By the time she’d climbed the stairs, her strength had come back to her. She stepped outside and the cold air froze her through her damp clothes. She hurried to the Bentley, let Xena in and got in after her.
Skulduggery slipped behind the wheel. “Congratulations,” he said, starting the engine. “You have looked into the future. You are a bona-fide psychic.”
“Yay,” she said without joy. “I’m not going to start reading people’s minds, am I? I find it unbearable enough reading their faces.”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “I’ve never seen such a range of abilities in one person before. We don’t know your limits yet. We don’t even know if you have any. This is actually quite exciting.”
“Then you can be quite excited and I’ll just sit here and worry.”
He turned his head to her slightly. “Did you see anything else?”
“I saw enough,” she said, and looked out of the window.
The First Years were playing basketball on the outside court. Omen could see them from his desk. No magic was allowed, though, so it looked like a pretty dull game. He watched Rubic and Duenna walk across the small courtyard, deep in discussion. Not an unusual sight, the principal and vice-principal talking and walking, and certainly not enough to arouse Omen’s suspicions – but what better recruiters could the anti-Sanctuary have than the leaders of the school?
Omen sat back in his chair. The last class of the day was geography. The teacher’s name was Valance. He was an Adept, though Omen didn’t know which discipline he’d specialised in. So far, there didn’t seem to be anything suspicious about Valance’s behaviour. He just talked about geography a lot.
Omen cast a surreptitious eye over his classmates. They all looked pretty normal – bored and impatient for the lesson to be over. Apart from Chocolate, but then Chocolate loved geography. She was weird like that.
He smiled to himself. He liked this. Having a secret. Having a mission. Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain had come to him. Not to Auger, not to anyone else. To him. That meant something. A moment like that, he reckoned, a moment that singles a person out, validates their entire existence, gives their life meaning … Well. Something like that could be the start of something amazing.
“Omen.”
Omen looked up. “Wuh?”
“Did you get all that, Omen?” Valance asked, clearly aware that Omen had not. “Could you repeat it back to me?”
“Uh …”
“I don’t believe that’s a part of it.”
“No, sir,” said Omen. “What I meant was … I didn’t actually catch it, sir.”
Valance nodded. “I see. Which part?”
“Sir?”
“Which part didn’t you catch? Or, to put it another way, what’s the last part you did catch?”
Omen wished he didn’t blush so easily. “Uh …”
“Yes, Omen? Was it the volcanic ash part, or the igneous rock part?”
“Volcanic ash, sir.”
“Ah,” said Valance, and Omen knew instantly that it had been a trap. “Even though I’ve spent the entire class talking about the history of the European Union, the last thing you heard was me talking about volcanic ash, which you would have learned about in First Year. What Year are you in now, Omen?”
“Um, Third, sir.”
“So for the last two years you haven’t caught anything I’ve said?”
Omen lowered his head. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Sorry, Omen, what was that?”
“I wasn’t paying attention,” Omen repeated, louder this time.
“I am shocked,” Valance said. “Shocked and appalled. Could you do me a favour, Omen? Could you try to pay attention? Could you do that for me? Or, at the very least, could you try not to be so obvious when your attention wanders? I am a very sensitive educator, and this will not have done my confidence any good whatsoever.”
Everyone else was enjoying this immensely. Omen kept his eyes on his desk. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank you,” Valance said, and went back to teaching.
Omen copied down the notes and did his best to listen and look attentive, until the bell rang and he joined the others in filing out into the corridor. He dumped his bag in his locker and went walking, hands in his pockets, head down but eyes up.
Searching for the recruiter.
He passed the main gate, glanced at the street beyond. Only Sixth Years were allowed out after the school day had ended. They could spend their afternoons in Roarhaven and only had to be back for Evening Study. Omen, like everyone else, was stuck in here all day, five days a week. Of course, with his parents being the kind of parents they were, he rarely got to go home on the weekends, either. Not that this was necessarily a bad thing. He much preferred walking the school’s empty corridors on a Saturday and Sunday evening than sitting in his bedroom being criticised by his mum and dad.
He wandered for hours, spying. He passed the staffroom where the faculty watched the Global Link on TV, catching up on news of all things magical from around the world. He followed students, listening in to snippets of conversation, and trailed after various teachers, veering off when they started to notice. He enjoyed trailing after Miss Wicked the most. Of course, she was also the quickest to sense him, and his face burned with the heat of a thousand suns as he panicked and turned abruptly left. He walked into a wall and stayed there, like he’d meant to do it all along.
He got to the fourth floor without uncovering any evidence of enemy conspiracies. He saw Peccant coming the opposite way and dived round the corner. He waited there, back pressed flat against the wall. Students passed, ignoring him. He didn’t care about them. All he cared about was that Peccant should pass by, too.
Peccant turned the corner, stopped suddenly and glared. “Mr Darkly.” His voice was deep, his eyes narrow, his face lined. His hair was grey and his suit was tweed. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Omen stepped away from the wall, and tried smiling. “Yes, sir?”
“Where were you this morning, Mr Darkly? You were supposed to be in my class, were you not?”
“I got mixed up, sir.”
“Mixed up?”
“I got my timetable mixed up, sir. I’m really sorry.”
Peccant loomed over him. “And where were you?”
“In a study class, sir.”
“Supervised by whom?”
“Miss Ether.”
“And do you usually have a study class supervised by Miss Ether on a Tuesday?”
Omen swallowed. “No, sir.”
“Who usually supervises your Tuesday study class?”
“Uh … you do, sir.”
“And did it not strike you as odd, Mr Darkly, that I was not supervising this study class? Did it not occur to you that, maybe, you had got your timetable ‘mixed up’? Or did you think that I had suddenly become younger, and a woman?”
“No, sir.”
“None