Читать книгу Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 10 - 12 - Derek Landy - Страница 36

The news about Lilt spread through the school in whispers and text messages. History class was supervised by other teachers and the students were told to keep quiet and busy themselves with their work. No one whispered the news to Omen, though. No one cared enough to share.

His moment was gone. His chance at being something, at being somebody, had flowed from his grip like a fistful of water. At break time he sat alone, a ghost, fading slowly back into the furniture. It was what he was good at. It was the only thing he was good at. Any hope he’d ever had of being somebody who’d make any kind of difference had disappeared. What a fool he’d been, to think himself part of the team. Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain and … Omen Darkly? Really? Had he seriously thought that? Had he seriously thought that the two of them, that two legends like that, would take him on as an apprentice? What the hell would they need him for? What would anyone need him for?

But it had felt so good. That was the really pathetic part. Being a part of it, however briefly, had filled a need within him that he’d never known existed. Up until now he’d been content to be the irrelevant brother. He hadn’t minded that everything was about Auger, that nothing was about him. It was how he’d been raised. He’d never known any different.

And then Skulduggery and Valkyrie had come along and told him that he could be a part of something bigger, and it was like a light shining down on him from above. He was singled out. He was special. Not once in his fourteen years had he ever been special. Auger was the first-born. Auger was the Chosen One. From the day of his birth, Omen had been the other one. His parents treated him like an annoyance. The people brought in to train Auger treated him like a prop. See what your brother is doing, Auger? That’s the wrong way to do it. Do it like this. Good boy. And Omen was left in the shadows, always so eager to please, always so compliant. Never complaining. Always grateful for whatever scraps of attention, no matter how meagre, were tossed his way.

And, for two glorious days, it had all changed, and he’d glimpsed what it was like to be important. It had been good. It had been … fulfilling. He’d never been happier. The realisation hit him like heartbreak. He had actually never been happier.

Tears came to his eyes again and he wiped them away, roughly, with the back of his hand. Nobody laughed at him, nobody pointed, because nobody saw, and nobody cared. A sea of black uniforms and coloured ties all around him, ebbing and flowing, and not one of them bothered to even mock him.

Skulduggery was worried about putting Omen’s life in danger, but the truth was if Omen had been killed, nobody, apart from Never and Auger, would have cared. He was a ghost in life and he’d be less than a ghost in death.

Did you know that the Chosen One had a brother?

Really? What happened to him?

What happened to who?

Omen had liked being special. It had been a good feeling. A warm feeling. He’d mattered. He wasn’t alone. He could see now why brave people did the things they did. Brave things, selfless things … they connected you. They plugged you into the world. He wasn’t plugged in any more. He was adrift.

Byron Grace passed, walking quickly like he had somewhere to be. A few seconds later, Lapse and Gall stalked by, going in the same direction. Heading for the stairs.

Omen stood up from the bench. He tucked in his shirt and watched Colleen Stint, clutching her golden mask, dart through the crowd after them. A meeting. The Arcanum’s Scholars had called a meeting without Mr Lilt.

Omen’s feet were moving. He was walking – no, running – for his locker. His mind caught up to the decision the rest of him had made, and he took the gold mask and stuck it under his blazer, then ran back, taking the long way to the fifth-floor library. He arrived out of breath, his heart thudding, as Perpetua Darling joined the rest of the Arcanum’s Scholars in their usual spot, lounging about on the chairs. Omen spotted the librarian struggling to restock the higher shelves on the other side of the library.

Omen did his best to get his breathing under control, then sneaked behind a fern and crouched down, watching. The Scholars chatted among themselves for a bit, nobody making anything more than small talk. Jenan had his usual seat, just an everyday chair that he managed to make look like a throne.

“What are we even doing here?” asked Isidora Splendour, one of Colleen Stint’s best friends. “Mr Lilt’s been arrested. They’ve probably killed him by now.”

