was crowding in on Omen, there was space between them, and Jenan was being pulled backwards, a look of utter astonishment on his face.
“One of you had better tell me what’s going on here,” Miss Wicked said. “Omen, are you all right? Can you talk?”
Omen sucked in air and did his best to stay standing. It felt like someone was still strangling him.
Miss Wicked turned to Jenan. “This is it, Mr Ispolin. I don’t care who your father is or how many strings he pulls, I will personally see to it that you are expelled from Corrival Academy.”
But Jenan wasn’t listening to her. Omen could tell. His eyes were clouded with disbelief. “How could you do that?” he asked. “How could you stop me?”
“Report to the Principal’s Office immediately,” Miss Wicked said.
“How could you stop me?” he shouted, and his fist cracked into Miss Wicked’s cheek, sending her back a step.
From the look on his face, Jenan had expected her to go down, but after that single step Miss Wicked didn’t even sway on her high heels. Jenan stepped in and swung again.
Miss Wicked barely moved and Jenan flew past her. Omen jumped clear as he spun. Jenan’s next punch was redirected, his arm twisted, his face slammed into the wall. He lashed out and she guided him to the floor quite firmly. He landed and bounced slightly, the air knocked out of him.
“Omen, report to the nurse,” Miss Wicked said, hauling Jenan to his feet. “Your throat looks like it will bruise.”
“I’m OK,” Omen said, his voice a whisper.
“The nurse, Omen,” Miss Wicked said. “Now.”
She didn’t wait to see if he headed off in the right direction, she just twisted Jenan’s wrist and he howled, and she led him away.
Omen doubted he’d ever seen anything as cool.
“My car is better,” Pleasant said. “I don’t mean to offend you. Your car is fine, and I admire the fact that you went to the trouble of transporting it across the Atlantic … but was that really the best use of anyone’s time? A Cadillac is a fine car, but a Bentley … A Bentley has character.”
“And where is your Bentley?” Cadaverous said, unlocking the Cadillac. “Is it back in Roarhaven? It is? Then I guess, all things considered, that my car is the superior vehicle.”
He got in behind the wheel. A moment later, Pleasant curled his long frame into the passenger seat. He put his hat on his lap and buckled his belt.
“This is an odd sensation,” he said. When Cadaverous didn’t respond, he continued. “I’m used to driving, that’s all. Of course, this is a left-hand drive car so I’m still sitting on my usual side, which alleviates the problem somewhat. But even so, I’m used to being in control. It’s quite discomfiting to not be in control. It’s not a feeling I’m used to. Maybe it would be a good idea if I drove?”
“Only I drive this car,” Cadaverous said, pulling away from the kerb.
Pleasant nodded. “And I totally understand that. I do. However, I’m used to driving on this side of the road, so maybe it’d be safer for us both if I—”
“Only I drive this car.”
Pleasant looked at him, then shrugged. “OK.” He settled back into his seat. “Fine.”
They turned left at the junction, joined the fast-moving traffic.
“If you tell me where Tanner Rut is living,” Pleasant said, “I could just fly there. I can do that, you know. Fly. I could fly there, grab him, take him back, or fly there and wait for you, if you really want to be involved …”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight,” Cadaverous said. “I don’t trust you, skeleton.”
“I am deeply offended by that, Cadaverous. I have been a loyal member of this team for almost twenty-three hours now. Does that bonding-time mean nothing to you?”
“Abyssinia doesn’t trust you, either.”
“Abyssinia and I have history. Did she tell you about that? No? Ah, so she’s keeping something from her minions. That’s interesting.”
“I don’t care.”
“No? Are you sure? It’s salacious. I stole her heart, you see. I stole it and I put it in that box. My point is, yes, she may have some trust issues with me, but time heals all wounds, Cadaverous. I have a feeling when we bring her back all will be forgiven, and, once that happens, you’re really going to want to be on my good side. So what do you say? Will we be friends?”
“That will never happen.”
“Do I detect a hint of growing admiration in your voice?”
“You’re a ridiculous creature,” Cadaverous said. “You’re a bad vaudeville act. You belong on stage.”
“That wasn’t a no.”
“I’ve known people like you my entire adult life,” Cadaverous said. “Puffed up with their own sense of importance, inflated by their own so-called genius. Arrogant and pompous.”
“You have formed an opinion of me.”
“I have.”
“I have formed one of you. Would you like to hear it?”
“I couldn’t care less.”
“I know you, Cadaverous. You think I don’t, but I do.”
“You know nothing about me.”
“No?” Pleasant said. “But maybe I knew someone just like you. Except his name wasn’t Cadaverous Gant – it was Charles Grantham, a retired professor of English at a semi-prestigious New England university. He’d written a few books of poetry, but nothing that set the world on fire. Truth be told, his poetry was lazy and uninspired. Hackneyed, I believe was the popular opinion among his peers.”
Cadaverous’s hands tightened on the wheel.
“At age seventy-eight, Charles apparently flew into a fit of rage after listening to a so-called ‘street poet’ reinterpret the works of Keats. Charles tried, unsuccessfully, to strangle this street poet, and suffered a heart attack as a result. While he was recovering in hospital, police raided his home. Interesting thing about his home – he’d had it built by three different builders. None of them knew what the others were doing, but Charles knew. There were corridors that went nowhere, doors that opened on to brick walls. There were secret passageways and pits. How many people did you kill in that house over the years, Cadaverous? Was it more than the police believed? Was it more than forty-seven? How many of them were your students?”
“You think you know it all,” Cadaverous said.
“I know Charles Grantham disappeared,” Pleasant replied. “The house had been searched illegally – everything in there was inadmissible in court. A few months later, Professor Grantham was gone. Is that when Abyssinia first spoke to you? Is that when Cadaverous Gant was born?”
Cadaverous slowed at the lights. A part of him, a significant part, had no desire to answer. Satisfying the skeleton’s questions was not something that interested him. Another part, however, had been snagged, as if Pleasant’s words were a hook cast into the still lake.
“It was the heart attack,” he said, accelerating again. “When I woke up, I could feel magic. I could feel it. Do you have any idea what that’s like, to get old, to watch your own body betray you, only to find out that you could have stopped it? That you could have stayed young forever?”
“I’d