Seasons of War

“You sure you want to know? Well, why the hell not – you won’t be telling anyone, right? He’s a sorcerer. He’s magic.”

“Like one of those street magicians?”

Victoria’s laugh was as pretty as her eyes. “No, no, not like those street magicians. I mean he’s actually, really, genuinely magic. He can move things just by waving his hands. He clicks his fingers and he’s holding a ball of fire in his palm.”

“No kidding?”

“I swear it’s true.”

“And why does he make you sacrifice people?”

“Well, he gets his power from Satan, you see. He’s Satan’s emissary here on earth. All of us in our little group, we’re the ones who sacrifice the girls and, as a reward, Satan grants the Master the power to fulfil our wildest dreams.”

“Golly,” said Valkyrie.

“I know.”

“And does it work? Do your wildest dreams come true?”

Victoria made a seesawing motion with her hand. “It’s not an exact science. We get a lot of callbacks during pilot season, a lot of interest from casting agents and directors … but really, Satan just opens the door. It’s up to us to walk through.”

“Right, right,” said Valkyrie. “So Satan is real, then?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Wow. And that’s all he asks for? Human sacrifice?”

“Yes. And a commission.”

“A commission?”

“That goes to the Master. For living expenses, you know.”

“So the Master gets a cut of whatever you make? How big of a cut?”

Victoria hesitated. “Forty per cent.”

“Seriously?”

“But it’s worth it. Tadd wouldn’t have got that sitcom if it wasn’t for the Master, and I’m on a shortlist for the role of a wartime correspondent. It’s based on a true story and the script has a lot of buzz around it right now.”

“Good luck with that one. I hope you get it.”

“Thank you.”

The others came back. Tadd held a candelabrum of seven long-stemmed, unlit black candles, and the other one, the actor whose ridiculous name Valkyrie couldn’t remember, carried a box of polished oak. Jason Randal opened the box, and took out a long, curved dagger. The corners of his mouth lifted when he looked at Valkyrie.

“We still have two minutes,” Victoria said.

“She needs to be dead at midnight,” Jason responded.

“I know the rules.”

“We should do it now, to be sure she dies.”

“We’ll do it at eleven fifty-nine. So long as you stab her in the heart, she’ll be dead in seconds. Light the ceremonial candles.”

The ridiculously named actor put the box down and came hurrying over, digging through his robes. He produced a silver Zippo. He flicked it open and ran the flint-wheel along his thigh. It sparked to a flame, and he put the flame to the seven black candles. Tadd held the candelabrum aloft.

“The candles,” he said, “are lit.”

“The dagger,” Jason intoned, “is sharp.”

“The time,” Victoria said, eyes on her watch, “is now.”

Jason grinned and raised the dagger and then the seven candles went out.

“Oh,” said Tadd. “Sorry.”

Jason glared. “Relight them.”

The actor with the ridiculous name flicked the Zippo open again, ran it across his leg again, and lit the candles again.

Sheepishly, Tadd held the candelabrum aloft once more. “The candles are lit.”

Then they went out again.

“For God’s sake,” Jason muttered.

“Are you standing in a draught or something?” Victoria asked. “Move over there, and don’t hold them up so high this time. Come on, we’re running out of time. Relight them.”

The actor with the ridiculous name flicked the Zippo open.

“I swear,” said Jason, “if you run that up your leg one more time, I am stabbing you instead of this girl. Do you understand? Just light the damn candles.”

The actor narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have to be a—”

“Light the candles, Maverick!” said Jason and Victoria at the same time.

Maverick. That was his name. Maverick Reels. What a silly name. Not that someone who’d called herself Valkyrie Cain could throw stones, but still.

As Maverick fumbled with the Zippo, the cellar door opened and a man swept down the stairs. “Hail, Satan!” he cried.

“Hail, Satan!” the others cried back.

“Hail, Satan,” Valkyrie added, just to be in with the cool kids.

“Midnight is almost upon us!” said the Master, summoning fire into his hand and passing it over the candelabrum, lighting each wick. “Why does this girl still live? Kill her! Deliver her soul to the Dark Lord!”

“Voldemort?” Valkyrie asked, frowning.