“They don’t kill people they’ve arrested,” said Gall.

“Shows how much you know,” Isidora responded. “They killed the American Grand Mage, didn’t they? Shot him in his cell.”

“That was different.”

“How? Exactly how was it different? Cypher plotted against the Sanctuary and they arrested him and murdered him.”

“It’s different because they killed him after he’d told them everything,” said Gall, sounding annoyed that he was being asked to explain himself. “Lilt won’t have told them a thing.”

“They’ve got Sensitives, idiot.”

“And Lilt’s got psychic defences, moron.”

Isidora’s voice rose. “What did you call me?”

“I called you a moron.”

“You take that back!” she screeched. “You take that right back!”

Gall frowned. “You called me an idiot.”

“Take it back, Gall,” said Colleen, glaring at him while she comforted her friend.

“She called me an idiot first,” said Gall.

“You don’t call girls morons!” Isidora wailed. Actually wailed. With tears.

“Jesus Christ,” Gall said.

Jenan sighed. “Say you’re sorry.”

Gall’s face was a mask of confusion. “But she called me—”

“I know what she called you,” Jenan said. “It was ten seconds ago and I was sitting right here. Apologise anyway before she gets any louder.”

Gall stared at him, the confusion giving way to resentment, and then he shrugged. “Fine, whatever. Sorry.”

“You shouldn’t call people that,” Isidora said, her voice shaky with emotion.

“Right.”

“There are real morons out there and to use the word as a derogatory term is insulting to them, not just to me.”

Gall blinked at her. “What?”

“You’ve just got to think before you yell insults at people. Words hurt, Gall.”

Byron sat forward. “So let me get this straight. Calling you a moron, Isidora, is insulting to morons?”

Isidora sighed. “Yes.”

Colleen hugged her friend. “Stop talking now, Izzy.”

Jenan stood up, bringing an end to the conversation. “We’re here because the fact that they grabbed Lilt changes nothing. I got a message last night telling us not to worry. As long as we don’t do anything stupid, we’re safe. We haven’t done anything wrong. We haven’t broken any laws. Not yet.”

“Who sent the message?” Colleen asked.

“You’ll find out in a moment,” said Jenan. “OK, it’s time to move to less salubrious surroundings. Ceremonial masks on.”

The Scholars took out their masks and slipped them on, and Jenan led the way to the back room.

Omen’s feet wouldn’t budge. His body had frozen. This was a bad idea. This was a supremely bad idea.

His hands moved, slipping the golden mask over his head, fixing it in place, and the moment it was secure his legs woke up. He covered the distance in three seconds, joining the group as they squeezed through the doorway into a room with a large glass door that opened out on to a balcony.

Jenan, the tallest of them, shut the door once they were all in. He didn’t glance twice at Omen, and he didn’t do a headcount. There was a table in the middle of the room with chairs all around it. If they sat, Omen’s ruse would be over before it had truly begun.

One of the Scholars went to sit.

“Don’t bother,” said Jenan. “You’ll want to be standing for this.”

“For what?” somebody asked. Sounded like Gall.

Jenan didn’t answer. He just took out his phone and checked the time. “Any moment now,” he said. “Clear a space there.”

There was a little shuffling as everyone crowded into the same side of the small room.

“Somebody close the curtains,” Jenan instructed.

People turned their heads, gold masks revolving, but nobody actually moved. Finally, Omen went to do it, and the Scholars looked away. The curtains were heavy, and when they were closed the room darkened considerably. Omen stayed where he was, at the back.

“What are we waiting for?” Byron asked.

“You’ll see,” said Jenan, and then, like it had all been rehearsed, three people teleported into the room before them.

The masked man in the middle wore an outfit of black rubber. The man to his left had platinum hair and a smile. The woman to his right was drop-dead gorgeous, and wore a tuxedo. Omen didn’t have the first idea who they were, but the others certainly did. There was a collective gasp.

