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Mortal Coil
“This one,” said Gordon, pointing to a thin notebook. “In here there are directions to a woman who might be able to help you.”
“She can seal my name?”
“Not her personally, but I think she knows someone who can.”
“Who is she?”
“Who isn’t important. What, however, is. She’s a banshee.”
“Seriously?”
“Most banshees are harmless,” Gordon said. “They provide a service, more then anything else.”
“What kind of service?”
“If you hear a banshee’s wail, it’s a warning that you’re going to die. I’m not sure of the advantage of such a service, but it’s a service nonetheless. Twenty-four hours after you hear it, the Dullahan gets you.”
“What’s a Dullahan?”
“He’s a headless horseman, in the service of the banshee.”
“Headless?”
“Yes.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“So he has no head?”
“That’s usually what headless means.”
“No head at all?”
“You’re really getting hung up on this headless thing, aren’t you?”
“It’s just kind of silly, even for us.”
“Yet you spend your days with a living skeleton.”
“But at least Skulduggery has a head.”
“True.”
“He even has a spare.”
“Are we going to get past this now?”
“Yes. Sorry. Carry on.”
“Thank you. The Dullahan drives a carriage, the Coach-a-Bowers, that you can only see when it’s right up beside you. He is not a friendly fellow.”
“Probably because he has no head.”
“That may have something to do with it.”
“So this banshee,” Valkyrie said, “is she one of the harmless ones, or the harmful?”
“Now that I do not know. Banshees are an unsociable bunch at the best of times. If she isn’t too pleased to see you, though …”
“Yes?”
“I’d recommend putting your hands over your ears if she opens her mouth.”
Valkyrie looked at him. “Right,” she said. “Thanks for that.”
“When do you plan to approach her?”
“Soon, I suppose. I mean, as soon as I can. I want this over with. I think I’ll … Tonight.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I have to, Gordon. If I put it off, I’ll never do it. I’ll give Skulduggery some excuse. He won’t miss me.”
“Valkyrie, from what I know of it, sealing your name is a major procedure. You have to be sure, going in, that this is the best thing to do.”
“I’m going to be sure. You remember when Dusk bit me? He tasted something in my blood, something that marked me out as different. I think that whatever he tasted has to do with Darquesse. So I’m going to get a second opinion.”
Gordon frowned. “You’re going to get someone else to taste your …? Oh, I see. You’re talking about him.”
“Caelan will be able to tell me what Dusk sensed. If it’s bad, I won’t need any more proof or prodding. I’ll know this is something I have to do.”
“Right,” Gordon said gently.
Valkyrie nodded, feeling an unwelcome mixture of apprehension and uncertainty. She left the Echo Stone in the hidden room and took the notebook from the shelf, flicking through the pages until she got to the part about the banshee. She put the notebook in her jacket pocket and went down to the living room. Her phone beeped again, and a moment later Fletcher Renn appeared beside the fireplace. Blond hair standing on end, lips always ready to kiss or smirk, one hand behind his back, the other with a thumb hooked into the belt loops of his jeans.
“I’m gorgeous,” he said.
Valkyrie sighed. “Are you, now?”
“Do you ever just look at me and think, God he’s gorgeous? Do you? I do, all the time. I think you’re gorgeous too, of course.”
“Cheers.”
“You’ve got lovely dark eyes, and lovely dark hair, and your face is all pretty and stuff. And I love the way you dress in black, and I love the new clothes.”
“It’s a jacket, Fletch.”
“I love the new jacket,” he insisted. “Ghastly really made a lovely, lovely jacket.” He grinned.
“You look wide awake,” she said. “You’re never wide awake at this hour of the morning.”
“I’ve been researching. You’re not the only one who likes to read books, you know. Apparently, my power will increase if I work at it a little, so I thought I’d give it a try. I was told there was this book in Italy, written by a famous Teleporter – dead now, obviously – that could really help me, so I went there and got it.”
“Good man.”
“But it was written all in Italian, so I left it on the shelf and went to Australia for ice cream.” He brought his other hand out from behind his back, holding an ice-cream cone. “Got one for you.”
“Fletcher, it’s winter.”
“Not in Australia.”
“We’re not in Australia.”
