Resurrection (Skulduggery Pleasant, Book 10) Page 30

  While he waited in the green room, a hot blonde delivered him his sandwich. “You’re exactly how I like my women,” Flanery told her. “Beautiful, slinky and carrying food.”

  She seemed to freeze for a moment, eyes as big as a deer’s, then she smiled at him and walked away.

  “Is it my imagination,” he said, watching her go, “or is she giving those hips an extra wiggle?”

  Bradley Anderson chortled. “That’s for you, Mr President!” he said, almost choking on his own spittle. “I don’t know how you do it!”

  Flanery shrugged. “You either have it or you don’t. I have it. Always have. They can’t resist me, I can’t resist them. Being president just makes it easier. Women are drawn to power, Bradley. Like moths.”

  Bradley nodded. “Like moths to a flame.”

  Flanery took a bite. The sandwich was disappointingly dry. The hot blonde was suddenly losing her hotness. After his first bite, he’d rate her a six. “You either have it or you don’t,” he repeated. “And you, and I don’t want to be cruel to you here, Bradley, you don’t have it.”

  Bradley howled with laughter. “That’s for sure! That’s for damn sure, Mr President! Not like you! I see them flocking around you!”

  Flanery shrugged again. Bradley may have been a sub-par anchor on a sub-par show, but, when he was right, he was right. “What’s her name?” Flanery asked, chewing on another mouthful.

  Bradley looked confused for a moment, then he brightened. “Oh!” he said. “The, uh, the—”

  “The blonde, Bradley. What’s her name?”

  “Gabriela, I think.”

  “What is that? Latino?”

  “I, uh, I think it’s Latina if it’s a woman.”

  “Whatever,” said Flanery. “I don’t mind a bit of exotic. I’m not racist. The Mexicans are a wonderful people. I know lots of Mexicans. They love me. I’m very good to the Mexican people. Make sure you mention that later when the cameras are on.”

  “Yes, sir. I don’t know if she’s Mexican, though.”

  “What’s her last name?”

  “Masterson, or something like that. But she’s married, so …”

  “I don’t mind married women. I don’t say no to married women. My wife’s a married woman.”

  Bradley smirked. “Yes, sir. And she is a beautiful woman, if I may say so.”

  Flanery frowned. “Of course she is. I surround myself with beautiful women, Bradley. My wife, my daughter, every woman who works for me. You know the secret of a happy life, Bradley? It’s beauty. You put beautiful women everywhere you’re going to look, you only look at beautiful women, am I right?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Yes, I am. Every wife of mine has been more beautiful than the one before.” He put his plate down. “Send her over to me when this is done.”

  Bradley’s smile dipped. “I’m sorry?”

  “The blonde,” Flanery said. “Whatever her name is. Send her over to me when this is done. She can take off my make-up.”

  “She’s not a …”

  Flanery looked at him.

  “Yes, Mr President,” Bradley said, quieter now. “I’ll send her over.”

  “You do that,” Flanery said, as Wilkes walked into the room. He was followed by Dennis Conlon – just the man Flanery wanted to see. “Bradley, give us a minute alone, would you?”

  “Yes,” Bradley said, bouncing to his feet. “I should get back to the studio, actually. I’ll see you there, sir, in—” he checked his watch “—just under eight minutes. It’s gonna be a good one, I can tell!”

  Flanery waved him away and Bradley left, grinning, and closed the door to the green room behind him.

  Alone now, Wilkes and Conlon sat, and Flanery’s good humour soured. “Tell me,” he said.

  Conlon tried smiling. “Tell you what, sir?”

  “Tell me what you think,” said Flanery. “As an expert. You are an expert, aren’t you? I mean, that’s why we hired you. That’s what everyone told me you were. This last week. The mainstream media say it’s been my worst week since I took office. What do you think?”