“Hello, my friends,” said the masked man. His voice was distorted, soft and loud at the same time, like he was whispering into a microphone. “It’s an honour to finally meet you. Parthenios has told us so much about you all.”

Jenan spoke up, his own voice tight with excitement. “Mr Lethe, it is a huge honour for us, too. We just want you to know that we are ready, we are so ready, to fight for the cause. Blood has to be spilled and we, all of us here, we are ready to spill that blood for you, sir.” Crazily, he saluted.

“Jenan, is it?” Lethe asked, and shook his head. “We don’t salute here, Jenan, and there are no sirs in our group. I’m not above you. I’m not issuing orders. I’m a soldier, just like you are. We’re partners. Comrades.”

“Comrades,” repeated Jenan, nodding like this was the greatest word in recorded history.

“I know we’ve suffered some setbacks,” Lethe continued. “Losing Mr Lilt to the enemy … that’s a loss. I’m not going to stand here and lie to you. Parthenios was a valued part of our team, and his arrest … that’s a problem for us. But we shall overcome our enemies by standing together. I look around this room and I’m filled with … pride. With love. We’re the same. Everyone in here. The same.”

Colleen started to say something, but all she could manage was a croak. This drew some nervous laughter from the other Scholars, and the lady in the tuxedo smiled. The smile was unsettlingly wide.

“I’m sorry,” said Lethe, “what was that?”

Colleen tried again. “Is it true you beat Skulduggery Pleasant?”

Now the lady chuckled.

“I don’t like to brag,” said Lethe with good humour, “so all I will say is that bones were broken and they weren’t exactly mine.”

The Scholars laughed, and clapped, but kept the claps soft.

“Skulduggery Pleasant is no big deal, though – not really. He feels pain like anyone else. I made him feel pain when we met, and I’ll make him feel pain again. But I’m not the only one who can do that. We can all do it. We can all take down their best people. We’re all capable. We just need to be smarter than them, braver than them, better than them. Everyone in this room can do that. Everyone in this room has the potential to be that. And you’ll get to prove it very, very soon.”

A tentative hand rose. “What are we going to do?” asked Gall.

“You’re going to strike, my friend,” said Lethe. “You’re going to bring terror to the heartland of America and then you’re going to watch, you’re going to sit back and watch, as the mortals tear themselves apart in their panic and their fear. Mortal society will crumble. They’ll hurt each other, hunt each other, kill each other and, when they find out about us, they’re going to turn all their murderous rage our way. The Sanctuaries around the world will not have a choice. They’re going to have to fight. We, all of us, are going to start a war the mortals can’t win, and we’re going to do it together. Mr Lilt, he told us he would trust you all with his life. He told us you were devoted, just like us. But, now that he’s in chains, you’re going to need a spokesman.”

Jenan stepped forward. “I’ll be leader.”

The woman laughed. “I like him,” she said. “He’s certainly bottling his blood’s worth.”

Lethe nodded. “I have no idea what that means, Razzia, but I’m sure you’re right. He has ambition. Ambition is good. Leadership is good. But our groups don’t have leaders. They have representatives. They have spokespeople.”

“Then I’ll speak for this group,” said Jenan.

“It looks like you already are,” Lethe said, sounding amused. “Very well. If nobody has an objection, let Jenan Ispolin speak for First Wave.”

“First Wave?” Byron echoed.

“Your group,” said Lethe. “You need a name, don’t you? Arcanum’s Scholars is a study group. It’s for kids, isn’t it? But you’re not kids. What you are is the first wave. You will strike first. You will draw first blood. When mortals think of sorcerers, they will think of you first.”

Omen paid attention to the man with the platinum hair when he noticed him frowning. The man’s eyes were narrowed, and flicking from one gold mask to the next. He was counting.

Terror seized Omen’s chest and he moved slightly, stepping behind the others. He saw the frown deepen, and the count began again.

