China settled her gaze on him. “Yes,” she said eventually, a hint of reluctant amusement in her voice. “I was just about to announce that.”
Valkyrie and Skulduggery stood up to leave.
“One more thing,” China said. “I have a favour to ask, actually.”
Skulduggery tilted his head. “This should be interesting.”
“I find myself somewhat conflicted of late,” China began. “Abyssinia is, obviously, a threat that must be taken seriously. We don’t know what her plans are, but we can rest assured that they will not be in our best interests. She sees herself as a ruler, the Princess of the Darklands and, I am sure, its future queen, and she will not stop until both the mortal world and the magical world are under her control.”
Whereas China would only be happy once the magical world stayed under her control was something Valkyrie decided not to say out loud.
“Abyssinia’s actions, and the actions of her little gang of killers, are to be condemned. However, I must admit to being cautiously happy that Caisson has been broken free from his almost-century-long torture. As everyone in this room knows, I raised him, and he was almost like a son to me.”
Valkyrie kept her mouth shut.
“But more trouble is stirring,” said China. “Serafina Dey wants Caisson back. She seems to think that because he killed her dearly departed husband, she owns the poor boy. So, as part of her efforts to recover him, she’s coming here.”
“I don’t suppose she’s planning a quiet visit, is she?” Skulduggery asked.
China smiled. “Not entirely. She expects crowds, a red carpet, a reception, dinners … And that is what I have to request of you.”
“I don’t eat dinner,” Skulduggery said.
“And you don’t have to,” China responded. “I’m going to be greeting her on the front steps of the High Sanctuary on Saturday at noon. My esteemed Council of Advisors will be in attendance, of course, and I would greatly appreciate it if you two would be there also.”
“Why?” Valkyrie asked.
“A show of strength,” China said. “A show of solidarity.”
“And also because we’re Arbiters,” Skulduggery said, “and we operate outside the jurisdiction of any one Sanctuary. In theory, we’re the only people with the authority to challenge someone like Serafina Dey.”
“There is that, too,” China conceded.
Skulduggery looked at Valkyrie, and she shrugged.
“We’ll be there,” she said. “I’m not going to pass up the opportunity to meet the woman who married Mevolent. I can only imagine what kind of freak she’s going to be.”
“Mr President, we were thinking that maybe you need a cat.”
Martin Flanery, the President of the United States of America, the most powerful man in the world, the most important man in the world, and the most famous man in the world, swivelled his chair round and looked at the aide who had spoken.
The Oval Office was full of people. His Chief of Staff, his Directors of Communication, his Press Secretary, aides and advisors and assistants and one or two others. All their voices blurred into one after half an hour. This guy had caught his attention.
“What?” he said.
“A cat,” the aide repeated. Flanery didn’t know his name. Aides’ names were rarely important. “Or a dog. A pet, basically. We feel it might soften your image.”
“What’s wrong with my image?”
The aide paled. “Nothing.”
Flanery leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “Then why do I need to soften it?”
The aide looked around for help. None came. That pleased Flanery. He liked to see people flounder.
“We just thought,” the aide said, not nearly so confident now, “that it might be a good idea to present a, uh, a more relatable image to the voters.”
“They seemed to relate to me fine when they voted for me,” Flanery said. “You think they’ve forgotten that? You think they’ve forgotten who I am?”
“I … I didn’t mean anything by it, sir.”
“You know your problem? The lot of you? You’re approaching it all wrong. People don’t want to relate to me. They want to emulate me. They want to be me. I offer them what nobody else does. I offer them glamour. Celebrity. I offer them opulence, and that’s what they want. When they’re paying for groceries or standing in line for a hot dog or watching the game, they think about me and they know that if they put in the time and the effort, they could have what I have.”
This was a lie, of course. In order to have what Flanery had, they’d need his money and his keen understanding of power, a talent that allowed him to take risks that the average person couldn’t even begin to comprehend. He was so far beyond them that it had stopped being funny a long time ago – but the fantasy seemed to keep them happy.
The conversation turned to matters of policy, and Flanery’s mind drifted to Dan Tucker, the vice-president, and the interview he’d given that made it sound like he was mocking Flanery’s intelligence. Flanery would have to talk to him about that. Or get his Chief of Staff to talk to him. He was sure it had just been a mistake. It had to have been.
Then he thought about the Big Plan that he’d come up with, and he thought about Abyssinia and about how much he despised her. She was a witch, and she treated him with disrespect. Because of that, he didn’t like talking to her. He quite enjoyed it when she rang his private phone and he didn’t answer. That was a power move. His father had taught him all about power moves, and Flanery had added a few of his own over the years. He was an expert at power moves.
When the meeting was done, he dismissed them all and left the Oval Office. He went down the corridor and kept going until he entered the Residence. He went into the dining room and shut the door, then turned on the TV to find out what the press was saying about this whole Dan Tucker mess.
It was not good.
“Everything OK, Martin?”
Flanery yelled and jumped. Crepuscular Vies sat at the table, halfway through a meal. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and he wasn’t wearing his hat. His bow tie had butterflies on it.
Flanery didn’t like to see him eating. Having no lips made it unpleasant. “How did you get that food?” he asked, looking away.
“I picked up the phone and ordered it,” Crepuscular answered, and then, in a startlingly precise impression of Flanery’s own voice, said, “Bring me a steak, fried to a crisp, with some fries. No vegetables.’ You’re not a difficult man to impersonate, Martin, even though I was restricted to the terrible orders you regularly make. Steak, well done? That’s a crime against cattle.”
With no idea how to respond to that, Flanery decided to let it go. To cover up this momentary weakness, he jabbed a finger at the TV. “You hear this crap? You hear what they’re saying?”
Crepuscular sawed through another bit of meat, then popped it between his teeth. “I did.”
“They’re saying Tucker insulted me,” Flanery said, feeling the anger rise again. “They’re saying he called me stupid. He’s the