Bedlam. Derek Landy
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wall that encircled the city. Was that what Axelia was talking about? Did she like walls?
“The wall’s pretty,” he tried.
“The wall’s ugly,” Axelia said immediately. “It’s horrible and grey and horrible.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“It blocks out the sun in the mornings for this whole part of town.”
“It’s so horrible,” Omen agreed.
“But the rest of it,” said Axelia, “it’s so nice. It’s peaceful, isn’t it? Quiet.”
Omen nodded, but he wasn’t quite sure that was true. The Humdrums were where the mortals lived, the more than 18,000 refugees who had trudged through the portal from the Leibniz Universe to escape their very own Mevolent, who was still alive and terrorising the ones left behind over there. Roarhaven had taken them in, mainly because there was nowhere else to keep them, and the High Sanctuary had assumed responsibility for turning them into productive members of society.
Axelia had grown up in a magical community in Iceland, where she’d had very limited interactions with mortals. Omen was beginning to think that maybe she viewed mortals, and these ones in particular, as quaint, somewhat primitive beings. It was ever-so-slightly condescending, he felt. And possibly ever-so-slightly racist.
The tram stopped and off they got. The Humdrums was definitely quieter than other parts of the city. No one here had cars, because no one could drive yet. Back in their own dimension, these mortals had been the serfs to the ruling class of mages. They’d lived in huts and hadn’t had access to technology.
Here they were free. They worked and were paid. They’d been introduced to the delights of television and the Internet. They could walk the streets without being accosted by sorcerers.
“Hello,” said Omen to a passing mortal. “Would you like a pamphlet?”
The mortal shrank back, but took a pamphlet and hurried on.
The bag over Omen’s shoulder was weighed down with these pamphlets. This week, they were handing out information about the First Bank of Roarhaven, China Sorrows’s pride and joy. Even mortals could save their money there, according to the pamphlets – it was perfectly safe and truly wonderful. Omen doubted this would work. The mortals here were more inclined to stash their money under their mattresses than hand it over to some huge institution where they didn’t know the rules.
But volunteering for this stuff got Omen out of the last class of the day, so he didn’t mind too much.
They folded pamphlets and stuck them through letterboxes and chatted whenever they regrouped at the end of a street. Axelia had already handed in her Senior Years Agenda. She wanted to be an Elemental, she said. There were a lot more of them flying these days, like Skulduggery did. She’d always wanted to fly.
Flying would be cool, Omen admitted. But he was wary of the fact that it required so much concentration. His mind was inclined to wander, after all.
They made their way to the square in the middle of the sector. It didn’t have a name yet – the mortals intended to vote on one in the coming months. The High Sanctuary even offered to have a statue erected to someone they admired, mortal or mage. They were still deciding on that as well.
Aurnia was waiting for them with a few other mortals. She waved as they approached. Her companions, one girl and three guys, left her to it. As they passed, one of the guys rammed his shoulder into Omen’s.
Before Omen knew what was happening, he was being loomed over and forced backwards.
“What?” said the guy who’d rammed him. “What?”
Omen blinked up at him. “What?”
“What?” demanded the rammer, his teeth bared, his eyes wide.
“I’m sorry?”
The guy’s friends were pulling him back, and Axelia was suddenly standing between them and Aurnia was running up.
“Hey,” Axelia said. “Hey! Back off!”
The guy glared at her, glared at Omen, and allowed himself to be dragged away.
“Are you OK?” Aurnia asked. “Omen, did he hurt you?”
“No,” Omen lied, rubbing his shoulder. “Who was that?”
“That’s Buach.”
Axelia frowned. “Boo-ock?”
“Buach, yes,” said Aurnia. “He’s … I don’t know. He doesn’t like sorcerers, and he wants everyone to know it. He just gets very angry sometimes. Living here, surrounded by magic people … it makes him unhappy.”
“Well, I’d stay away from him, if I were you,” said Omen. “You really don’t want to be around someone who’s that volatile.”
“He’s my boyfriend,” Aurnia said, wincing.
“That’s your boyfriend? I thought your boyfriend was nice and sweet and happy. Didn’t you tell me that?”
“And Buach is all of those things,” Aurnia replied, “when sorcerers aren’t around. Also, I think he doesn’t like you because you wanted to kiss me.”
“That’s hardly fair,” said Omen immediately. “When I wanted to kiss you, he wasn’t your boyfriend. And why would you even tell him that? Of course he hates me now.”
“Buach needs to learn that you are not his property,” Axelia said.
“Oh, he knows,” Aurnia replied. “He’s just being stupid. He’s really very sweet. And kind. He makes me happy.” She sighed. “But what he did just now was terrible, and he’ll either apologise to you or he won’t have a girlfriend any more.”
“You’d break up with him?” Axelia asked.
“That’s the expression I was searching for,” said Aurnia, pointing at her. “Break up with him, yes. I still don’t know the proper phrases. In our culture, we don’t even have equivalents. Anyway, yes, I’ll break up with him if he doesn’t say sorry.”
“That’s OK,” said Omen. “It’s no big deal. He doesn’t have to.”
Aurnia reached into Omen’s bag, took out a handful of pamphlets and flicked through them. “Of course he does,” she said. “There’s a polite way to behave and a rude way. I’m not going to go out with someone who’s rude.”
Axelia grinned. “I like you more and more, every time I see you.”
Aurnia grinned back. “I like you, too.”
“Does anyone like me?” Omen asked hopefully.
“Sure we do,” said Axelia. “You carry the bag.”
The car hit a pothole and Valkyrie cursed, glared at nothing in particular and carried on. The roads around here were getting worse. No mortal officials bothered with them because, as far as they knew, these were tiny country roads that led nowhere, and no magical officials bothered with them because these were, technically, mortal roads, and mortals had to take care of themselves. Those were the rules.
Valkyrie slalomed very carefully round the next set of potholes, fully aware that she was using her irritation about the potholes to push her worries about Alice into the back of her mind. As long as it worked, she didn’t much care.
She turned on to a wider road. An old man nodded to her. She nodded back. The road was better here. The giant potholes that Swiss-cheesed the surface were nothing