Last Stand of Dead Men. Derek Landy
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this for money. They have no loyalty to anyone except each other, and even then their loyalty only stretches so far. At the moment Mr Foe’s colleagues are languishing in prison thanks to Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain, but if I give the word, they will be mysteriously freed. Providing no one here has any objection to this course of action?”
Illori looked at Kribu, and watched her jaw tighten. Targeting the Sensitives was a sickening but necessary move. There’d be time enough to feel bad when all this was over.
“Very well,” she said, when no one objected.
“Grand Mage Bisahalani,” said Ode, “the last time we spoke in private we discussed a certain …”
“Yes,” said Bisahalani, “of course.”
Wahrheit did not look happy. “Private discussions are not part of the Supreme Council’s agenda, gentlemen. Please – elaborate.”
Bisahalani clasped his hands behind his back, the way he always did when he was about to discuss unpleasantness. “There is a single individual capable of turning the tide of this war in whichever direction he chooses. Unfortunately, despite his nationality, we have reason to doubt that he will side with us.”
“Who are we talking about?” Kribu asked.
“His name is Fletcher Renn. He’s the last Teleporter. Twenty years old, born and raised in London, but when his natural aptitude for magic made itself known he was, for all intents and purposes, taken in by the Irish Sanctuary. That is where he received the first part of his training. He is currently in Australia, where he continues his studies.”
Mandat frowned. “And you think he’ll side with the Irish if they ask?”
“That’s where his friends are. Also, from what we’ve heard, he and Valkyrie Cain were involved.”
“So he’s definitely on their side,” said Wahrheit.
“I’m afraid so.”
“He must be targeted.”
“He already is. If there is no objection, the kill order will go through.” Bisahalani looked round the room. No one spoke. “Very well,” he said. “The order is given.”
The smell wafted throughout her small apartment, and Fletcher Renn put his head back on the sofa and inhaled deeply. She’d been branching out lately, experimenting with all sorts of new cakes and buns, but every few days she’d make another batch of muffins and he wondered how she could ever want to do anything else.
“I love your muffins,” he mumbled.
“That’s nice,” Myra said, patting his cheek as she passed behind him. “Are you watching that, by the way? If you’re not watching it—”
“I’m watching it,” he said immediately, looking at the TV to find out what exactly he was watching. It seemed to be some sort of sporting game. “I love this,” he said as she went back into the kitchen. “This is the one where they have the ball and they try to score points. My favourite is the blue team. Look, they’re playing.”
“You haven’t a clue what you’re watching, do you?”
“Yes I do. It’s a cross between rugby and something that isn’t rugby. Badminton, maybe.”
Myra walked back in, draped herself over the sofa behind him and rested her chin on his shoulder. “It’s Australian Rules football, or Aussie Rules, if you like. How do you not know this by now? You’ve been living here for over a year.”
“I live a sheltered life.”
She grinned. “I’ve heard it’s rugby crossed with Gaelic football. That’s from Ireland. Don’t ask me the rules because I don’t know them. And neither do you, you … you …”
He looked up at her. “Call me a flaming drongo.”
She laughed. “No I will not.”
“Ah, go on. Please?”
She sighed. “I don’t know the rules and neither do you, yeh flamin’ drongo.”
He bit his lip. “I love it when you call me that.”
“You’re so weird.”
She started to straighten up, but he took hold of her arm and pulled her down on top of him. She laughed and squirmed until she was lying across his lap, and then she said, “I love you.”
Fletcher nodded. “Yup.”
“Yup?”
“Hmm?”
She sat up, turned to him. “I say I love you and you say yup?”
“Uh,” he said, “you just … took me by surprise. That’s all. I wasn’t expecting it. This isn’t something I expected. This is kind of … y’know? A big deal, is what I’m saying. It’s a big deal.”
“I love you, Fletcher.”
“Yes, excellent, and to you I say … wow. That’s really great. I’m a lucky, lucky guy.”
Myra stood. “Oh, God.”
“Now, Myra …”
She shook her head. “It’s fine. You don’t have to … I’m not asking you to say it back to me, I’m just saying it because I’m feeling it and sometimes when you feel something you have to say it so … I’ll go check on the muffins.”
She hurried into the kitchen and Fletcher stood. “Myra, wait, come on.”
The doorbell rang.
“Could you get that?” Myra called.
“Don’t be upset with me. I’m in shock right now, that’s all. I don’t know what I’m—”
The doorbell again.
“Fletch, please, just answer the door.”
Cursing himself for his stupidity, Fletcher went to the door and pulled it open. A pretty girl stood there, brown hair tied back, wearing jeans and a leather jacket. Behind her stood a Maori in a ripped T-shirt and with a tattoo on the left side of his grinning face.
“Kia ora, bro,” said Tane Aiavao.
Hayley Skirmish pushed past Fletcher, into the apartment. Immediately she began snooping around. Tane came in after her, shutting the door behind him.
“Don’t worry about her,” he said. “She’s just doing her I have no social graces thing. How’ve you been? You’re looking good. Are those muffins I smell?”
There was a scream from the kitchen and Myra came running out, Hayley walking behind her, gun in hand.
In the blink of an eye Fletcher was standing between them. “Put it down, Hayley.”
“She’s got a gun!” Myra screeched.
Hayley almost looked bored. “I walked into the kitchen to find your girlfriend brandishing a weapon.”
Fletcher turned to Myra. “Weapon?”
“A spatula!” Myra cried. “It was a spatula!”
“In the hands of a trained killer,” said Hayley, “a spatula can be deadly.”
“Or a really bad chef,” chortled Tane, but everyone ignored him.
Myra