The Master pulled down his hood. He didn’t look like a Master. He looked like a mid-level office manager with a bad goatee. He peered at her. “Do I know you?”

“Do you?”

“I’ve seen you before.”

“Have you?”

“I’ve seen your photograph,” he said.

“Where have you seen it?”

“I’m trying to remember,” he said.

“Think hard now.”

“Stop talking.”

“Maybe it wasn’t even me,” Valkyrie said. “Was it a photo taken in a burning city? Then it wasn’t me. It was a god who just looked like me.”

His eyes widened. “Oh, no.”

Valkyrie’s magic crackled, white lightning dancing around her wrists and ankles, burning through the ropes.

Panicking, the Master grabbed the dagger from Jason just as one of the skeletons in rags stepped away from the wall and seized his wrist.

“Let’s not do anything hasty,” Skulduggery said, and everyone in the little group of satanic worshippers screamed and leaped away as he punched the Master right on the hinge of his jaw.

The Master’s knees buckled and he collapsed into Skulduggery’s arms, and Valkyrie broke free of the scaffolding holding her and followed the actors as they scrambled up the cellar steps.

She caught Maverick just as the door crashed open, pulling him off the steps. He flailed madly and she ducked as he spun, then clocked him right on the chin. He stiffened and pitched backwards. Valkyrie left him there and ran after the others.

She emerged from the cellar into an impressively big house – a movie star’s house. Lots of glass and exposed brick and open spaces. She followed the sounds of panic to the front door, where Jason and Victoria and Tadd were cursing each other as they tried to navigate the locks.

They heard her coming. Tadd let out a roar and came charging. He was shorter than Valkyrie, and skinnier, and she stepped into him, stopping him with a shoulder. He staggered a little and her fingers curled into his hair and she smacked his face against the painting on the wall over and over until he fell down.

Victoria ran into another room as Jason Randal dropped his robe and squared up to Valkyrie. He was big. He had muscles. He moved like he knew what he was doing, or he’d at least worked with fight choreographers – but when he threw the first punch it was stiff and awkward and badly judged, and it stopped a good hand’s length short of where it needed to land. He didn’t have a clue, and this wasn’t worth bruising her knuckles over, so Valkyrie blasted him with a little lightning that threw him back against the door. He fell in a crumpled, unconscious heap and she went after Victoria. She was standing in the huge living room holding a poker like a baseball bat.

“This isn’t going to do me a whole lot of good, is it?” she asked after a moment.

Valkyrie gave a shrug, and Victoria sighed, and put the poker down.

“Was that an actual skeleton I saw downstairs, or was it some sort of special effect?”

“It was a skeleton. He’s alive and he talks. His name’s Skulduggery.”

“Of course it is,” Victoria said, and took a seat, wearily, on the couch. “So you’re a sorcerer, too, are you?”

“Yep.”

“You a Satanist also?”

Valkyrie sat opposite, and crossed her legs. “That guy’s not a Satanist. None of us are Satanists. Magic has got nothing to do with religion. Those people you sacrificed? The devil didn’t collect their souls. Those people just died.”

Victoria took a while before answering. “But then why did the Master tell us to do it?”

“Well, seeing as how all this is about money, I’m guessing that in order to get you to really commit, the idiot you call Master made you kill a bunch of innocent people so you couldn’t change your minds and back out at a later date.”

Victoria’s face slackened. “We didn’t have to kill those girls?”

“Nope.”

“But … but our careers … How did he—?”

“There’s a trick sorcerers can do once they know the name people were born with. They can tell them to do stuff. Not big stuff, not life-changing stuff – but he could certainly have suggested to casting agents that it’d be a good idea to call you in for a second audition, things like that.”

“Oh my God …”

“Yep.”

“What … what’s going to happen to me now?”

“You’re going to jail.”

“I should call my attorney.”

“You won’t need an attorney,” said Valkyrie. “You’re going to one of our jails. All four of you will disappear. No one will know where you are.”

“But my family … My fans …”

“They’ll never see you again.”

Victoria stared at her. “You can’t do that.”

“By our estimation, you’ve murdered sixteen young women between the four of you. We might be wrong. You might have murdered more.”

