Last Stand of Dead Men. Derek Landy

      “Well … I mean … you don’t, but … but that’s not the point. It’s not about proving it, it’s about showing it.”

      “And a gift is an accurate measurement? Your parents got you a car. Does this mean you are as important to them as a car is? Do they love you a car’s worth?”

      “Of course not. A birthday present is a token gift.”

      “A token gift is like an empty gesture – devoid of any kind of value.”

      “It’s a nice thing to do!”

      “Oh,” Skulduggery said. “OK. I understand. I’ll get you a present, then.”

      “Thank you.” She turned back, and knocked on the door. “Who are we here to see?”

      “An old friend of yours,” Skulduggery said, and for the first time she noticed the edge to his voice.

      She didn’t have time to question him further. The doors opened as one and Solomon Wreath smiled at her.

      “Hello, Valkyrie,” he said.

      Before she knew what she was doing, she was giving him a hug. “Solomon! What are you doing here? I thought you were off having adventures.”

      “I can’t have adventures in my home country every once in a while? This is where the real action is, after all. Come in, come in. Skulduggery, I suppose you can join us.”

      “You’re too kind,” Skulduggery muttered, following them inside and closing the doors behind him.

      The penthouse was huge and extravagant, though Valkyrie had been in bigger and more extravagant when she dated Fletcher. Back then, he’d spend his nights in whatever penthouse suite was available around the world, and all for free. Such were the advantages of being a Teleporter, she supposed, though these days all that had changed. Now he had a nice, normal girlfriend and he was living in his own apartment in Australia. He was almost settled. It was kind of scary.

      She glanced back at Skulduggery, who had already let his false face melt away. He took off his hat and didn’t say anything as Wreath came back with a small box, wrapped up in a bow.

      “Happy birthday,” Wreath said.

      Valkyrie’s eyes widened. “You got me a present?”

      “Of course,” Wreath said, almost laughing at her surprise. “You were my best student in all my years in the Necromancer Temple. No one took to it quite like you did, and although we may have hit a few bumps along the way—”

      “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