  Conlon took a deep breath, and let it out. “There are positives we can draw from the past few days,” he said. “We’ve seen a boost within your core demographic that is, quite frankly, astonishing, and something we should be keeping an eye on in the—”

  “Are you a yes-man, Conlon?” Flanery interrupted.

  “Sir?”

  “A yes-man. Like Wilkes here. Isn’t that right, Wilkes? You’d say yes to just about anything I suggested, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t dare contradict me or tell me I’m wrong, would you?”

  Wilkes sat there and went red, but Flanery wasn’t letting him off that easy.

  “Well?” he pressed.

  “I’m here to give you the best advice I can—”

  “Would you contradict me? Would you tell me I’m wrong?”

  Wilkes licked his lips. “If … if I felt you were wrong, I would of course make it known.”

  “But you haven’t yet.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because … because you haven’t been wrong yet.”

  “Then how can I have just had the worst week of my presidency?” Flanery asked, leaning forward. “How can I have had a week so bad that I have to do a live interview to restore the public’s trust in me?” Once he felt that Wilkes was suitably diminished, Flanery turned back to Conlon. “What about you? Are you a spineless yes-man like Wilkes?”

  Conlon didn’t move his eyes away from Flanery’s. “No, sir. I am not.”

  “Then pretend for a moment that you’re not working for my administration,” Flanery said. “Pretend you’d been brought in to CNN as an analyst. After having seen the week I’ve had, what would your opinion be?”

  Conlon wasted a moment looking pensive. “I would say the Flanery White House has made a series of missteps.”

  “For example?”

  “The, uh, the singling out of the journalist at the press conference,” Conlon said. “The revelations about your academic achievements in college. The alleged funding impropriety at the Foundation.”

  Flanery sat back. “So this is my fault.”

  “No, sir, that’s not what I said.”

  “Yes, it is. You said my White House has made missteps, but what you mean is that I am making the missteps. Is that right? Am I understanding that right?”

  “Mr President, the extra scrutiny that comes with—”

  “Answer the question.”

  Conlon chewed his bottom lip.

  “Answer!” Flanery exploded, thumping his fist on to the table between them. “You’re wasting my time! Why does everyone waste my time? I ask a question and I expect an answer immediately! Let me tell you something, Mr Conlon. If you were better at your job, if you really were worth the money we’re paying you, my approval ratings wouldn’t be down. This past week is your fault. You didn’t spin when you should’ve spun. I don’t know what you’ve been doing, but it sure as hell hasn’t been your job.”

  “Mr President—”

  “Shut up. You know what? I can’t stand the sight of you. You’re fired.”

  Conlon paled. “What?”

  “You heard me. Get out. Get the hell out.”

  Conlon looked at Wilkes, who didn’t respond. Then he got up, buttoned his jacket and walked out of the room.

  Flanery watched Wilkes. “We’re going to need a new whatever-the-hell-he-was.”

  Wilkes nodded. “I’ll have a list for you the moment you come off the air.”

  “The funding thing could hurt me. Fix it. Use the witch.”

  Doubt flickered across Wilkes’s eyes. “Sir, using Magenta on a journalist … We agreed that might not be the wisest course of action.”

  “Did we?” Flanery sneered. “Did we agree? Who agreed? You and me? I’m the leader of the Free World – who are you? Who are you to agree anything with me? When you say we agreed, what you mean
is President Flanery decided. That’s what you mean. And yeah, I decided a while back not to use the witch when it comes to journalists. I decided it was risky. But that was before those loser reporters started poking around my Foundation. That was before they started questioning my college results. Now I’m changing my mind. I can do that, can’t I? I can change my mind? Don’t bother answering that, that was a … I don’t need an answer for that. I have a problem, and I have someone who can solve that problem. Are we understanding each other, Wilkes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then do it. Get it done.”

  “Yes, sir.” Wilkes stood. “Uh, one more thing, sir.”

  Flanery flapped his arms, adopting a mocking tone. “Uhh, one more thing, sir. For God’s sake, spit it out.”

