may have.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And where did we get this name, Skulduggery? Who gave us the name? It was Omen, wasn’t it? It was. For God’s sake, I thought we agreed on this.”
“We do,” Skulduggery said quickly, “and I was planning on talking to him in the morning, breaking it to him in person, and then a short while ago I received his text message. I didn’t expect him to come up with a name so quickly, to be honest. I mean, it’s probably nothing.”
“It’s undoubtedly nothing,” said Valkyrie. “He’s had half a day of being undercover and he has a name for us already? Either Omen is imagining things or he’s the greatest undercover agent in the history of the world.”
“You may be right.”
“So who is it?”
“Who is what?”
“The name.”
“Oh. Parthenios Lilt, a history teacher.”
“And why does our super-spy think the history teacher is a recruiter for the anti-Sanctuary?”
“The history teacher doesn’t like mortals, for one thing.”
“I don’t like mortals.”
“You don’t like anybody.”
“That doesn’t make me the recruiter.”
“Parthenios Lilt leads a study group called Arcanum’s Scholars, a reference to Rebus Arcanum, a supposedly long-dead explorer into Realms Unknown. That’s what he called them. With capital letters and everything.”
Valkyrie stopped at a crossroads as a huge tractor, festooned with lights, rumbled by. “Why is he supposedly long dead and not actually long dead?”
“We never found the body.”
“And what does he have to do with this Lilt guy?”
“Nothing as far as I can see,” Skulduggery said. “That’s just what Lilt calls his study group. Six boys, three girls in all. Omen doubts they do any actual studying – he says they’re just not the type – so the question then becomes what is Parthenios Lilt teaching those students?”
The tractor trundling away, Valkyrie eased out over the crossroads and continued on. “And Omen thinks he’s recruiting them for the anti-Sanctuary.”
“Yes, he does,” said Skulduggery. “I’ve looked into Mr Lilt. I’ve just had a few minutes, but already I’m finding things that lead me to believe he’s led a varied life.”
“He’s a sorcerer. That shouldn’t surprise you.”
“He authored a report for the French Sanctuary on Neoteric sorcerers, nearly forty years ago. He actually coined the term.”
“Then he should have done a better job because it means nothing to me.”
“Neoterics are mages without recognised disciplines,” Skulduggery said.
“Like Warlocks.”
“Not really. Usually, they’re people brought up outside the magical community. They don’t know the rules, so they make their own, and their magic adapts to their personality.”
“So sorcerers who didn’t know they were sorcerers,” Valkyrie said.
“I suppose that’s a fair assessment. From what you’ve told me, Cadaverous Gant is probably a Neoteric. When his magic manifested, it fitted itself around his warped sensibilities and resulted in his unique power. They are relatively rare, thankfully, but usually unstable, unfortunately, so we keep an eye out for them. Most incursions occur because a Neoteric sorcerer has lost control and a mortal is right there to witness it.”
“Jeremiah Wallow was probably a Neoteric, too,” she said, the car going over the humpback bridge on the way to her house.
“Very likely, and Lilt may have had contact with them both. Valkyrie?”
“I’m here.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah. He may have had contact. So Omen might be right.”
“It’s a possibility. I’m heading back to Roarhaven. The High Sanctuary has a copy of the Neoteric Report and I want to reacquaint myself with it. Can you meet me there tomorrow?”
“Sure,” she said, if the nightmares that she knew were coming didn’t drag her down. If she could get out of bed in the morning. If she could even convince herself that she wasn’t dead.
“Is everything OK?” Skulduggery asked. “You sound … distracted.”
“I’m fine.” I’m not. “Just hungry.” Just nuts. “See you in Roarhaven.”
She ended the call, passed the heavy gates and drove up to her front door. She got out, breathed in the cold air and leaned against the car for a moment with her eyes closed. She wasn’t going nuts. She wasn’t insane. She was as healthy as ever. Everything was perfectly normal.
When she opened her eyes again, Darquesse was sitting on her front step. “You’re late,” she said.
“Surprise,” said Never, taking the seat beside Omen in the Dining Hall and flicking the hair out of her eyes. “Someone is actually sitting beside you for breakfast. Wonders – will they never cease?”
Omen frowned. “People sit beside me all the time.”
“Rarely by choice, though. Admit it, Omen, you’re delighted to have someone to talk to this early in the morning, aren’t you?”
Omen didn’t answer. But he was.
“However, the truly amazing thing,” Never continued, “is that I’m sitting beside you even though you’ve been avoiding me all day.”
“It’s … first thing in the morning.”
“Don’t deny it, Omen. When you deny a truth, a kitten dies.”
The din in the hall – chattering voices, clinking utensils, the heavy tread of feet and the tortured scrape of chairs – had not yet reached deafening proportions, so, when Never leaned in and lowered her voice, Omen could hear her perfectly.
“You better tell me what’s going on and you better not lie. You’re a terrible liar. I always know when you’re lying because your ears go red. Are you going to eat that?”
“It’s my breakfast,” said Omen.
“I know. Are you going to eat it?”
“I’m