“We will be in contact with Jenan in a few days,” Lethe was saying. “From this moment on, we are doubling our precautions. Our revolution, which one day will have seemed inevitable and unstoppable, is still a fragile thing. Parthenios’s capture serves as a reminder that even the best of us can falter. We must be vigilant. We must be ready.”

The man with the platinum hair put his hand on Lethe’s arm and spoke to the group. “How many of you are there?” he asked.

“Nine, Mr Nero,” said Jenan immediately.

“Then why are there ten gold masks in this room?”

Everyone turned, stepping away from each other and counting for themselves. Except for Omen. Omen just stood there.

The counting faded as the space around him widened.

“And who,” said Lethe, stepping forward, “might you be?”

Omen backed up, face burning under his mask. He felt the thick curtains behind him. Through them, the door handle. He turned it, felt the door open.

Jenan pushed roughly through the Scholars. “Out of the way,” he snarled, reaching out. “Who the hell are—?”

Omen surprised himself by shoving Jenan hard in the chest, sending him backwards into the others, and then he barged through the curtains, out on to the balcony, where the wind turned his sweat cold and there was nowhere to go but down. There was a balcony below him, and a balcony below that, and he swung one leg over the side, but his hands gripped the railing and he couldn’t go any further. Shapes moved behind the curtain, filling it, too many of his classmates trying to get through at the same time, all of them coming to – what? To push him? To kill him?

Nero teleported on to the balcony and Omen cried out and jerked back, lost his balance, started to fall, but Nero reached out, grabbed his wrist.

Omen hung there, his body committed to the fall, his mouth open, his heart an empty thing in his chest, and all he could feel were Nero’s fingers around his wrist.

Nero smiled, and let go.

Omen shrieked as he fell. He was past the first balcony before he even saw it. He reached for the second and banged his arm and kept falling. He saw a face at an open window and Filament Sclavi reached out, tried using the air to stop Omen’s descent, but Omen broke through and kept falling, and then there was a strong wind buffeting him closer to the wall and a hand reached down, closed around his wrist.

Omen slammed into the side of the building and hung there for a moment, gasping. He was two floors from the ground, and now he was being pulled upwards to the balcony.

Mr Peccant glared down at him. “Little fool,” he growled. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Omen didn’t answer. The mask had dislodged slightly, obscuring his vision. He did his best to help as Peccant dragged him in and then let go, leaving Omen to tumble through to the floor.

Still, better to tumble to the floor of Peccant’s office than to smash to the courtyard below it.

Peccant strode in after him. “Tomfoolery!” he said, the word exploding from his mouth like a curse. Peccant was the only person Omen knew who used words like tomfoolery. “What did you think you were playing at? Eh? Take off that bloody mask, for goodness’ sake!”

Omen didn’t take the mask off.

“This is what happens when children are allowed to lark about unsupervised! This is what happens!”

The office was impeccably neat. The only thing out of place was a black book that had fallen from the desk, presumably when Peccant had leaped to the balcony. Helpfully, Omen picked it up. It was more of a ledger than a book, now that he took a closer look, and there was a crest on the cover, a wolf and a snake.

“Give me that,” Peccant snapped, yanking the book from Omen’s hands. He threw it into a desk drawer and slammed it shut. “And take off that ridiculous mask! Do you even realise how inaccurate it all is? Rebus Arcanum despised the society that wore those masks. For a history teacher, Lilt does like to leave out a lot of little things like details, doesn’t he? If he hadn’t been arrested for whatever he was arrested for, he should have been arrested for being a damn fool and a bad teacher!”

Omen stood on trembling legs while Peccant went back to the balcony, craning his head upwards. “Where did you fall from? Which window? Is there anyone else being irresponsible up there?”

Omen reached for the door. Opened it. Nobody outside. He stepped out, started walking. Picked up speed. He took off the gold mask and dropped it.

“Hey!” Peccant yelled from inside his office, and Omen ran.