Chapter One
January 1st, 2011
It was a saying, wasn't it? That age didn't matter. It was just a number, after all. A tool for others to exploit when they attempted to explain away your faults. The fact was, despite knowing and accepting this little fact of life, Voight didn't know if he could face another year. Another year of wanton pity poured down on him and snide remarks tossed his way. No. He didn't desire that in the slightest. But in the end, what choice did he have, but to grind his teeth and buckle down and get on with life? Bloody no choice at all, that's what.
He was stood, staring out of the window in one of his many superior's one of many manor houses. Obscured as it was with pelting snow, he still managed to catch a glimpse of the flashing fireworks and festival lights that heralded the New Year. It looked pretty, from where he was. It probably looked even prettier without a frosty shield concealing it. Voight saw no need to celebrate. It was just one more year of misery and death and the end of everything came just one step closer. He was a pessimist, he knew this. He also knew any hope of furthering himself in his line of work was a fool's hope and nothing more.
Maybe once he'd be out there, reveling and carousing with the rest of his fellow mortals, thirty-something years ago. But when he'd hit his late twenties, he'd given up all the pleasures and distractions of youth in order to purge himself of all potential commotions that endangered the success of his many, he reflected, dead end ambitions. When he'd turned forty, he'd stopped thinking of it, when he'd realised his life as it was, was just as much a dead end as the elusive dreams of his youth. Now here he hunched, aged fifty-six, proudly sweating in a stifling corridor, leaning against the cracked wallpaper, waiting to be reprimanded like a naughty schoolboy. Life truly did have a funny way of doing things. Life was also a complete, utter bitch.
Voight checked his unreliable, raggedy old watch and saw it as five past midnight. Or since it was broken, that meant it was twenty-five past midnight. Typical. His boss had requested his presence at the precise moment the clock struck twelve and knowing the man's irritating flair for the dramatic, Voight had expected the ponce to come strolling out of his office, gesticulating like a dying fish and grinning like an idiot dead on the witching hour that signaled 365 more days of hell. Instead, the bigwig was, as far as Voight could tell, still in his office, doing God-knows-what and Voight was out here, tugging at his suit collar in a vain attempt to be rid of the heat. Absolutely bloody typical.
Surely, he should be used to it by now, though. A mortal, working with sorcerers? That was practically an invitation for him to come and feel inferior. Yet again, he asked himself what choice did he have? Of course, he was bound to experience a touch of insignificance when ordered out on job runs and hits with these men and women who wielded the power of gods. It wasn't just in combat where they outshone him at every turn, with their fireballs and dazzling energy beams, which the equally dazzling New Year lights in no way failed to remind him of. No, it was the way they carried themselves. Sorcerers, or at least, all the ones Voight had worked with, walked with a steely purpose, spoke with a disturbing assurance, no doubt fueled by the knowledge that with a mere wave of their hand, the pathetic mortals around them were nothing but insects to be crushed. Voight freely admitted it. He was frightened of magic. Maybe he wouldn't be, maybe he'd appreciate the elegant beauty and wondrous glory of it, if the people who did use it weren't so overbearingly arrogant and downright menacing.
But that was how he lived. Hell, that was how they all lived. They were gangsters. There wasn't really a more complimenting term for it, although Voight did hold a fondness for ragamuffin and desperado. They just seemed a bit more adventurous, nearly disguised the violent intentions behind the job. But no, gangsters it was and unless Rossiter decreed otherwise, gangsters it stayed. Voight hated Rossiter. Not because he was over twenty years younger than Voight and still owned all that youthful adrenaline that made him so damn good at everything, the adrenaline that had since deserted Voight and left him as a crumbling old shell bordering sixty. It wasn't a result of him being the boss, and Voight being nothing more than another underling to be commanded around, although that may have been part of it. It all boiled down to Rossiter possessing the uncanny ability to suck every last piece of comfort and joy out of Voight's life. Because he wasn't as young as he was, Voight had once held court the idea of sharing his experiences with the young recruits, to help train them, to sow pearls of wisdom and knowledge into the tapestry of a fresh new generation and hopefully, guide them to escape the same mistakes he'd made.