“I’ll take you to Sydney for five minutes, you can eat the ice cream while we watch the sunset, and then we’ll come back to the misery here.”
Valkyrie sighed. “Your power is wasted on you.”
“My power is brilliant. Everyone wishes they had my power.”
“I don’t. I quite like being able to hurl people away from me just by moving the air.”
“Well, every non-violent person wishes they had my power, how’s that?”
Valkyrie frowned. “I’m not a violent person.”
“You punch people every day.”
“Not every day.”
“Val, you know I think you’re great, and I think you’re the coolest chick I’ve ever met, and the prettiest girl ever – but you get into a hell of a lot of fights. Face it, you lead a violent life.”
She wanted to protest, but no argument sprang to mind. Fletcher stopped holding out the ice cream, and started licking it instead, already forgetting what they’d just been talking about. Valkyrie checked the time, forcing her attention back to the here and now.
“Are you getting me anything for Christmas?” Fletcher asked, and Valkyrie found herself grinning despite everything.
“Yes. You better be getting me something.”
He shrugged. “Of course I am.”
“It better be amazing.”
“Of course it is. Hey, this time next year, you’ll have someone else to buy presents for. When’s your mum due?”
“Middle of February. I’m going to be asked to babysit, you know. How am I supposed to do that?”
“Get your reflection to do it.”
“I’m not leaving the baby with the reflection. Are you nuts? But I don’t even know how to hold a baby. Their heads are so big. Aren’t babies’ heads abnormally large? I’m not sure I’m going to be a good big sister. I hope she doesn’t take after me. I’d like her to have friends.”
“You have friends.”
“I’d like her to have friends who weren’t hundreds of years older than her.”
“Have you realised that you’re referring to the baby as ‘her’?”
“Am I? I suppose I am. I don’t know. It just feels like it’s going to be a girl.”
“Do you think she’ll be magic?”
“Skulduggery says it’s possible. Of course, that doesn’t mean she’ll ever find out about magic. Take my cousins, for example.”
“Ah, the infamous Toxic Twins.”
“They’re descended from the Last of the Ancients the same as I am, but we’ll never know if they can do magic, because they don’t know magic even exists.”
“So if you don’t want your sister involved in this crazy life of yours, you can just not tell her. And in twenty-five years, she’ll be looking at you, going, ‘Hey, sis, how come we look like we’re exactly the same age?’ Will you tell her then that magic slows the aging process?”
“I’ll probably just tell her that my natural beauty makes me look eternally young. She’s my little sister – she’ll believe anything I tell her.”
“To be honest, Val, I love the fact that this is happening. Once you have a sister, or a brother, that looks up to you and needs you, it might make you stop and think before rushing into dangerous situations.”
“I do stop and think.”
“And then you rush in anyway.”
“There’s still stopping and thinking involved.”
Fletcher smiled. “Sometimes I just worry about you.”
“Your concern is touching.”
“You’re not taking me even a little bit seriously, are you?”
“I can’t take you seriously, Fletch, you have a dollop of ice cream on your nose. Besides, we can have this conversation a thousand times – it’s not going to stop me going out there and doing what I do.”
Fletcher finished off the cone and wiped the ice cream from his face.
“Are you so determined to be the hero?” he asked softly.
She kissed him, and didn’t answer. He was wrong, of course. It wasn’t about her being the hero – not any more. It was just about her trying not to be the villain.
Solomon Wreath was confident that he could be just such a destabilising influence. Leaving many of his decisions open to chance, he had approached the tattoo parlour three times already, and by the toss of a coin he had walked on by. The fourth toss of the coin, however, brought him to the door, and had him climbing the narrow stairs, black bag in one hand, cane in the other. No sound coming from above him. No whine of the tattooist’s needle. No chat, laughter or yelp. He could practically sense the trap waiting for him, but this didn’t slow his step.
At the top of the stairs he turned and walked through the doorway, and that was when the skinny man with the Pogues T-shirt came at him with a cushion. Not being the world’s deadliest weapon, the cushion bounced softly off Wreath’s shoulder, and the skinny man did his best to run by. Wreath dropped his cane, caught the man and threw him against a chair that looked like it belonged in a dental surgery. The skinny man fell awkwardly over it.