“But the Master told us we had to.”

“Stop calling him Master. He’s just some low-level sorcerer who couldn’t be bothered doing the work of a real agent so he invented this Satanist thing to make some money out of you morons. And I don’t care what he told you. You had a choice. You could have chosen not to murder sixteen innocent young women. Obviously, that’s not the road you decided to go down.”

Victoria sat forward, elbows on her knees, hands hidden by the voluminous sleeves of her robe. “I can’t go to jail,” she said slowly. “I’m on a shortlist. That part could win me a Golden Globe.” She straightened up. She had a gun in her hand. “I’m really sorry.”

Valkyrie raised an eyebrow, but otherwise didn’t react.

“Sorcerers aren’t bulletproof, are they?” Victoria asked.

“No, we’re not,” said Valkyrie.

“I’m really sorry about this.”

“Are you, though?”

Victoria thumbed back the hammer. It made a pleasing little click. “I’m not the best shot in the world,” she said, “but I’m not bad, either. That revenge movie I was in? My firearms coach told me I was a natural. But even if I were the worst shot in the world, I couldn’t miss from this range even if I wanted to.”

“Oh, I bet you could if you tried.”

“Will a gun kill your skeleton friend?”

“Not that gun.”

“Then I’ll just kill you.”

Valkyrie tapped the amulet on her hip and the black suit spread outwards, covering her skin and her clothes, flowing down to her feet and to her fingertips before Victoria’s eyes could even finish widening.

The gun went off. The bullet hit Valkyrie in the belly and she grunted, sitting forward slightly. She pulled the hood up as a second bullet struck her chest. Christ, that stung. Her fingers found the mask in the hood and she pulled it down and felt it turn solid over her face as Victoria stood and proceeded to empty the gun into her. Valkyrie wondered what the skull mask looked like today. Every time she pulled it down, it was slightly different from the time before. It was like Skulduggery’s façade in that way.

Victoria’s final bullet hit Valkyrie in the forehead, making the mask reverberate. Valkyrie stood up.

“I thought you said you weren’t bulletproof,” Victoria said quietly, the gun hanging uselessly by her side.

“I’m not,” Valkyrie responded, brushing a squashed bullet from her chest. “The suit is. I was going to give you the option of leaving this house in cuffs, as opposed to unconscious, but …”

“But I just tried to kill you.”

Valkyrie shrugged, took the gun away from her.

“Please,” Victoria said, “not the face.”

“Sure,” Valkyrie said, and hit her in the face anyway.

Omen Darkly went to prison.

He didn’t like it much. It was big and grey and intimidating and it smelled of fear and sweat and everyone seemed to be in a bad mood and he was glad, all things considered, that he was just going to be there for half an hour or so.

He wouldn’t have lasted long in prison. For one thing, he was only fifteen, and, while he was currently experiencing his long-awaited ‘growth spurt’, it had resulted in a feeling that he simply had too many joints to fit in his body.

Omen strongly suspected, however, that his twin brother would have excelled in here. Tall and strong, a born leader, Auger would have taken down the biggest and baddest convict on his first day and then made the prison his kingdom.

But the very idea was ridiculous. Auger was the Chosen One, born with an innate understanding of right and wrong. He was a good guy, the one person you could depend on to never let you down.

And right now he was in a hospital bed after having nearly been killed, and Omen was visiting the guy who’d put him there.

Jenan Ispolin sat on the other side of the table and stared, a twist to his lips, his eyes heavy-lidded. There wasn’t a glass partition between them. Omen had expected a glass partition.

Suddenly all of his opening lines, the lines he’d rehearsed again and again in his head, that he’d muttered in front of the mirror, didn’t seem to fit the occasion. They were all tough-guy lines, designed to impress. But Omen wasn’t a tough guy, had never been a tough guy, and pretending to be one here, in a prison populated by guys who had to be tough to survive, now seemed like the silliest thing in the world.

So instead he said, “How are you doing?”

Jenan didn’t respond.

“Do they let you get much exercise here? I saw a yard on my way in. Do they let you play sports? What kind of sports?”

Jenan had liked playing sports when he was in school, Omen knew. He was good at them.

“We don’t play sports,” Jenan said.

