be of any use to you.”
“Actually, you’ve been a great help already. Thank you so much for everything you’ve done. But we can’t let you tell the magic cops about us.”
Doran raised his arm and his hand glowed. Xebec stepped back, eyes wide, didn’t even have time to say anything before a beam of energy burned through his leg. He fell, screaming.
Kitana took a deep breath, narrowed her eyes, and Xebec stiffened and collapsed, as dead as anything could get.
Sean looked at Kitana. “What did you do?”
“I squashed his brain with my mind,” Kitana said, and she started laughing.
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
– The Tyger, William Blake
“You’re actually not,” Valkyrie Cain told him for the eighth time. He ran around her in a big circle, bathed in moonlight, and she just stood there with her head down. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and moments earlier she’d had to drag her eyes away from his wobbling bosoms before they made her feel queasy. Now that his trousers were starting their inexorable slide downwards, she was averting her gaze altogether. “Please,” she said, “pull up your trousers.”
“Butterflies don’t need trousers!” he screeched. A moment later, those trousers landed by her feet.
She took out her phone and dialled. “He’s in his underpants,” she said angrily.
Skulduggery Pleasant’s smooth voice sounded uncharacteristically hesitant. “I’m sorry? Who is in his underpants?”
“Jerry Houlihan,” she said. “He thinks he’s a butterfly. Apparently they don’t wear trousers.”
“And is he a butterfly?”
“He isn’t.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“Quite.”
“He could be a butterfly dreaming he’s a man.”
“Well, he’s not. He’s a big fat man dreaming he’s a big fat butterfly. What the hell am I supposed to do?”
There was another hesitation. “I’m not sure. You don’t happen to have a large net handy, do you?”
“I want to hit him. I want to hit you, but I also want to hit him.”
“You can’t hit him. He’s an ordinary mortal under some kind of magical influence. It’s not his fault he’s acting this way. I assume you have him out of public view at the very least? Valkyrie? Valkyrie, are you there?”
“I’m here,” she said dully. “He’s started leaping with every third step. It’s kind of mesmerising.”
“I can only imagine. The Cleavers should be with you in half an hour or so. Can you contain him until then?”
She gripped the phone tighter. “You’re not serious. You can’t be serious. We’ve saved the world. I, personally, have saved the world. This here, right now, this is not something I do. This is something other people do and then you and me laugh about it later.”
“We do what needs to be done, Valkyrie. Once you’ve handed him over to the Cleavers, meet me in Phibsborough.”
She sighed. “Another busy night?”
“It certainly looks that way. I really must go. Sally Yorke has just set fire to her knees.”
The line went dead. Valkyrie gritted her teeth and stuffed the phone back in the pocket of her black trousers. This was not how a seventeen-year-old girl was supposed to spend her evenings. She blamed the Council of Elders for making this a priority. Yes, she accepted that it was a major problem that previously unremarkable mortals were suddenly developing magical abilities – aside from the threat they posed to themselves and others, they also risked exposing the existence of magic to the general public, and that was not something that could be allowed to happen. But why, out of all the cases that were popping up all over Ireland, did Valkyrie have to deal with the weird ones who thought they were butterflies? There were a few dozen sedated mortals back in the Sanctuary and not one of those was as weird and unsettling as Jerry Houlihan in his underpants.
Valkyrie frowned, and wondered why she couldn’t hear Jerry’s footsteps any more. Then she looked up and saw him flying through the night sky, flapping his arms and squealing with glee.
“Jerry!” she shouted. “Jerry Houlihan, get down here!”
But Jerry just giggled and jiggled, unsteady in the air but flying – definitely flying. He reversed course, flapping back towards her. Stupidly, she looked up as he passed directly overhead. The image seared itself into her mind and she felt a little piece of herself die.
Jerry veered off course, drifting from the safety of the park towards the bright streetlights of Dublin City. Valkyrie reached up, felt the air, felt how the spaces connected, and then she pulled a gust of wind right into him, knocking him back towards her. She needed a rope or even a piece of string, just something to anchor him in place like a fat, man-shaped kite.
“Jerry,” she called, “can you hear me?”
“I’m a butterfly!” he panted happily.
“I can see that, and a very pretty butterfly you are, too. But aren’t you getting tired? Even butterflies get tired, Jerry. They have to land, don’t they? They have to land because their wings get tired.”
“My wings are getting tired,” he said, puffing heavily now.
“I know. I know they are. You should rest them. You should land.”
He dipped lower and she jumped, tried to grab his foot, but he beat his arms faster and bobbed up high again. “No!” he said. “Butterflies fly! Fly high in the sky!”
He was gasping for air now, losing his rhythm, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep himself from dipping lower once more. Valkyrie jumped, grabbed him, closed her eyes and tried to send her mind to a peaceful place. Jerry was sweating from all that exertion, and his skin was warm and sticky and hairy. Valkyrie remembered the good times in her life as she pulled him out of the sky, handhold after handhold. He made a last-ditch effort to soar away and she had to grip the folds of flesh on his hips to hold him in place. Then Jerry gave up and stopped flapping, and Valkyrie fell screaming beneath his weight.
“I’m not a butterfly,” Jerry sobbed, as Valkyrie squirmed and wriggled beneath him.
The Cleavers arrived on time, as they usually did. They escorted Jerry Houlihan into their nondescript van, treating him surprisingly gently for anonymous drones with scythes strapped to their backs. Valkyrie hailed a cab, told the driver to take her to Phibsborough. They pulled over beside Skulduggery’s gleaming black Bentley.
Skulduggery was waiting for her in the shadows. His suit was dark grey, his hat dipped low over his brow. Tonight he was wearing the face of a long-nosed man with a goatee. He nodded up to a dark window on the top floor of an apartment building.
“Ed Stynes,” he said. “Forty years old. Lives alone. Not