“Finbar Wrong,” Wreath said, putting the black bag on a nearby table. “May I call you Finbar? I assume you know who I am.”
Finbar sprang to his feet, hands held out in front of him, fingers rigid. “I do,” he said, “and I feel I have to warn you, man, you can’t beat me. I’ve seen this fight already, and I know every move you’re gonna make.”
Shadows curled around Wreath’s cane, and brought it up off the floor and into his waiting hand.
Finbar nodded. “I knew you were gonna do that.”
Wreath went to walk around the chair. Finbar moved in the opposite direction. Wreath turned, went the other way, and so did Finbar.
Wreath sighed. “This is ridicul—”
“Ridiculous!” Finbar interrupted quickly. “See? I’ve already lived through this encounter. You’d better walk away now, dude, save yourself a whole lot of pain.”
“If you have seen this fight, if you knew precisely when I would arrive, then why did you attack me with a cushion?”
Finbar hesitated. “I’m … I’m toying with you, is what I’m doing. Hitting you with a cushion instead of my fists of fury is gonna, like, take longer, draw out your agony. Kinda like water torture, with cushions. Cushion torture.”
“It doesn’t sound very painful.”
“Well, I haven’t really settled on a name for it …”
“You’re a trained fighter, I take it?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“You’re a bit thin, aren’t you? You’re practically malnourished.”
“Looks can be deceiving, man. After all, the strongest muscle in the human body is the brain.”
“Well then, as along as you don’t hit me with your brain, I should be OK.”
Finbar suddenly broke for the door. Wreath came up behind him, whacked the cane into the back of his legs. Finbar crashed into the wall.
“Ow,” he moaned.
Wreath took a hold of him and dragged him back, threw him into the dentist’s chair. “When did you first have a vision that I would be paying you a visit?”
“Last night,” he moaned.
“And what did you do?”
“I sent Sharon and my kid away. I was gonna join them, but the vision changed, and you weren’t gonna come.”
“But then a few minutes ago …”
He nodded. “Had another one. Told me you were about to climb the stairs. Only weapon I had was the cushion.”
“Which is not technically considered a weapon.”
Finbar glared. “A true master can make anything into a weapon.”
“But you’re not a true master, Finbar.” Wreath prodded him with the cane, forcing him to sit back. “Did your vision tell you why I was coming to see you?”
“I didn’t really get that far.”
“I need you to do me a favour. I want you to look into Valkyrie Cain’s future, and tell me what you see.”
“Why don’t you just ask her?”
“I need something more than what you’ve already seen. I need you to look harder.”
“Can’t do it,” Finbar said, shaking his head. “I won’t do it. Val’s a friend of mine. You can torture me all you want.”
“Can I?”
He paled. “Metaphorically speaking.”
Wreath smiled, and shadows crept up the chair, wrapping themselves around Finbar’s arms and legs before he could even struggle. Wreath went to the black bag on the table. “It’s OK. I know it would probably take a lot for you to betray a friend like that. So I’m taking the option away from you.”
From the bag, Wreath took a glass sphere, encased in a stone shell.
Quickly realising that he couldn’t break his bonds, Finbar settled back into the chair. “You’re bribing me with a snow globe?” he asked. “That’s a bit … insulting, don’t you think?”
“This isn’t for you.”
Now Finbar could see the darkness swirling in the sphere, and his face slackened and his voice cracked. “That’s a Soul Catcher.”
“Yes, it is. And its occupant is the Remnant who caused everyone so much trouble a few months ago. This is the little guy who possessed Kenspeckle Grouse, who went on to repair the Desolation Engine that destroyed the Sanctuary. This is not a very nice Remnant.”
Finbar licked his lips nervously. “You can’t put it in me. You just can’t, man. No, listen, that thing is, it’s evil, right? Once it’s in me, it’ll lie to you, tell you whatever it thinks you wanna hear.”
“It will tell me whatever I want to know, Finbar, which is not quite the same thing.”
“Aw, please, don’t do this.” The man was almost crying.
“I’ll take it out of you immediately after,” Wreath assured him. “You’ll black out; you won’t remember a thing.”
