mean we, of course. She meant Cadaverous.
“That is undoubtedly part of it, yes.”
She turned to him. “And what is the other part?”
He could have said anything. He could have demurred. He could have made it easy on himself in a hundred different ways. Instead, he said, “When we freed them, we made promises. We promised them purpose. We promised them revenge. We promised them power. We have yet to deliver on any of these things.”
He didn’t mean we, of course. He meant Abyssinia.
“You think I have been distracted by the search for my son,” she said.
Before he could respond, the door opened and Skeiri and Avatar strode in. Skeiri was a slip of a girl, dark-skinned and serious, while Avatar was muscle-bound, handsome and eager to serve. They had emerged from their cells all those months ago, and Cadaverous could see a time in the not-too-distant future when Avatar, in particular, was the one issuing the orders, much like Lethe and Smoke had done, and Cadaverous would have to obey. Again.
They held someone between them, a man with blood dripping on to his shirt, his wrists shackled, his magic muted. Avatar and Skeiri stepped back as Abyssinia approached.
The prisoner narrowed his eyes. They were remarkably piercing eyes. “I’ll never—”
“Shush,” said Abyssinia. “Listen to me. I want you to resist. I’m going to enter your mind and find out where you’re keeping Caisson. And I want you to try to stop me. You’re one of Serafina’s top people – you’ll know how to keep a psychic out of your head. Use all your training. Use all the tricks. Give me a challenge.”
The prisoner’s jaw clenched. It was a remarkably square jaw. “You won’t get anything from—”
“That’s the spirit,” Abyssinia said, and the prisoner’s face contorted. He clutched his head and let out a whine, his knees buckling. He dropped to the ground, face still stricken, and then, as soon as it began, it was over, and he sagged.
“My son is in a private ambulance,” Abyssinia said. “They’re keeping him sedated and moving. Right now they are somewhere in Spain. He’s accompanied by five of Serafina’s sorcerers.” She looked down at the prisoner. “You disappoint me. That was far too easy.”
He shook his head, the colour returning to his face. He murmured something and Abyssinia hunkered down.
“Pardon?” she said. “What was that?”
He met her eyes. “I wasn’t ready.”
“Oh!” she said. “I do apologise. Are you ready now?”
He cried out, face twisting, hands clutching at his head.
“You’re three hundred and fourteen years old,” Abyssinia said. “You watched your childhood friend die in a freak accident. The smell of tequila makes you physically sick. You’ve had a song you hate running through your head for the last three days, a song called ‘Uptown Girl’.”
The prisoner gasped and fell forward, and Abyssinia placed her hand on him. “Were you ready for me then?”
She drew the life out of his body, his skin cracking, his bones creaking, and his strength flooded her and she stood, kicking the empty husk of him to one side. She took a moment, shivered with her eyes closed, and calmed herself. She looked at Avatar. “Find this ambulance. Do not act until I say so.”
“Yes, Abyssinia,” Avatar said, bowing.
She walked back to the window. “Cadaverous.”
She had a task for him. He was surprised. He straightened. “Yes?”
She waved a hand. “The body.”
He frowned. “Yes?”
“Get rid of it.”
“Chicken or fish?” the man in the hairnet asked, tongs hovering.
Omen pursed his lips, looking closer at the options available. The dining hall was filling up. There was a queue of students waiting behind him. He knew they were getting annoyed, but he couldn’t help it. Lunch was one of the most important meals of the day – he had to get it right.
“What kind of fish is it?” Omen asked.
“The dead kind,” said the man in the hairnet.
“Is it fresh?”
“Does it look fresh?”
“I don’t know,” said Omen. “You’ve covered it in breadcrumbs.”
The man in the hairnet shook his head. “We didn’t do that. It swims around in the ocean like this, covered in breadcrumbs and missing its head. We just catch ’em and cook ’em.”
“I, uh, I don’t think that’s right.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, boy. I’m a Food Service Assistant. We take an oath.”
“Hurry up,” said someone in the queue.
“Yeah,” said the man in the hairnet, “hurry up. Make a decision, short stuff. Fish, chicken, vegetarian or vegan.”
“What’s the vegan option?”
“Spiralised Asian quinoa salad.”
“And what’s the vegetarian option?”
“Vegetables.”
Omen’s stomach rumbled. “I don’t really like vegetables.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re not a vegetarian.”
“I’ll … um … OK, I’ll have the chicken.”
“The chicken? After all those questions about the fish?”
“Well, you see, I don’t really like fish.”
“Then why did you ask about it?”
“I thought I might try it. Then I changed my mind.”
“You’re the reason I hate my job,” said the man in the hairnet, and he dumped Omen’s lunch on to a tray and handed it over. “Next!”
Omen sat at one of the long tables. Across the hall, Axelia was chatting with her friends. They laughed. He wondered if they were laughing about him.
Never joined him at the table, sitting opposite. She had her hair down, and she was wearing a hint of make-up that really brought out her eyes.
“Lunch guy does not like you,” she said, digging into her salad.
“You
