suddenly interested. “And who was that?”
“Trope Kessel. I barely knew the man.”
“Who murdered him?” Valkyrie asked.
“No one knows. He told a colleague he was going to Glendalough, and he was never seen again. They found his blood by the shore of the Upper Lake, but his body was never recovered.”
“Could Kessel’s murder have anything to do with what’s going on now?”
Peregrine frowned. “I don’t see why it should. If someone wanted the Teleporters dead, why wait fifty years between the first murder and the rest?”
“Still,” Skulduggery said, “it might be somewhere to start.”
“You’re the detectives,” Peregrine said with a shrug, “not me.”
“You know Tanith, don’t you?”
“Tanith Low? Yes. Why?”
“If you’re in London and need someone to watch your back, you can trust her. It might be your only chance to catch some sleep.”
“I’ll think about it. Any other advice for me?”
“Stay alive,” Skulduggery said and Peregrine vanished.
Still, at least it wasn’t yellow.
They approached the pier. Six months earlier, Valkyrie had leaped from it, followed by a pack of the Infected – humans on the verge of becoming vampires. She’d led them to their doom, since salt water, if ingested, was fatal to their kind. Their screams of pain and anguish, mixed with rage and then torn from ruined throats, were as fresh in her memory as if it had all happened yesterday.
The Bentley stopped and Valkyrie got out. It was cold, so she didn’t linger. She hurried to the side of her house and let her hands drift through the air. She found the fault lines between the spaces with ease and pushed down sharply. The air rushed around her and she was rising. There was a better way to do it – to use the air to carry, rather than merely propel, but her lessons with Skulduggery hadn’t reached that level yet.
She caught the windowsill and hauled herself up, then opened the window and dropped into her room.
Her reflection looked up from the desk, where it was doing Valkyrie’s homework. “Hello,” it said.
“Anything to report?” Valkyrie asked as she slipped off her coat and began changing out of her black clothes into her regular wear.
“We had a late dinner,” the reflection said. “In school, the French test was postponed because half the class were hiding in the locker area. We got the maths results back – you got a B. Alan and Cathy broke up.”
“Tragic.”
Footsteps approached the door and the reflection dropped to the ground and crawled under the bed.
“Steph?” Valkyrie’s mother called, knocking on the door and stepping in at the same time. She held a basket of laundry under her arm. “That’s funny. I could have sworn that I heard voices.”
“I was kind of talking to myself,” Valkyrie said, smiling with what she hoped was an appropriate level of self-conscious embarrassment.
Her mother put a pile of fresh clothes on the bed. “First sign of madness, you know.”
“Dad talks to himself all the time.”
“Well, that’s only because no one else will listen.”
Her mother left the room. Valkyrie stuck her feet into a pair of battered runners and, leaving the reflection under the bed for the moment, clumped down the stairs to the kitchen. She poured cornflakes into a bowl and opened the fridge, sighing when she realised that the milk carton was empty. Her tummy rumbled as she dumped the carton in the recycle bag.
“Mum,” she called, “we’re out of milk.”
“Damn lazy cows,” her mother muttered as she walked in. “Have you finished your homework?”
Valkyrie remembered the schoolbooks on the desk and her shoulders sagged. “No,” she said grumpily. “But I’m too hungry to do maths. Do we have anything to eat?”
Her mother looked at her. “You had a huge dinner.”
The reflection had had a huge dinner. The only things Valkyrie had eaten all day were some bourbon creams.
“I’m still hungry,” Valkyrie said quietly.
“I think you’re just trying to delay the maths.”
“Do we have any leftovers?”
“Ah, now I know you’re joking. Leftovers, with your father in the house? I have yet to see the day. If you need any help with your homework, just let me know.”
Her mother walked out again and Valkyrie went back to staring at her bowl of cornflakes.
Her father walked in, checked that they weren’t going to be overheard, and crept over. “Steph, I need your help.”
“We have no milk.”
“Damn those lazy cows. Anyway, it’s our wedding anniversary on Saturday, and yes, I should have done all this weeks ago, but I’ve got tomorrow and Friday to get your mother something thoughtful and nice. What should I get?”
“Honestly? I think she’d really appreciate some milk.”
“The milkman always seems to bring her milk,” her dad said bitterly. “How can I compete with that? He drives a milk truck, for God’s sake. A milk truck. So no, I need to buy her something else. What?”
“How about, I don’t know, jewellery? Like, a necklace or something? Or earrings?”
“A necklace is good,” he murmured. “And she does have ears. But I got her jewellery last year. And the year before.”
“Well, what did you get her the year before that?”
He hesitated. “A … a certain type of clothing … I forget. Anyway, clothes are bad because I always get the wrong size, and she gets either insulted or depressed. I could get her a hat, I suppose. She has a normal-sized head, wouldn’t you say? Maybe a nice scarf. Or some gloves.”