“I don’t want it in me. It’ll change me.”
“Only for a few minutes.”
Wreath turned the sphere in the stone, and stepped back.
The darkness drained out of the Soul Catcher as the Remnant flitted straight to Finbar. He turned his head and shut his eyes and clamped his mouth shut, but the Remnant would not be denied. Things that may have been hands prised his jaws apart. Wreath watched, fighting the urge to suck the foul creature back into its prison.
Finbar tried to scream as the Remnant, no more than a streak of twisted darkness, clambered its way down his throat. The scream choked and the throat bulged. Finbar’s body thrashed, but Wreath’s restraints held. Finbar suddenly went limp. A moment passed, and dark veins spread beneath his skin and his lips turned black. Then his eyes opened.
“Why is it,” Finbar said, “that every time I’m set free, I have to share a body that isn’t in the peak of physical perfection? Last time it was an old man. Now it’s … this.”
“I didn’t release you for a casual conversation,” Wreath said. “I just want to know what I want to know.”
“And why would I help you dig up information on my good buddy Valkyrie?”
“She isn’t your friend,” Wreath said. “She’s Finbar Wrong’s friend.”
“And there you go, man, making the mistake that everyone makes. I am Finbar Wrong.”
“No, you’re a Remnant.”
“To be honest with you there, a Remnant isn’t really much more than intent. It flies around being angry and doesn’t think too much about anything, y’know? It doesn’t have a personality, or a real consciousness to speak of. But when it inhabits a body, that all changes. It’s whole again. I am Finbar Wrong, but I’m also the Remnant inside him. We’re very happy together, as you can see.” He smiled, and the black veins receded and the darkness disappeared from his lips.
“It’s easy for you to pass for normal, isn’t it?” Wreath asked. “To hide the tell-tale signs that mark the possessed?”
“We can hide it when we need to, yeah.”
“And it’s good to be out of the Soul Catcher, yes?”
“Oh, yeah,” Finbar laughed. “That thing is even worse than being in that room in the Midnight Hotel where they kept us locked up.”
“Now that you’ve tasted freedom, do you want more? I can give you more. I can let you go.”
“A few moments ago you said you were gonna separate us immediately after.”
“I’m a Necromancer. I lied to make it easier on … you. The old you. Look into the future for me, and tell me what you see.”
“And what makes you think I’ll be able to see anything new?”
“Because you and I both know that Sensitives are wary about pushing themselves too hard. Seeing the future is a dangerous line of work. Minds can snap.”
“That they can.”
“But your mind is reinforced now, isn’t it? It’s stronger. So you can look further, and harder, until you see what you need to see.”
“This is all very true,” Finbar nodded. “But why should I trust you? The last people to ask me a favour put me in an old man’s body. Now, I’m not denying I had fun being Kenspeckle Grouse for a day, especially when it came time to hammer nails through Tanith Low’s hands, but they cheated me. They wouldn’t let me go when they said they would.”
“Scarab has never been a trustworthy man.”
“And you are? You’re a Necromancer.”
“Then how about this? You look into the future for me, or I’ll kill you. Remnants can’t survive in something dead, am I right? So the moment Finbar’s body dies, the Remnant inside him dies too. Do you want to die? Either of you?”
Finbar smiled. “You’re talking like there are two of us in here, man. There’s not. You had Finbar, you had the Remnant, and when you put them together, you get me. And I happen to think that the world would miss me too much if you killed me.”
Wreath smiled back. “I thought you’d see it my way.”
“I’m gonna need a few things before I start, though. Herbs, potions, a backrub …”
“You have three seconds to begin.”
“A very quick backrub, then.”
Wreath raised the cane, and Finbar laughed. “OK, OK! I suppose I could do without the luxuries, just this one time. You’re gonna have to back off – I’m not gonna be able to attain the required level of relaxation if you’re hovering over me.”
Wreath nodded. “Get it done, Remnant, or you’re going back in the bottle.”
“Chill,” Finbar breathed, closing his eyes. “My old buddy Val,” he murmured. “Are you going to show me why everyone’s so interested in you, are you? Are you going to show me what’s in store for you …?”