  Was that anger that flickered across Wilkes’s face? If it was, it vanished immediately. “It’s Parthenios Lilt, sir. He’s free. He escaped confinement this morning.”

  “Finally,” said Flanery. “Finally, you deliver some good news to me. Today is indeed a momentous day. Now get out. I gotta prepare to be interviewed by a pipsqueak idiot and a fat pig in a dress – unless you’ve actually done your job? Unless you’ve actually arranged for me to be on camera with an attractive woman?”

  “Uh … sorry, Mr President, they said she’s the co-anchor and they can’t … they can’t really swap her out, especially at this late stage.”

  Flanery glowered. “Next time, make sure there’s a beautiful woman in front of me, you hear? Next time I want the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  53

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” China said upon entering, “were you waiting for me?”

  Tipstaff tried to stand, but the Cleaver pushed him back down. “Supreme Mage, please, I can explain—”

  She interrupted like he wasn’t even speaking. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said, sitting at the table opposite him while he sweated in his chair. “I’ve just had a lot to do. It’s all a bit of a mess without you, if I’m to be honest. You kept this place running like clockwork, you really did. Isn’t it true that you never really miss a person until they’re gone? I am really missing you, my friend. I really am.”

  The room was stark. Two chairs and a table to which Tipstaff was shackled. One Cleaver standing over him, another by the door. A mirrored window set into one wall. A single fluorescent light that hummed in the quiet moments.

  “We have not had the best luck with Administrators in the various Irish Sanctuaries, have we?” she continued. “They either die, or they betray. And die anyway. But with you … I thought you were different. I thought I could trust you. Granted, this was only a recent thought. It took you well over four years to gain even the slightest modicum of my trust. But you earned it. You earned it. And now look where we are. Before we begin in earnest, I have one question for you, my friend. Why? Why did you betray me?”

  Tipstaff licked his lips, and was about to answer when China waved her hand.

  “Rhetorical question. I know why you betrayed me. Because you believe that mortals should be bowing and scraping at our feet. Honestly, once you’ve heard that monologue from one person, you’ve heard it from everyone.”

  “Our rightful place—” Tipstaff began, but China leaned across and cuffed him lightly over the head.

  “I don’t care to hear it,” she said, spritzing her hand with antiseptic spray. “Do you understand me? If you’ve thought about this, planned what exactly you’d say to me if ever we were in this position, I’m afraid it was all a waste of your time. The only things I want to hear coming out of your mouth are names, locations and plans.”

  “I don’t know any of that.”

  “I give credit where it’s due, do I not? And you may be many deplorable things, but you are, above all else, organised. Are you trying to tell me that your friends at the anti-Sanctuary didn’t make use of your attention to detail while they were forming their plans? Are you telling me you didn’t furnish them with blueprints of Coldheart Prison? With its schedule?” She sighed. “I’m not angry, Tipstaff, really I’m not. I’m just disappointed.” She stood.

  “Supreme Mage, please—”

  “Hush now. I have work to get back to. I still have to solve the problem of this city not having a working bank. You were going to help with that, weren’t you? That’s a big deal for the High Sanctuary. We’re really going to change things, to make things better for sorcerers everywhere. And you could have been there beside me as we laid the foundations for a bright, prosperous, peaceful future. Instead … you’re in here.” She sighed. “When I leave this room, a gentleman will enter. He will ask you all sorts of questions. He will get to know you very well over a relatively short period. You will not enjoy the time you spend together. You’ve met him, actually. He’s the same man who interviewed Parthenios Lilt. Do you think you’ll be able to resist him the way Mr Lilt resisted?”

  Tipstaff’s bottom lip was trembling, but he did his best to sit up straight.

  “Look at this,” China said. “Some backbone. I do so admire a man who can resist crying.”

  A tear rolled down his cheek.

  “Ah,” said China. She turned for the door.