But no. Voight wasn't allowed to do any of that. Rossiter had stripped him of every conceivable freedom he'd had, save death. The recruits were forced to endure hardened training exercises, intense physical obstacles, all in favour of making them more refined killing machines and to hone their battle skills against all breed of opponents, including enemy sorcerers. Meanwhile, Voight was stuck doing labour and maintenance, comprising of organising which crates should be dumped and where old storage boxes were to be discarded. Occasionally, he'd be able to tag along on a mission, but any chance he had of partaking in the job were put down by the other gangsters, who labelled him as 'grandad' and 'fossil' when they were feeling merciful. Voight didn't want to recount the worst things they'd called him. Voight winced when he recounted a lot of things that he'd been through during his all-too long stay with the Black Jackals.
So long it was, he remembered when the organisation hadn't even been named the Black Jackals, but the Dark Horses and before that the Thunder Clappers and before that…Well, before that he was certain it'd been something equally stupid. He didn't try and invent his own names for it were he in charge. There was no point. His body worked, but his spirit and heart were broken. He'd never be in charge. It'd take a miracle for him to be in Rossiter's position. Looking back on it, Voight had never believed in miracles. Even if he started now, he'd still be stuck in the proverbial mire.
"Xavier Voight," a voice snapped him out of his thoughts and Voight's vision sharpened as he came crashing back down to reality. The window was even more covered in snow now. There were no fireworks to be seen. Nothing of the outside world was visible at all. That didn't help matters. That pang of isolation and dread worming around in his stomach now went up a couple of notches. Tentatively, he glanced to his right.
"That's me," he confirmed, knowing full well the beaky face that protruded from the office doorway was aware of who he was. It was just how things like this were in the Black Jackals. All false smiles and phony formality, hiding the true surging emotions beneath. It was when Voight was in the office, defenseless against the tongue-lashing of the top man, that the shit got real. Even though it was only a verbal assault that Voight needed to survive, he didn't count himself lucky. He'd be lying if he hadn't heard rumours of younger gangsters who got themselves into trouble and were beaten or killed as a consequence. Thankfully, to his knowledge, they were just rumours, merely there to maintain the atmosphere of terror that hung over this living like a fell cloud. But the possibility of it being true kept Voight to his wits. He had no intention of being the first of any future disappearances.
Swallowing and trying not to show it, Voight stepped forward and followed the beckoning man, every cell of his brain focusing on one foot moving in front of the other. Never had walking a few metres to the door seemed so draining. The doorman, Bramble, his name was, waited and wasted no time in letting his impatience arise in his squinting features and crumpled mouth. Ignoring the disdain, Voight passed through the doorway and Bramble slammed it behind him.
"Ah, Mr. Voight," announced Kurt Rossiter, rising up from his impeccably clean desk and wearing his infuriatingly clean clothes, "welcome! Please take a seat and we can get started right away. This shouldn't take more than…Oh, five or ten minutes, I should say." The man held his arms out wide and gestured to the rickety old guest chair in front of his desk and as he descended into his own plush, lavish throne of a seat, he brushed his delicate suit with much gusto, as if Voight's very entrance had brought with him all the dust and dirt of the gritty crime-rife streets. The same streets where Rossiter dared not show his face, not for fear of being recognized, but for fear of staining his perfect shirt, his snazzy jacket, his polished shoes. Not just a bastard, but a sickening hypochondriac too. God, Voight was hard pressed to find anyone who didn't despise Rossiter in some way or another. Except of course, his faithful arse-licker Bramble.
Voight sat, cautious not to put his full weight on the chair in case it broke and glanced at Bramble out of the corner of his eye, sticking to the shadows and keeping quiet. To be honest, Voight wouldn't be surprised if he didn't hear another word out of Bramble for the rest of the night. He was there for security and to protect Rossiter from any angry gangsters who didn't appreciate being told who their supposed better was, not to speak or offer his opinion. And to appear intimidating. Voight almost admired him. The way he held himself so stern and steady was reminiscent of a mage, but as far as he knew, Bramble had no more magic than Voight. Yet Rossiter chose him as his bodyguard above all the mages on his payroll, some of which were more than eager to bend their backs in service for an extra few quid to add to their name. Why, exactly? Bramble wasn't immediately impressive and, in the end, Voight chalked that one up to Rossiter's highly probable delusion that magic was some kind of infectious disease and he might catch it. Almost smirking at the image of a distressed Rossiter squealing at some invisible, uncatchable virulence, Voight very nearly forgot where he was and why he was there. Good thing he remembered. Forgetting yourself in the Boss's office was, by Black Jackal law, something approaching a death sentence.
