Caddock turned and Omen had to stop quickly to avoid bumping into him. “You’re not listening to me at all, are you?”
“I am.”
“You’re hearing me, you’re just not listening to me.”
“I’m going to be late,” Emmeline said, glancing at her watch. “Omen, do something with your life, will you? Auger volunteers for things; he gets involved in extra-curricular activities. He puts the work in at school, but he also has so many outside interests. Be more like that. Now we have to go.”
“OK,” said Omen, watching them walk on without him. Then they turned a corner and they were gone and, as usual, he was left feeling curiously empty.
He didn’t know what to do so he went walking. He should have been used to it by now, his parents’ ability to rob him of himself. In the same way that Ispolin had seemed diminished around them, Omen became lesser in their presence. Smaller. Even more insignificant. He wished it had gone on longer, their defence of him. Even though he knew their outrage was actually about Ispolin’s assault on the family name, he had enjoyed listening to their words. It had almost been like they cared. It had almost been like they approved of him.
But of course they didn’t. Their approval was reserved solely for Auger who, Omen admitted, more than deserved it.
Not for the first time, though, he wondered what he’d be like as a person if he’d had his parents’ approval. Would he be more confident? Would he be more popular? Would he be more daring?
Miss Gnosis was setting up a table outside the dining hall, a table with a blank clipboard resting on it. He liked Miss Gnosis. She’d made him rethink his attitude towards Necromancers. Sure, her discipline was death magic and she wore black like all Necromancers, but she was bright and fun and a really good teacher. Plus, she had red hair and she was in her twenties, and she still had her strong Scottish accent.
“Good morning, Omen,” she said. She pursed her lips and turned her head slightly, looking at him from a new angle. “Everything OK? You look a little down in the dumps.”
“I’m fine. I was just … No, I’m fine.”
“I heard about Axelia.”
“Seriously?” said Omen. “Even the teachers have heard?”
“Staffrooms are sad places unless we have something to gossip about. Guys like you, Omen, they get the girls later in life. You just wait till you hit your twenties.”
He blushed, and tried to hide his smile by nodding to the clipboard. “What’s this about?”
Miss Gnosis held it out. “We’re collecting food and blankets for the Leibniz refugees. Would you like to sign up? We’re going down to the camp on Monday to distribute whatever we’ve got, and we need all the help we can get. You interested?”
“Would … would this count as, like, an extra-curricular activity?”
“It’s practically the definition of the word.”
“And signing up for it, that would be a commitment, wouldn’t it?”
“It certainly would.”
“Yes,” said Omen, and paused. Then he said, “Yes,” again, more forcefully.
“Good man,” said Miss Gnosis.
“I’ll do it.”
“All right then.”
“I’ll help.”
“I have to tell you, Omen, this sounds like it’s a bigger deal to you than it is to me. Put your name down there like a good lad, and I’ll explain what you’ll have to do.”
Valkyrie was curled up on the couch with Xena, watching Saturday evening TV, when she saw Skulduggery drop slowly from the sky and land outside the window.
She moved the dog to one side and got up, padded on bare feet to the hall and opened the door.
Skulduggery’s jacket had bullet holes in it.
“You look like you’ve had fun,” she said, leaning against the doorjamb.
“I punched many bandits,” Skulduggery responded. “Temper did, too, but I punched more. Not that it was a competition. But, if it had been, I’d have won.”
“Well, I’m proud of you for winning what wasn’t a competition. Have all the refugees passed through the portal?”
“Not even close. By the time we were returning, there were perhaps two thousand waiting to go through, with plenty more arriving every few minutes. China finally sent in a battalion of Cleavers to offer protection.”
“Well, that was nice of her,” said Valkyrie. “Any sign of Mevolent’s army?”
“Not so far.”
“Well, you know, be grateful for small mercies, or whatever it is that people say. Also, have you seen your jacket?”
“Ah,” he said, “yes. Most unfortunate.”
“Do you even have anyone to fix it any more?”
“Of course. Ghastly wasn’t the only tailor in town – just the best. I see, by the way, that the Bentley is in one piece.”
“Naturally,” said Valkyrie, taking the car keys from the side table and handing them over. “When I borrow something, I return it in pristine condition, and I am shocked that you would ever doubt me.”
“I never doubt you,” he replied, and handed her a key in return.
She raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”
“A spare,” he said, “for the Bentley. In case I ever lose my own.”
“You’re giving me a key to your car?”
“Just to mind.”
“Does this mean we’re now sharing the Bentley?”
Skulduggery stiffened. “Dear me, no. Not in the slightest.”
She clutched the key to her chest. “You mean I now own the Bentley? You’re giving her to me?”
“OK, I’m changing my mind about this whole thing,” he said, and reached for the key.
“No take backsies,” said Valkyrie, and shut the door.
The President of the United States was in a bad, bad mood.
Martin Maynard Flanery had been elected fair and square and, try as they might, the leftist losers and the liberal media couldn’t take that away from him.
His presidency was beyond legitimate. He had won the electoral college on a scale no one had ever seen before or even dreamed possible. Yet he had done it, because he was smarter than everyone else, shrewder than everyone else, and smarter than everyone else. He was a winner.
“I’m a winner,” he said to the Oval Office, but the Oval Office didn’t respond.
There was a knock on one of the doors.
“Not now!” he called out. Beyond that door was a line of people, all with demands on his time, with reports and briefings and files and folders that would clutter up his perfectly bare desk. He didn’t want to let them in. He could feel them hovering out there, full of nervous energy that would get under his skin. Even