“Right,” said Omen. That had been a stupid question. He changed the subject. “Do they let you see your folks much?”

Jenan leaned forward. “What do you want?”

“I don’t … I don’t actually know.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I wanted to confront you, I suppose. And I wanted to give you a chance to say what you needed to say.”

“What are you talking about? What would I need to say to you?”

“I’m not sure,” Omen confessed. “But there’s a reason you attacked me with that knife. Obviously, God, I know you don’t like me. I know that much! But this goes deeper than that, doesn’t it? I mean … you tried to kill me. You would have succeeded, too, if Auger hadn’t saved me. So I figure you must have some, like, unresolved issues.”

Jenan stared at him. “That’s why you came? So I could talk through my unresolved issues and get some closure?”

“Yeah,” said Omen. “We all need closure. I know I do. I wanted to come here and show you that I’m still alive, and I’m still doing well, and you didn’t manage to do whatever you were trying to do … but now that I’m sitting here, now that we’re talking, I can’t actually do any of that. You tried to kill me. That’s … terrifying. You stabbed me. I don’t have a scar any more, but it still hurts sometimes. It hasn’t healed completely yet.

“And you nearly killed Auger, too. See, I’m more mad about that than anything else. He’s had all the same healers and doctors that I’ve had, but his injury was way worse than mine.”

Jenan nodded. “I heard.”

“The stuff they had to do quickly in order to save his life, that’s been complicating his recovery. He hasn’t healed right. He’s still in the Infirmary in the High Sanctuary.”

“In here,” Jenan said, “I’m known as the guy who almost killed the Chosen One. They respect me because of that. A lot of them are scared of me.”

“I … I don’t see how that’s anything to be proud of, Jenan.”

Jenan laughed. “Of course you don’t. Because you’re a child.”

Omen’s voice dipped. “My parents wanted you to be given the death sentence.”

“Like I care.”

“They wanted you executed, dude.”

Jenan’s next laugh was more like a bark. “Dude,” he mimicked. “Dude.”

Omen sighed. “OK, whatever, laugh at me all you want. I’m just trying to understand why you did it.”

“Why I did it?” Jenan echoed. “I was part of Abyssinia’s army. I was the leader of First Wave. You and your little friends came in and ruined everything – of course I wanted you dead! We were going to change the world!”

Omen frowned at him. “You weren’t.”

“We all were!”

“No,” said Omen. “You weren’t. First Wave was going to be framed for murdering all those Navy people in Oregon. Abyssinia was planning on killing you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, I do,” said Omen, “because I was there and so were you. You were never part of her army, Jenan. She used you and the others. You were a joke to her.”

Jenan sat frozen for a moment, and then lunged across the table. Before he could touch Omen, he shrieked and jerked sideways, falling off his chair.

Omen looked down at him. “No touching,” he said.

Jenan moaned, and the prison guard stepped forward.

“Everything OK here?” she asked.

“It’s fine, thank you,” Omen said. “He just wanted a hug.”

The prison guard nodded, and Omen waited until Jenan had dragged himself back into his chair.

“Your friends are in detention facilities,” he said. “Minimum-security stuff. Not like here. This is a proper prison, for proper bad guys. You’re not a proper bad guy, Jenan. You should be in school. Temper Fray – you know who Temper Fray is? He’s a sergeant in the City Guard. Anyway, Temper Fray told me the truth. They don’t respect you in here. No one is afraid of you. He told me you cry yourself to sleep most nights and every day you’re on the phone to your parents, begging them to come and see you. Your mum’s only been here half a dozen times and your dad still hasn’t come to visit. You’re miserable, dude. I’m just … I wanted to see if I could make things better.”

Jenan tried glaring back defiantly, but tears rolled down his cheeks and his lower lip quivered. “I hate you,” he said, his voice strangely high. “I hate you and I’ll always hate you. You ruined everything. You ruined my life, you pathetic little nobody. When I get out of here, I’m going to kill you. I don’t care how long it takes, how many years. I’m going to kill you, do you hear me?”

Omen watched him cry. “I hear you,” he said sadly, and got up.

