of success.”

  “Well,” said Ghastly, “it’s nice to see the Supreme Council thinks we’re so badly co-ordinated as to organise something as incredibly inept as that.”

  “Illori, go home,” Ravel said gently. “Tell them you approached us with this proposal and we politely declined. Tell the Supreme Council that, before he died, Grand Mage Strom agreed that their interference was not necessary. He would have recommended no further action if Tanith Low hadn’t killed him. You and your colleagues have nothing to fear from us.”

  “But that’s not strictly true, is it?” Illori asked. “You have the Accelerator. We’ve heard what it can do. Bernard Sult witnessed its potential. He saw the levels to which it can boost a sorcerer’s power. If you so wanted, you could boost the magic of every one of your mages and you could send them against us. Our superior numbers would mean nothing against power like that.”

  “That’s not something we’re planning on doing.”

  “Then dismantle it. I’m sure that would go a long way to placating the Supreme Council.”

  Ravel shook his head. “The Accelerator is powering a specially-built prison cell – the only cell in existence capable of holding someone of Darquesse’s strength. We need it active.”

  “Then give it to us as a gesture of good faith.”

  “As a gesture of naivety, you mean. We’re not giving you the Accelerator. We’re not dismantling it. We’re not turning it off. We’re not even sure if it can be turned off. If that makes the Supreme Council nervous, then that is unfortunate. Please make it clear to your colleagues that we do not intend to use the Accelerator ag
ainst them as part of any pre-emptive strike.” Ravel sat forward. “If, however, the Supreme Council launches any kind of attack against us or our operatives, and if we feel significantly threatened, then using the Accelerator to even the odds is always an option.”

  “They’re not going to be pleased to hear that.”

  “Illori, at this point? I really don’t give a damn.”

  esmond Edgley threw back his head and sang, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, you look like a monkey, and you smell like one, too!” and laughed like a drain as Valkyrie blew out her candles. It had been the same lyrics every year since she was old enough to know what a monkey was. She had grown up and matured. Her father had not.

  Her mum and baby sister clapped and Valkyrie sat back down, grinning. Faint trails of smoke rose, twisting, from eighteen candles, and were quickly dispersed by her mother’s waving hand.

  “Did you make a wish?” her dad asked.

  She nodded. “World peace.”

  He made a face. “Really? World peace? Not a jetpack? I would have wished for a jetpack.”

  “You always wish for a jetpack,” her mum said, cutting the cake. “Have you got one yet?”

  “No,” he said, “but you need to use up a lot of wishes to get something like a jetpack. On my next birthday, I’ll have wished for it forty times. Forty. I’ll have to get one then. Imagine it, Steph – I’ll be the only dad in town with his own jetpack …”

  “Yeah,” she said slowly, “I’ll be ever so proud …”

  Her mum passed out the plates, then stood and tapped her fork against a glass. “I’d like to make a toast, before we begin.”

  “Toast,” said Alice.

  “Thank you, Alice. Today is a big day for our little Stephanie. It’s been a big week, actually, with the exam results and the college offers. We’ve always been proud of you, and now we’re delighted beyond belief that the rest of the world will be able to see you the way we see you – as a strong, intelligent, beautiful young woman who can do whatever she puts her mind to.”

  “Toast,” Alice said wisely.

  “You’ve been in our lives for eighteen years,” her mum continued, “and you have brightened every single day. You’ve brought joy and laughter to this house, even when times were tough.”

  Her dad leaned in. “It is not easy being married to me.”

  “And today is also the day that Gordon’s estate passes into your name. You are now the sole custodian of his books, the owner of his house, and the spender of his money. And even though you’ve known that this was coming since you were twelve years old, you never slackened off. You never took anything for granted. You finished school, you got excellent results, and you made sure you faced the future on your own terms. We couldn’t be prouder of you, honey.”

  Before her mum could start crying, Valkyrie’s dad stood up. He cleared his throat, pondered a bit, and then began. “It is no secret that I always wanted a son.”

  Valkyrie howled with laughter and her mum threw a napkin at her husband, who waited until things had calmed down before continuing. “I thought that having a daughter would mean there’d be pink everywhere and I’d have to take her to ballet lessons and when she was old enough to have a boyfriend I’d be really weird around him. Thankfully, none of this turned out to be the case.”

  Valkyrie blinked. “You were extraordinarily weird around Fletcher.”

  “No, you’re misremembering. I was cool.”

  “You kept touching his hair.”

  “I have no recollection of that ever happening.”

  “Des,” her mum said, “you were really, really weird to that boy.”

  “Can I be allowed to finish my speech? Can I? Thank you. So, to recap, I never wanted daughters. But when Stephanie was born I looked into her big eyes and I was so overcome by both her cuteness and the baby fumes that I decided to let bygones be bygones, and start over. It was a noble and selfless act by me, but you were only two days old so you’re probably too young to remember it.”

  “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 frie
nds, 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.”