  “If I help you,” Tipstaff blurted, “what do I get?”

  She turned. “Sorry?”

  He looked up at her. “If I tell you what I know, will my sentence be reduced? If my information is valuable enough, I mean? If … if you can offer me immunity, then I’ll help you in whatever way I can.”

  China frowned at him, and then laughed. “Oh, no. No, no, no, you poor deluded fool. We’ll find out everything you know anyway, though I can’t imagine it’s very much. You’ll get no deal from me. You betrayed me, little man. I’m going to make sure that you regret that decision for every single moment of the rest of your cold, dark and lonely life. Starting now.”

  54

  “She looks scary,” said Omen.

  “She’s not,” said Valkyrie. “She’s very friendly. Pet her and see.”

  After a slight hesitation, Omen held out his hand. Xena sniffed it, then moved her head, allowing him to pet her. Valkyrie watched the smile that spread across the boy’s face, as he hunkered down and the dog sat. It was her second time seeing him in civilian clothes – he wore jeans and trainers and a heavy coat – and she figured he suited it. As stylish as the Corrival uniform was, Omen somehow made it look untidy.

  “She likes you,” said Valkyrie.

  Omen looked up, grinning. “Really?”

  She smiled. Her nose no longer ached when she did that. It was back to its normal size and shape. She looked around as Omen continued to pet Xena. It was Saturday and the school was quiet.

  “You have dogs?” she asked.

  Omen shook his head. “Mum has never liked them. Me and Auger, we always wanted a pet, but …” He sighed. “Auger needed to focus. We kind of adopted a stray cat once, though, without our parents knowing. It was a tiny little thing and just the friendliest, and it wandered into the garden one day and we fed it and fixed it up with a bed made of blankets in one of the sheds nobody ever used. I’d spend hours in that shed, actually, and Auger would come by whenever he could. It went on for three days before Dad found us. He took the cat away and we never saw it again. My parents … they’re not really animal people.”

  Xena rolled on to her back, and Omen rubbed her belly.

  “What was it like,” Valkyrie asked, “growing up knowing that all this stuff existed? I was twelve before I found out about magic.”

  Omen shrugged. “It was just part of my everyday life. I knew how to look both ways before crossing the road, I knew how to ride a bike, and I knew not to tell mortals that my family were sorcerers. Some of the people I go to class with were raised without knowing one thing about the mortal world, but most grew up just like normal people, with this little bit extra. As weird as it sounds, they didn’t really miss out on having a normal life. Well, Auger and I did, of course, but that’s just because our parents h
ave been consumed by the prophecy since before we were born. It’s not exactly easy raising the boy who’s destined to save the world. They can’t really make any mistakes with him.”

  “Or you.”

  “Ah, they’re less concerned about that,” he said, and laughed, not quite convincingly.

  “So you’d watch normal TV and listen to normal songs and everything?”

  Omen smiled again. “Yes. There’s always been a channel you can only get if you know magic.”

  “The Global Link.”

  “Right, but I never watched it. They only broadcast the news and stuff, never cartoons.”

  “And you had mortal friends?”

  “Yes. Well, no. I mean, I could have had, but we weren’t really allowed any because my family’s work with Auger was so important. That’s why I like Corrival so much – I can actually have friends here.” He stood and Xena scrambled up, her tail wagging madly and her tongue hanging out.

  “How’s your head?” Valkyrie asked.

  “We went through this on the phone.”

  “Yeah. And now I’m asking in person.”

  “My head’s fine,” Omen said. “No headaches or anything. I’m perfectly healthy.”

  “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”

  “I’m not hurt.”

  “But you were.”

  “So? I’m not hurt any more, and we have a job to do, don’t we? So we should stop talking about this and go find Byron. He’s the only one of the Scholars that didn’t run, so maybe he’ll actually tell us something.”

  She sighed. “Fine. So where do we find your friend?”