Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 10 - 12. Derek Landy
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“Crap,” said Valkyrie, the coffee spilling onto her sleeve. The guy who had bumped into her glowered like he was expecting an argument, but Valkyrie just turned away, took some napkins and left the café without saying anything else. A few years ago her words would have sliced through him until he apologised, maybe started crying, but that particular fire wasn’t burning inside her anymore. She didn’t know if it’d ever come back.
She got to her car, put the cup in the holder and dried herself off as best she could, then drove to the High Sanctuary. She showed her badge to the Cleaver and he allowed her into the car park. She picked a spot beside the Bentley and got out, zipping up her coat. It was another cold day.
Taking her coffee with her, she rode the elevator up, ignored the looks she got and made her way to the Records Department. Skulduggery was the only person here at this hour of the morning. He was wearing another three-piece suit – darkest blue this time, with a white shirt and blue tie. His hat was off and he tapped at a computer. A thick file lay open beside him, spiral-bound. Entire lines were blacked out.
“This it?” she asked, flicking through the pages.
“That’s the Neoteric Report,” he said, still looking at the screen.
“What’s with the black lines?”
“Sensitive information, too secret for the likes of us.”
She sat, took a sip of coffee. It was her first from a Roarhaven café, and it was amazing. She wasn’t surprised. Of course the coffee would be amazing here. Sorcerers loved doing things better than the mortals. “So tell me,” she said.
Skulduggery tapped a little more, then turned in his swivel chair. “I think we have our suspect.”
She frowned. “Omen was right?”
“He may have good instincts for this kind of thing.”
“But we don’t care how good his instincts are, do we? Because we’re cutting him loose, right?”
“Absolutely,” Skulduggery said. “But I thought it’d be nice if I could tell him that his hunch was right before I essentially fire the boy.”
Valkyrie shrugged. “Suppose that is a nice thing to do. What have you found?”
“The names of some of these Neoteric sorcerers Parthenios Lilt dealt with are the same names that Temper Fray passed on to me as anti-Sanctuary operatives. Two in particular stand out – Richard Melior and Azzedine Smoke. Much of the information about these two has been classified, but, from what I can gather, Melior is something of a Vitakinetic and Smoke has the ability to corrupt those he touches.”
“What do you mean by corrupt?”
“Control,” said Skulduggery. “According to this, if he touches you, you essentially become a psychopath, and you’re compelled to obey whatever order he gives you.”
She frowned. “That’s a dangerous skill to have.”
“Yes, it is. The corruption lasts for approximately forty-eight hours, but a lot of damage can be done in two days. As we both know.”
“So if we’re going up against someone who could basically brainwash us and turn us against each other …”
“We’d better not let him touch us,” Skulduggery finished. “Or you’d better. I don’t have a brain to wash, as it were.”
Valkyrie grunted. “And the healer?”
“Doctor Richard Melior,” said Skulduggery. “A practising surgeon in a mortal hospital – Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, in case you’re interested—”
“I’m not.”
“—whose power goes beyond that of regular Vitakinetics – though in what way, I don’t know. We might have a lead on him. Smoke would appear to live up to his namesake. I can’t find a trace of him in the database. But Melior divides his time between Baltimore and his modest house right here in Roarhaven. I say we drop by, see if he’s home and ask him where they’re keeping Temper.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You have a query?”
She didn’t know how to put this gently. “You have taken into account the possibility that Temper Fray might be dead, right? They might have killed him when they caught him and just disposed of the body.”
“I have taken that into account,” said Skulduggery, “but I’m not overly fond of the possibility so I’m choosing to pretend it doesn’t exist. It’s a remarkably cheering solution to an otherwise depressing situation.”
“Pretending something doesn’t exist is a practical outlook, is it?”
“I never said it was practical, just that it cheered me up.”
“And this Melior guy … We’ve both seen Vitas use the same energy to hurt people as well as to heal them. Can this guy hurt us?”
“If you’re asking if things could get dangerous … that’s always a possibility. I see you’re still not wearing the armoured clothes Ghastly designed for you.”
“They were getting a little snug around the shoulders.”
“Snug or not, they’ve saved your life on more than one occasion.”
“If I decide to come back full time, I’ll wear the black, I promise.”
His head tilted. “I haven’t persuaded you yet?”
“Not yet,” said Valkyrie. “But your twenty-four hours aren’t up for another—” she checked her watch “—hundred and fifty-seven minutes.”
“Ah,” he said, “plenty of time.”
“So will we be going after Melior with an army of Cleavers or what?”
“Not really, I’m afraid. That would mean handing over authority to the City Guard, and we want to stay as far away from them as possible.”
“So we’re going in alone?”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“How should I say it?”
“I don’t know.” He stood. “Say it with a little more enthusiasm.”
“So we’re going in alone,” she said. “Yay.”
Skulduggery put on his hat. “Much better.”
They took the Bentley to the Narrows, in the South-East District. The buildings along the wall were smaller than those in the middle of the city, and here the streets were thin and winding. Skulduggery parked and he and Valkyrie went walking. The shade cast by the tightly packed buildings robbed them of their shadows. Only at midday did sunlight ever have a chance to warm the paving stones.
They passed a mother and her children, all of whom stared at Skulduggery as they passed, and ignored Valkyrie. It was a nice change.
They got to Richard Melior’s house. The upper bay window was open. Without breaking stride, Skulduggery wrapped an arm round Valkyrie’s waist and took them both off their feet. They drifted up and through the window, touching down in the bedroom. The bed was unmade. The door to the ensuite was open. From inside, the sound of someone brushing their teeth.
Spitting. A tap running. The clink as a toothbrush went back into its holder.
A man came out, dressed in jogging bottoms and