Valkyrie set the alarm on her phone for sixty seconds, put it on the dashboard, and opened the lid of the music box on the seat beside her. The tune slowly filled the car, and Valkyrie’s eyes fluttered closed. It felt like the blood in her veins was slowing, her heartbeat softening. Anchors were attached to her thoughts, dragging them to a halt. Peace came over the horizon of her mind like the rising sun, until its warm comfort covered everything. She focused on her breathing. Her breathing was the only thing in the universe.

In the distance, an alarm went off, but it was dull and muted and unimportant. It slipped from her attention easily and once more there was only her breathing.

Then a voice – voices – and a laugh, and Valkyrie opened her eyes and blinked as a group of teenagers passed her car, chatting among themselves. Her alarm was going off. She closed the music box, shut off the alarm, sat there in the cold silence.

Her thoughts returned to her and she looked at the time.

“Dammit,” she said.

She pulled the handle, opened the door, lurched out of the car. Went to stuff the phone in her pocket, realised she was wearing a dress. A nice dress. Blue. Why was she wearing a dress? That thing in LA. It had reminded her that she liked wearing skirts and dresses sometimes. Not all the time. Sometimes. For special occasions. Was this a special occasion? Why was she here?

Fergus. His birthday.

“Dammit,” she said again.

She reached back into the car, grabbed her purse, and stuffed her keys and her phone into it as she hurried to the door of the Chinese restaurant. Here on time, but now twenty minutes late. Of course she was.

Through the door, smiling at the nice lady there to greet her, indicated she was with someone already inside. In she went, found the table at the back. Her parents and her sister and Fergus and Beryl and Crystal but no Carol.

“Here she is,” said Desmond, and Alice jumped up and ran over and Valkyrie laughed as her little sister hugged her round the waist.

“We’ve been waiting for you!” Alice informed her.

“You’re very good,” Valkyrie said, smiling warmly. The little bit of panic was receding into the warm ocean of calm the music box had delivered. “Sorry I’m late, everyone,” she said as Alice guided her by the hand to her chair.

She expected Beryl to say something sharp and resentful, but everyone just smiled and shrugged and said it didn’t matter.

The waiter came over, took their orders. Valkyrie turned to Alice and winked at her. “Hey, you,” she said.

“Hey, you,” Alice echoed.

“Haven’t seen you in a few days. What you been up to?”

Alice shrugged. “Things.”

“Things, eh?”

“And stuff.”

“Stuff, too? You have been busy. How’s school?”

“I got ten out of ten on my spelling test, but they were really easy, so everyone got ten out of ten except for one boy who forgot that we had a test. Well, he said he forgot, but I think he just didn’t want to learn the words. And there’s a new boy in my class.”

“Is there?”

“His name’s Dima. We all made him cards to introduce ourselves, and Mom looked up what welcome to school was in Russian and I wrote it and I gave it to him. And then today he gave me a card back, and he said he loved me.”

Valkyrie’s eyebrow arched. “Oh, wow …!”

Melissa leaned over. “He said you’re beautiful, didn’t he?”

Alice nodded. “He wrote you’re beautiful and I love you. And he’s right,” she said, “I am beautiful,” and she gave a dimpled, gap-toothed grin that made Valkyrie laugh.

The first course arrived and Valkyrie found it easier to interact with others when she had the distraction of food in front of her. It gave her time to think, to formulate responses, and an excuse to be brief when necessary.

The waiting staff came over, cleared the plates, and Alice announced that she had to go to the toilet, and slid out of her chair.

“I’ll go with you,” Beryl said, and Valkyrie suppressed a laugh at Alice’s rolled eyes.

Smiling, Valkyrie turned her attention to the rest of the table. They were all looking at her and her smile dropped.

“What?” she said.

Crystal leaned forward. “Why were you late?” she asked, keeping her voice low. “Were you saving the world?”

This was weird, sitting here with family members who all knew about magic. “No,” said Valkyrie, “I was just late.”

“We don’t talk about this in public,” Fergus warned.

“Then when can we talk about it?” Crystal asked, giving her dad a scowl. “We can’t talk about it in private because either Mum or Alice is around. Right now is the only time we can hear what’s going on. So come on, Valkyrie – what’s going on?”