Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 10 - 12. Derek Landy

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      “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.

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