Читать книгу Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 10 - 12 - Derek Landy - Страница 57

Never teleported them to the roof of the Golden Gate Bridge Welcome Center and immediately they ducked down. It wasn’t a tall building, and a single glimpse would be all it took for the dozens of tourists to look up and point, and then for the cops to come investigating.

This was Omen’s first time in America. Crouching down, with Valkyrie and Temper on one side and Never on the other, he focused on not being sick from the journey while he looked out at the suspension bridge that spanned the water. He was struck by how big it all was. The bridge. The skyline behind him. The sky.

“The bridge is one point seven miles long,” said Never. He was wearing scuffed jeans, a hoody and a jacket. Omen should have worn his hoody under his jacket. It was cold up here. “It opened in 1937. That colour? It’s called international orange.”

“Why do you know so much about it?” Omen asked.

Never shrugged. “It’s a bridge. I know stuff about bridges.”

They teleported on to the grass behind some trees, and Omen threw up. He apologised profusely, and when he was done they walked to the roadside. Valkyrie hailed a cab and they climbed in, Valkyrie in front. The driver chatted and Temper chatted back, but Valkyrie stayed quiet and Never looked out of the window. Omen knew he was committing as much of their surroundings to memory as he could. That was one of Fletcher Renn’s rules.

Omen had once wanted to be a Teleporter. The power to leave whenever he wanted appealed to him when he was growing up, watching all the attention being focused on his brother. Not in an entirely good way, of course. He knew, from the not quite disguised looks that would flash occasionally across Auger’s face, that such attention was more burden than gift. All that training, all that testing, all those expectations … On someone weaker – Omen, for example – it would have proven too much. But Auger handled it the same way Auger handled everything, with charm and good humour.

But alas, teleportation was not to be for the younger Darkly twin. For a start, every competent Teleporter who’d ever lived had been born with the aptitude. To someone like Never, teleportation was instinct, albeit instinct he needed help channelling. Never’s discipline – for there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Never would choose teleportation – was a part of who she was. Omen’s was still a mystery. There was nothing yet that he could truly claim to excel at – even his Elemental skills were lagging behind those of his classmates. He liked the various languages of magic, he supposed, but that was mostly because he liked to read.

The drive to Haight Street only took a few minutes. Omen stepped out in front of a brightly coloured store brimming with psychedelic positivity, and Never nudged him, directing his attention to the multitude of exotic pipes in the window. Far out, man.

Valkyrie wasn’t here to enjoy the scenery, and Temper was too busy adulting to show interest, so they walked ahead, going uphill, closing in on the address while Omen and Never followed along behind. An old guy with dreadlocks rocked by, moving to some internal rhythm only he could hear, and a small pack of street kids, lounging on someone’s front steps, ignored them with such professional detachment that even Never had to raise an eyebrow in admiration. A dog sat beside a white and red fire hydrant, like it was considering whether or not to mark its territory. It watched them walk on.

They crossed the street and arrived at a fenced-off piece of flattened ground. Valkyrie looked at the map on her phone, checked all around, then stared at the empty space before them.

“Well, crap,” she said.

“You’re sure this is it?” Temper asked.

“I’m sure. Even if I wasn’t sure, I’d know this is the place we’re looking for simply because it’s not here any more, and of course it wouldn’t be here any more, because that’s how life works. Just when you think it couldn’t possibly suck any more than it already sucks, it burns down the goddamn house.”

“Oh, that house didn’t burn down,” said an old woman, passing. “It was demolished years ago.”

Temper gave the old woman a smile. “You live near here?”

“I live right here,” the woman said, pointing a pale, knobbly finger at the house next door. “Do you know them, then?”

“Who, Richard and Savant?” Temper asked. “We do. In fact, we’re trying to find them. You wouldn’t happen to know where they moved on to, do you?”

“Maryland or Maine, somewhere like that, I think. After they were gone, squatters moved in and let the house fall into disrepair, and then the bulldozers came and flattened the whole thing. How are they doing, do you know? They were such lovely neighbours.”

“They’re fine,” Temper assured her. “We just lost touch. We were hoping to find some clue as to where they might be living now, maybe track down some of their friends – but obviously that’s not going to happen.”

“I guess not,” said the old woman. “But you could always check their things.”

Valkyrie frowned. “What things?”

“Their possessions,” the old woman said. “I went in there and packed up as much of their stuff as I could fit into their suitcases. The squatters were nice enough, I guess, but they didn’t respect other people’s property as much as they should have.”

“Can we see it?” Valkyrie asked. “Can we look through the suitcases?”

“If you’re friends of Richard and Savant, I don’t see why not.” She led the way to her house. “That’s a nice accent you’ve got, by the way. Irish, is it? My grandmother was Irish. I was named after her. Bridget.”

“I’m Valkyrie. This is Temper, Omen and Never.”

Bridget beamed. “What delightful names! Your parents must have been hippies. We get that a lot around here. Come on in. Wipe your feet.”

