Bedlam. Derek Landy

Fangs was quiet this time of the morning. Vampires may not have been harmed by the sun, but they weren’t known to be early risers. The only people on the streets were those coming back from a night shift.

      She followed the directions Dusk had given her and came to a theatre, a few years old and never used. She went round the back, found the opened door and climbed the stairs. With each step, she took the next one slower.

      This could be a trap, of course. This was very likely a trap. It was so likely a trap that Abyssinia would have known that Valkyrie would be thinking that and would then dismiss it because of how likely it was, so then the possibility of this being a trap became even more likely.

      Eventually, her thoughts became so confusing that she just marched up the rest of the stairs and emerged on to the roof of the theatre.

      There was a man standing here, waiting. He was thin and had tightly-shaven silver hair, and pale scars on his pale skin.

      “You must be Caisson,” said Valkyrie.

      His smile was fleeting. Uncertain.

      There was a nervous energy about him, like an animal getting ready to bolt.

      Valkyrie proceeded with caution. “How are you coping with being back in circulation?”

      “I have good days and … bad ones,” he said. He had a soft voice. “I’m having a good day now, in case you were wondering. I’m not going to attack you, or anything like that. I keep thinking I should attack you because … because we’re on different sides.”

      “I keep thinking that, too.”

      “Isn’t that odd? How we think that? How we’re almost ready to … to do that? For no reason other than the people we associate with.”

      “It is strange, yes.”

      Caisson’s eyes dipped. “You’re friends with the skeleton,” he mumbled.

      “I am.”

      “The skeleton murdered my mother.”

      “He killed her, yes. But she came back.”

      His eyes flickered up, and he gave another faltering smile. “I’m very confused,” he said.

      “I don’t blame you.”

      He was seized, all of a sudden, by an intensity that made Valkyrie want to step back. “The skeleton took my mother away from me!” he raged. “When I needed her! He hurt her! He killed her! She’s only alive today because he was too weak to finish the job! I hate him and I want to kill him and everyone he knows!”

      And, as suddenly as it had arrived, the rage passed.

      He started crying.

      Valkyrie waited a moment. “What can I do for you, Caisson?” she asked softly. “Why are we here?”

      It took him a moment to answer. It was a moment he spent wrestling with thoughts she’d never be able to understand.

      “My mother,” he said eventually, “she has spies. I heard one of them say that you’re looking for someone. Something. A Crengarrion.”

      She frowned. “Doctor Nye. Yes.”

      “I know where it is. I heard my mother say.”

      Valkyrie forced herself to wait.

      “Is it important that you find this creature?” Caisson continued. “If it’s important, then I’ll tell you, but you need to tell me something first.”

      “It’s important. I need Nye to help my sister. What do you want to know?”

      “Greymire Asylum,” Caisson said. “Where is it?”

      “I’ve never heard of it.”

      “But you can find out, can’t you? You’re a detective. You can ask someone. Maybe the skeleton knows.”

      “I can find out, sure. You tell me where Nye is and I’ll find where—”

      “No!” Caisson screamed. “You tell me where Greymire Asylum is and then I help you! You first! You!”

      Valkyrie held up her hands. “OK! OK, I’ll do that. I will.”

      Caisson hugged himself and shook his head, muttering.

      “What’s in there that’s so important for you?” she asked.

      Caisson tapped his forehead. “It’s for my mind. My mind is … I can be quite erratic, and …”

      “And there’s a cure for you in the asylum?”

      He nodded. “A cure, yes. A cure for me in Greymire. K-49.”

      “I know some really good doctors I could introduce you to. So does China, for that matter.”

      Caisson blinked. “China …”

      “China Sorrows. She raised you, right? She took you in and she raised you like you were her own child.”

      His face contorted, hatred etched into every line and hollow. “China betrayed me. China gave me to Serafina to torture. She lies. She is nothing but darkness and coldness and lies. I’m going to kill her. We’re going to hunt her down and kill her, and kill anyone who stands with her. We’re going to tear her apart. We’re going to make her scream. We’re going to make her bleed. We’re going to—”

      He stopped, breathing quickly, forcing himself to calm down. “No,” he said. “My only hope is K-49. My only hope is in Greymire Asylum. Find out where it is, and I’ll tell you where the Crenga is working now. Meet me here in two days. But … at night. I don’t like the day, it’s too … Meet me at night.”

      “Monday night, then,” she said. “When it’s dark? Ten o’clock?”

      “Yes. Yes, ten o’clock. At ten o’clock you will tell me what I need to know, and I will tell you how to find the creature you seek.”

      

      All things considered, that had gone pretty well.

      Valkyrie checked the time. Serafina wasn’t due to arrive for another ten minutes, and the High Sanctuary was only five minutes away. She’d make it over there by noon, no problem.

      China had told her to dress formally, but she hadn’t quite known what that meant in this instance. She wasn’t going to be wearing a dress, she’d known that much. Nothing with heels, either. In the end, she had decided that black jeans and a smart coat were formal enough – plus, they allowed her to fight to the death if the situation called for it. Which was always a bonus.

      This was a good day, Valkyrie decided. She hadn’t walked into a trap, and she’d managed to strike a deal with a guy who looked like he was barely keeping it together. If Skulduggery had been with her, she just knew he’d have said the wrong thing and it would all have imploded.

      It was a good thing she hadn’t told him. It was definitely a good thing, and he would totally understand.

      Totally.

      She came round a corner, and braked.

      There was traffic. There was actual traffic.

      “No, no, no,” she muttered, craning her neck to see past the line of cars.

      This was unheard of. For one thing, apart from Oldtown, the streets of Roarhaven were designed to flow unimpeded. That had long been a bragging point, another area where mages could feel smug when discussing their mortal cousins and their constant traffic woes.

      For another,