times, but there seems to be a group of people who are determined to do just that. In the past five years, dozens of Warlocks have been killed. They’ve been isolated from the others, hunted down, and executed. Now there is only a handful left.”
Valkyrie frowned. “The one who attacked us, he said they’re growing stronger every day.”
Wreath smiled. “Warlocks are known for never showing weakness. It’s what I like about them.”
“So what name did he want from Dragonclaw?”
“An associate of mine, Baritone, actually one of the Necromancers who were killed during the battle at Aranmore, was travelling through France a year or so before he died and happened to come across a group of mortals in a bar who were boasting of a job well done. Naturally, he pretended to be a mere mortal just like they were and, from what he gathered, they were ex-Special Forces, funded by secret government money and directed to—”
“Wait,” Skulduggery said. “You’re talking about Department X.”
“Who are they?” Valkyrie asked.
“They don’t exist,” Skulduggery said. “There have always been rumours of mortal governments forming death squads to go out and exterminate sorcerers. Department X was supposedly a British and Irish joint task force, shrouded in mystery and conspiracy. Except, as I said, they don’t exist. Any time someone in power starts to ask questions, we send people like Geoffrey Scrutinous in to convince them they’re being silly.”
“That may be so,” said Wreath, “but these mortals admitted to Baritone that they had just taken out, in their words, the most dangerous targets they’d ever hunted. They told Baritone he wouldn’t believe the whole story if he heard it – they said the targets they killed bled light. Sound familiar?”
“Sounds like Warlocks,” said Valkyrie.
“And that’s all Dragonclaw gave the Warlock in question?” Skulduggery pressed. “A sorcerer’s urban legend?”
Wreath shrugged. “It’s the only juicy little titbit concerning the Warlocks that we possess. I can’t imagine what else it could have been. Obviously, word got out that we knew something and Charivari sent his little friend to investigate.”
“And there’s nothing else we should know?”
“Nothing else of value. The only other item of interest was that one of the soldiers mentioned their orders had been given by an old man with a long grey beard and another man he couldn’t identify.”
Valkyrie ignored the ring, and frowned. “What, he didn’t know him?”
“No,” said Wreath. “Baritone was under the impression that the soldier couldn’t even remember him.”
“All of this,” Skulduggery said, “strikes me as something you could have told me over the phone.”
Wreath laughed. “Now that is very true, Skulduggery. However, we don’t like each other very much, so I wasn’t about to tell you anything. And how else was I going to see my favourite student on her special day without popping up uninvited outside her window? Such behaviour strikes me as being vaguely unhealthy, wouldn’t you agree?”
“A visit from you strikes me as very unhealthy,” Skulduggery said.
Valkyrie got to her feet. “I’m going to cut this short before you start hitting each other. Solomon, thank you for your help and thank you so much for the present – it was really nice of you.”
“My pleasure,” he said, coming forward and kissing her cheek. “Happy birthday again.”
Skulduggery put on his hat and walked out. Valkyrie caught up with him at the elevator, right before the doors slid closed. They started their descent.
“What do you think it all means?” she asked.
Skulduggery didn’t respond.
She sighed. “Are you sulking?”
“Me? No. I don’t sulk.”
“You sound like you’re sulking.”
“I’m just waiting for the violent urges to subside.”
“Why don’t you like Solomon? He’s really not that bad.”
“I’ve known him a lot longer than you have.”
“Fine. Be like that. So this mystery man giving orders, the one who couldn’t be remembered … We’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”
Skulduggery activated his façade as they reached the ground floor. The face was plain, the expression grim. They walked to the exit. “Three years ago, Davina Marr was enlisted to destroy the Sanctuary in Dublin by a man she couldn’t remember clearly. A similar man turns up five years ago and is revealed to be behind some Warlock killings. Sean Mackin, that lovable teenage psychopath, was released from his Sanctuary cell three months ago by a man he can’t quite remember. It would appear that this is the same man, and he has a significant connection to Roarhaven.” They left the hotel, walked to the Bentley.
“So …” said Valkyrie. “Department X is killing Warlocks, except Department X doesn’t exist. But if the Warlocks think it does exist, then … what does that mean? Are they going to go after mortals in revenge? How does framing ordinary people help our mystery man achieve whatever it is he wants to achieve?”
“I don’t know. But practically every mage in Roarhaven believes that sorcerers should be running the world.”
“So that’s his plan? To get the Warlocks to kill some mortals? That’s kind of a stupid plan. I mean, as soon as we find the Warlocks, we’re going to stop them, right?”
“Unless there’s a war on to distract us.”
“You think the mystery man has something to do with what’s happening with the Supreme Council?”
“I don’t like coincidences, Valkyrie. They’re ugly and annoying.” He glanced at her. “How do you like your ring?”
She couldn’t help it. She beamed. “It is awesome.”
It was even less easy to be a man in a woman in a man’s world. And who says it’s a man’s world anyway? Such outdated notions of sexism had no place in the mind of Vaurien Scapegrace. Not any more. Not since the … mistake.
Once he had been the Killer Supreme. Then the Zombie King. Then a head in a jar. That was probably the low point. But he’d been given a chance, an opportunity to turn it all around. He’d been shown a body, a perfect physical specimen, and he knew
