Skulduggery Pleasant: Mortal Cole

T
he doors swung open and High Priest Auron Tenebrae strode into the room, his robe swirling around his tall, narrow frame. To his right was Quiver, a miser with words, but overly generous with withering glares. To Tenebrae’s left, Craven, a bland sycophant, possessed of an uncanny skill to worm his way into his superior’s good graces. Solomon Wreath had been seeing far too much of all three lately.

“Cleric Wreath,” Tenebrae said, nodding imperiously at him.

“Your Eminence,” Wreath responded, bowing deeply. “To what do I owe the honour?”

“Why do you
think
we’re here?” Craven said, almost sneered. “You’re late with your report. Did you think the High Priest would forget? Do you think him a fool?”

“I do not think him a fool, no,” Wreath answered calmly. “But as to the intelligence of the people who accompany him, I’m afraid I cannot say.”

“An insult!” Craven screeched. “How dare you! How dare you use a derogatory tone in the presence of the High Priest!”

“Enough,” Tenebrae sighed, “both of you. Your constant bickering tries my patience.”

“My humblest apologies,” Craven said immediately, bowing and closing his eyes, his lower lip trembling on the verge of tears. A magnificent performance, as usual.

“Yes,” Wreath said. “Sorry about that.”

“Despite Cleric Craven’s overt dramatics,” Tenebrae said, “he is quite correct to point out that you are late with your report. How is Valkyrie Cain progressing through her studies?”

“She’s a fast learner,” said Wreath. “As far as the practical side goes anyway. She’s a natural at shadow casting, and every time I see her she’s improved.”

“And the philosophical aspect?” Quiver asked.

“Is not progressing nearly as smoothly,” Wreath admitted. “She doesn’t seem to be at all interested in the history or the teachings of the Order. It’s going to take a lot to open her mind to it.”

“The skeleton has already poisoned her against us,” Tenebrae said bitterly.

“I fear you may be right. But I still think the effort is worth it.”

“And I have yet to be convinced.”

“Just because the girl is a fast learner,” Quiver said, “does not mean she is the Death Bringer.”

“Cleric Quiver speaks the truth,” Tenebrae nodded.

Wreath did his best to look humble, keeping his comments to himself. He’d been searching for their saviour, for the one who would save the world from itself, for most of his life. He knew full well the danger of false hope and blind alleys – he’d had his fair share of both. But Valkyrie Cain was different. He felt it. Valkyrie Cain was the
one.

“She troubles me,” Tenebrae said. “Does she have potential? Absolutely. With training and with study, she could be the best of us. But the best of us still falls far short of what the Death Bringer should be.”

“I’ll keep working with her,” Wreath said. “In two years.
maybe three, we’ll have a better understanding of what she’s capable of.”

“Three years?” Tenebrae laughed. “A lot can happen, as we have seen, in a short space of time. Serpine. Vengeous. The Diablerie. Dare we risk being sidetracked by a mistake? While we are busy testing Miss Cain, another one of Mevolent’s disciples might actually succeed in their insane goals and bring back the Faceless Ones for good. What if, as you yourself fear, Cleric Wreath, Lord Vile returns to punish us all? If that happens, our plans mean nothing. There will be no world left to save.”

“Then what does His Eminence suggest?” Wreath asked.

“We need to know if we are wasting our time with this one.”

“A Sensitive,” Craven nodded.

“We’ve tried this before,” Wreath argued. “None of our psychics are able to tell us anything.”

“Reading the future has never been a particular talent of the Necromancer Order,” Tenebrae said. “Our Sensitives are somewhat lacking when it comes to fortune-telling. But there is another I keep hearing about. Finbar something…”

“Finbar Wrong,” Wreath said. “But he knows Valkyrie personally. It would raise too many questions. Even if he didn’t know her, I doubt he’d ever aid our cause. As I keep reminding you, nobody out there likes us.”

“We’re working to save them all!” Craven barked, and this time not even the High Priest paid him any attention.

“The psychic will help us,” Tenebrae said, “and afterwards he will remember nothing about it. Cleric Wreath, I want you to take the Soul Catcher and release the Remnant we have trapped inside it.”

Wreath’s face slackened. “Your Eminence, Remnants are highly dangerous…”

“Oh, I trust your ability to handle any situation,” Tenebrae said with an airy wave of his hand. “Have it possess this Finbar person, and if he sees a future where Valkyrie Cain is the Death Bringer, and he sees her saving the world, then we can put all our energies into making sure she fulfils her potential. If he does not see this future, we forget about her, and our search continues.”

“But using the Remnant…”

“Once the job is done, simply return it to the Soul Catcher. What could be easier?”

C
hristmas was a few days away, and all but one of the houses on this suburban Dublin street had lights in the windows. Three of the most competitive neighbours had filled their small gardens with flickering Santas and frolicking reindeer, and some idiot had even wrapped a cable of fairy lights round the lamp post outside his gate. There was no snow, but the night was cold, and frost clung to the city like glitter.

The big car that rolled to a stop outside the house with no lights was a 1954 Bentley R-Type Continental, one of only
208 ever made. It was an exquisite car, retro-fitted with modern conveniences, adapted to the needs of its owner. It was fast, it was powerful, and if it received even the slightest of dents, it would fall apart.

That’s what the mechanic had said. He’d done all he could, used all his knowledge and all his abilities to bring this car back from the brink so many times – but the next dent, he promised, would be its last. All the tricks he’d used to keep it going, to bend it back into shape, would be counteracted. The glass would shatter, the metal would rupture, the frame would buckle, the tyres would burst, the engine would crack… The only way to avoid complete and utter catastrophe, the mechanic had said, was to make sure you weren’t
in
the car when all this happened.

Skulduggery Pleasant got out first. He was tall and thin, and wore a dark blue suit and black gloves. His hair was brown and wavy, and his cheekbones were high and his jaw was square. His skin was slightly waxy and his eyes didn’t seem capable of focusing, but it was a pretty good face, all things considered. One of his better ones.

Valkyrie Cain got out of the passenger side. She zipped up her black jacket against the cold, and joined Skulduggery as he walked up to the front door. She glanced at him, and saw that he was smiling.

“Stop doing that,” she sighed.

“Stop doing what?” Skulduggery responded in that gloriously velvet voice of his.

“Stop smiling. The person we want to talk to lives in the only dark house on a bright street. That’s not a good sign.”

“I didn’t realise I
was
smiling,” he said.

They stopped at the door, and Skulduggery made a concerted effort to shift his features. His mouth twitched downwards. “Am I smiling now?”

“No.”

“Excellent,” he said, and the smile immediately sprang back up.