Wreath suppressed a sigh while Finbar prattled on, his voice growing softer and softer. He’d never had much time for Sensitives. They’d deliberately chosen a branch of magic where you reached out with your feelings instead of your fists. They were, in his opinion, a bunch of spaced-out, peace-loving hippies, and he’d never liked hippies. The 1960s and 70s had been particularly annoying times for him.
“There she is,” Finbar said, a slight smile on his face. “Found her.”
“How far ahead are you?” Wreath asked quickly.
“Hard to say, man … She looks a little older … She’s got a tattoo …”
“Is she a Necromancer?”
Finbar’s brow creased over his closed eyes. “Don’t know …”
“What’s she doing?”
“Walking …”
“Where?”
“In the ruins.”
Wreath shook his head. “That’s with Darquesse, right? I’m not interested in that. You need to find out if Valkyrie is the Death Bringer.”
“I can only see what I see,” Finbar said in a sing-song voice. “My sight is drawn to the big moments …”
“Then look away,” Wreath snarled, but his impatience went unnoticed.
“I’ve never seen this much detail,” Finbar continued, deep in the trance. “I’ve always flinched … But now I can see it all … So many dead … It’s wonderful …”
Wreath held his tongue.
“I’m looking at Darquesse now … She’s magnificent … She’s striding through the city, death all around her … You’d like this, dude. So much death …”
“I didn’t ask for a vision of Darquesse, I asked for a vision of Valkyrie.” Wreath’s eyes narrowed. “Unless …”
Finbar smiled in his dream-state. “Unless?”
“Is Valkyrie still there? Can you see her?”
“I can sense her presence, but all I can see is Darquesse.”
“Maybe that’s it,” Wreath said, sudden excitement burning through him. “Maybe that’s how she does it. If Valkyrie is the Death Bringer, maybe she’s the one who steps up and fights. Maybe she’s the one who stops Darquesse and then this, her victory, is what leads to the Passage. This is how she saves the world.”
“I don’t see any of that,” Finbar said. “All I see is Darquesse.” His smile was replaced by a grimace. “This is painful, by the way …”
“Keep looking.”
“It hurts my head.”
“Keep looking or you’ll lose that head.”
“I’ll keep looking then.”
Blood dripped from Finbar’s nose. Wreath said nothing.
“I’ve found her again,” Finbar said happily.
“Valkyrie?”
“Darquesse. I’m … I’m drawn to her … I don’t have a choice. She is … everything. She’s so cold. I’m trying to get in closer, but she’s … She’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen …”
“Can you see a weakness? How can Valkyrie destroy her?”
“Darquesse will not be destroyed!” Finbar snarled suddenly. “She is everything!”
“Tell me her weakness.”
“She has none! She is perfection!”
“Then who is she? Where does she come from?”
Finbar strained harder, and blood began leaking from his ears. “The shadows are heavy around her … I’m trying to see her face … She’s looking away from me … No, wait, she’s turning, she’s turning, I can see her …”
Finbar stopped talking.
“Well?” Wreath pressed. “Can you see her face? What does she look like? Who is she?”
Finbar’s eyes opened. He blinked up at Wreath. “This changes everything.”
Wreath leaned in close. “Who is she, damn it?”
“You Necromancers have your messiah,” Finbar said, “now we Remnants have ours.”
The black veins appeared again, and his head shot forward and crunched against Wreath’s nose. Wreath stumbled back, cursing, feeling his shadow restraints collapse under Finbar’s Remnant-enhanced strength. Hands grabbed him, and suddenly he was flying into the far wall. He crashed through a shelf and sent equipment spilling out across the floor.
“Hope you don’t mind, man,” Finbar said, smiling at him, “but I’m gonna take you over for a bit. I have a brand-new mission, and I need an upgrade.”
Wreath tasted his own blood. His cane was on the floor behind him. There were two ways out of this room – the door and the window. The window was closer.
Finbar opened his mouth wide. Wreath glimpsed the Remnant start to climb out and then he spun, snatching up his cane and using the shadows to smash the window. He leaped through the broken glass without the slightest hesitation, landing painfully on the cobbled street, sending people scattering all around him. He didn’t look at their shocked faces. He didn’t look back at Finbar, standing at the window. He just ran.