She took them into the back room of her warm house, which smelled of old people and cookies. Three suitcases were stacked in a wardrobe so big it could have opened up into Narnia. The case Temper searched contained nothing but clothes, but the cases that Valkyrie, Omen and Never looked through were full of papers and notebooks and pictures.

Never examined a framed photograph of two handsome, smiling men. “Which is which?” he asked.

Temper reached over, tapped the image of the slightly better-looking one. “Savant,” he said.

“Lovely men,” Bridget said, hands clasped over her bosom. “They’d do anything for you. I used to have terrible trouble with my pipes, and they’d come in here and fix it all up. Wouldn’t even let me pay them for their trouble.”

“Did you ever meet any of their friends?” Valkyrie asked, sifting through a handful of documents.

Bridget nodded. “All the time. They hosted the best dinner parties, and knew the most fabulously interesting people.”

“I know some of those same people,” Temper said.

“You do? You don’t look half old enough.”

Temper chuckled. “I remember them from when I was a kid. A couple of them were a bit much, don’t you think? They were a little – I don’t know what the right word is … scary?”

Bridget gave a nod so quick she reminded Omen of a bird pecking at a crumb. “A few of them were,” she confided, like she’d been given permission to gossip. “A few of them were downright weird – and I know weird. I grew up here. I was living in this house during the Summer of Love. I was a Deadhead. I thought I’d seen it all … but there were one or two of those friends who just gave me the heebie-jeebies.”

“Do you remember any names?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t. A lot of hippy names, though – that I do remember.”

Omen pulled a small photo album from the case and flicked through it. The first third, or thereabouts, was filled with old pictures – black and white and sepia-tinged – of Melior and Vega. The first few were posed and stiff, the pair unsmiling, but gradually they eased, until their smiles were broad and their arms were around each other’s shoulders. There was even a kiss here and there. Colour started seeping in as the decades brought their own advancements, and the hairstyles got progressively sillier. One photo, discoloured by age and sunlight, showed Melior and Vega standing with two other men and a woman. The men were all wearing bowling shirts and holding a trophy aloft, and the woman, who had a gigantic Afro and hoop earrings, was laughing. Omen frowned, and looked closer. The man standing to Savant’s right was Parthenios Lilt.

“Found something,” he said, and handed the album to Valkyrie. Her eyes widened.

“See something interesting?” Temper asked.

For a moment, Valkyrie didn’t answer, then she flipped the album so he could see. “Recognise anyone?”

“That’s Lilt,” Never said, pointing.

Temper’s own eyes narrowed. “The woman,” he said. “She’s an old friend. Her name’s Tessa Mehrbano. You know her?”

“Not her,” said Valkyrie, “and not Lilt.” Her finger jabbed at the image of the small, smiling man next to Richard Melior. “Him.”

Temper took a moment, and his eyebrows slowly rose. “Wow. Nice hair.”

Omen and Never crowded round.

“Who is he?” Never asked.

Valkyrie pulled the photograph from the album, looking at Bridget as she did so. “Can I borrow this?”

“I guess so,” the old woman said. “Is everything OK? You look ill.”

“I’m fine,” said Valkyrie. “Just eager to talk to some people. Thank you very much for your help.”

“Of course,” said Bridget. “If you track them down, please tell them I was asking after them. They were such lovely boys.”

“We will,” said Valkyrie, and led the way out. The moment they were out of Bridget’s view – she stood in her doorway, waving as they walked – they dodged off the street, hurrying up the steps into the cover of Buena Vista Park.

Valkyrie spun to Temper. “This old friend of yours, what’s her name again?”

“Tessa Mehrbano.”

“You know where she lives?”

“Yeah. New York.”

“Talk to her. We’ll head back to Roarhaven, get things sorted out there. Maybe Mehrbano knows something that’ll help us, maybe she doesn’t, but it won’t hurt to try.”

Temper hesitated. “I haven’t really been her favourite person for a few years now.”

“I doubt you’re anyone’s favourite person except your own,” Valkyrie said, “but you still have to go.”

“OK, that was especially harsh.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean it. Not thinking straight. Never, take him.”

“I’m not a taxicab,” Never snapped.

Valkyrie stiffened, and turned her gaze to him slowly. “Take Temper to New York,” she said, “then come back for us. When I have time to ask nicely, I will ask nicely. But right now, do what I say or get out of my sight.”

Never flushed. “Hey, you’re the one who came to me for help.”

“And if you’re going to give that help then you’re going to do it without sulking every time you look at me. Now take him to New York.”

Glaring, Never reached out and Temper took his hand, and they vanished.

Valkyrie deflated all of a sudden, sagging back against a tree. Omen got the feeling she’d forgotten he was there. A familiar sensation.

“Um,” he said.

She looked up. “Yes?”

“I was … I was just going to ask. The guy in the picture. Who is he?”

“You really don’t know? Have you ever been to the High Sanctuary?”

“No.”

“If you had, you’d have seen him,” Valkyrie said. She frowned, and looked around. “Huh,” she said.

“What’s wrong?”

She hesitated. “Nothing, I just …”

And that’s when somebody punched Omen in the back of the head.