don’t know. But if we’re going by the traditional Irish calendar, summer starts on May first, which gives us a week to figure it out.”
“The Summer of Light sounds nice, though,” said Valkyrie. “Maybe all of this is leading up to some really good weather, in which case we should probably let it happen so I can sunbathe.”
“What a marvellous idea. Let’s make that assumption.”
She noticed the way he was holding his side. “You’re hurt,” she said.
He looked at her. “We were attacked by a werewolf.”
“But you’re actually injured.”
“So are you.”
“But nothing major. Just bruises and strains and cuts, and I got a doctor to treat them. Your bones are damaged, Skulduggery. Why don’t you get someone to heal you? It won’t take long.”
Skulduggery straightened up as they walked. “Doctor Nye tortured my friends to death during the war with Mevolent. I’m not going to it for help.”
“Nye’s not the only doctor who works here.”
“But it is the only one who’d have the skill to repair my injuries properly. Besides, I’m not that bad. I’ll survive, just like you will.”
“You know, there’s a distinct possibility that you’re too stubborn for your own good. But hey, I’m not going to pressure you. You do what you need to do.”
She heard the smile in his voice. “Well, thank you for being so understanding. In return, I’m going to drop you home. It’s been a long few days, and you’re going to sleep in your own bed tonight.”
“Oh, thank God,” she said, sighing. “I haven’t seen my folks in ages. And Alice has probably learned to walk or something since I saw her last. She’s fifteen months old. What age do babies start walking at?”
“Depends on the baby.”
“How about a really advanced one like my sister?”
“Oh, then she should be walking any day now.”
Valkyrie grinned. They emerged from the Sanctuary and as they reached the Bentley, Skulduggery’s voice softened. “Did you hear her again? Darquesse?”
Her smile faded, and she nodded. “She wanted me to let her out. It’s been a year since she’s been in control and her voice is getting louder. We need a plan. Something to stop her if she takes over.”
He folded his arms on the roof of the car, and lightly drummed his gloved fingers. “You mean something to stop you,” he said at last.
“I’d much rather you stopped me than let me do what we both know I’m going to do. I don’t want to murder anyone, let alone my parents, or my sister, or you. If the time comes and I’m lost and Darquesse is in control—”
He held up his hands. “I’ll think of something. Trust me.”
Valkyrie glanced over at a limousine parked nearby, with two men in suits standing guard. As good a change of subject as any. “Do we have a visiting VIP or something?”
Skulduggery grunted. “Apparently we do. Here for a meeting with the Council. All very hush-hush and top secret. Only the Elders are allowed to know what they’re meeting about.”
“But Ghastly will tell us, won’t he?”
“Oh, I’d very much expect so.”
He sat on an uncomfortable chair to the right of Erskine Ravel, the Grand Mage. To Ravel’s left sat Madame Mist, her slender frame draped in the Elder robes they all wore, her face hidden by that black veil. They must have looked a sight. Grand Mage Ravel, looking like he should be wearing a tuxedo, flanked by a scarred man and a veiled woman. Ghastly wondered if any of the other Councils around the world looked half as odd as they did. He doubted it.
Right now, he was sitting across from representatives of two of those Councils, and they both looked perfectly normal, if perfectly solemn. Ghastly wasn’t even listening to what was being said. Small talk was not his forte. He’d had a boxer for a mother and a tailor for a father – what did he know of the small talk of politicians and bureaucrats? He waited impatiently for them to get to the point of their visit, and when they finally reached it, he wasn’t at all surprised.
“You’ve been having some problems with your sorcerers, we hear,” said Grand Mage Quintin Strom of the English Sanctuary. Like most Grand Mages, with the obvious exception of Ravel, he was grey-haired and lined and old. Still immensely powerful, though, and somewhat humourless.
“I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed,” said Ravel. “Our mages are all doing fine.”
Strom’s eyebrows rose slightly. He was a good actor. “Oh! In which case, I apologise. It’s just that we’ve had reports of disturbances in practically every corner of the country. You’re saying these reports are inaccurate?”
“I’m not saying that at all,” Ravel said smoothly. “But the problems are not our sorcerers.”
Strom nodded. “Ah yes, we heard that, too. Something is affecting the mortal population here, yes? Dreadful, dreadful business. If you need any help—”
“Thank you, but no,” said Ravel. “We have it under control.”
“Are you quite sure? I don’t mean to condescend, Grand Mage Ravel, but I have a lot more experience running Sanctuaries than you do, and there is no shame in accepting assistance when it is offered.”
“Thank you for clarifying,” Ravel said.
The man beside Strom cleared his throat politely. He was young and American, Ghastly knew that much. “Unfortunately,” he said, “things may not be so simple. The purpose of a Sanctuary is to oversee the magical communities and protect mortals from the truth. If even one Sanctuary fails in its obligations, the success of every other Sanctuary will amount to naught. To use a horribly overused phrase, the chain is only as strong as its weakest link.”
Madame Mist stirred. “And you are saying that we are this weak link?”
“Oh, heavens, no,” said the man. “All I’m saying is that this Sanctuary has had more than its fair share of crises to deal with. Given the pressure you’ve been under, even the strongest link will strain.”
“So