"So, Xavier, how are you?" Rossiter asked, with a flawless replica of a genuine smile. Expecting this, Voight returned it with one of his own, equally as fake.
"Alright, boss. Yeah, I'm fine, thanks for asking."
"And you are, of course, very welcome, but one thing is a little curious. You say you're fine, yes? That is what you just said, I believe?"
Voight nodded slowly. It seemed Rossiter was starting the torture session early. He feared the last straw might already be snapped. When Voight failed to answer quick enough, Rossiter picked up the conversation, reciting his jibes as if he'd rehearsed it all from a script.
"Well, dear Xavier, please enlighten me as to how and indeed why, a man of your skill," Rossiter spat the last word out like he'd been sucking on a lemon, "and calibre has been nothing more than a liability of late! Need I mention last month's disaster of a raid?"
"Well, boss, as I said back then, I was placed there as an observer and reserve tactician, not as a raid leader-"
"So you just observed nearly the entire raid team lose their lives like that, did you?" said Rossiter, his lips curling in a sneer, "You realise an observer and reserve tactician is meant to actually offer advice based on what they've observed and hopefully try to create some semblance of a tactic to further the plan in hand?"
"Sir," started Voight, knowing he wouldn't be allowed to finish, "that raid leader never listened to a word I said, and I doubt he had any intention to. Besides, none of us were told that warehouse was run by sorcerers and we were completely unprepared for-"
"That'll be enough, mister," interrupted Rossiter and Voight bit back an objection, "that's just one of the many duties you've failed to uphold in your stay here at the Black Jackals." It was at this point that Rossiter usually did the thing with the paper, but it seemed he-No. Wait. He did it. With an unnecessary flourish, Rossiter pulled a wad of papers out of one of his desk drawers and donned his reading glasses. It was pathetic. Voight suspected Rossiter didn't even need spectacles to see and he knew for certain that those papers had nothing written nothing on them. Maybe an ink blotch or a scribbled reminder, but hardly anything pertaining to Voight or his failings.
"Well, sir," Voight tried, "If you're aware of the gang's history, I've been here far longer than you have, and I've been a valuable asset in a lot of senses."
Rossiter huffed aristocratically. Voight wondered how often he'd practiced that huff in the mirror. "Yes, yes. A lot of senses. Just not common sense, apparently. I have here Darrow's report on the Drip Trip two weeks ago-"
"May I see it?" asked Voight, doing the cutting across for a change, injecting some politeness into it. Besides, he might as well call Rossiter's bluff. Rossiter, for his part, appraised him with a slightly disgusted frown, like Voight had just spewed vomit on his gleaming footwear.
"No," Rossiter answered bluntly, and Voight didn't let the surprise register, because there was no surprise to be found, "but Darrow has stated that in that week, the Drip Trip was led astray and ambushed by several Sanctuary agents. Unless someone fucked up on charting the route and then following said route at the time, it would have gone down smoothly and flawlessly. Remind me who oversaw mapping on that mission again, if you'd be so kind."
Voight sighed, figuring out how to word it. He gave up. "I was in charge," he replied, "and that wasn't my fault! I kept to the route but the others' map was marked differently. They said mine was wrong and overpowered me. When I objected, I got locked in a crate. Probably the only reason I'm still alive, otherwise I'd be dead or in prison."
"Yes, that is a pity indeed," said Rossiter harshly, "but that's not all. That was a big enough fuck-up, I'd thought you'd maybe at least try to get your shit together, but no! Giving our guards with those blank weapons for a whole week was an embarrassment!" One gnarled finger twistedly pointed at Voight's rapidly wilting face which mirrored his rapidly crumbling resolve and very rapidly disintegrating temper.
"You knew that operation was in effect to try and get one up on our rivals, the Shacklewolves! If you hadn't messed that one up, we'd be sitting high and mighty on their hideouts and their territory, all of us getting a bit of Drip in our systems. Instead, they're still in power, we're in the weaker position and for some reason, you're still hired."
"But Sir-"
"No but sirs!" screamed Rossiter, standing up and letting the fat load of papers slam onto his desk. Voight didn't have the heart or willpower to snatch a glimpse and confirm his suspicions about their contents. He was too busy holding the boss's gaze and hoping against hope it wouldn't become physical.
"I'm sick of it! Sick of you! Sick to death of your stupid mistakes! That's it, you're fired. You're gone, Voight, you hear me? Fucking gone!"
Voight rose sharply, the temper inside him flaring up like a firework. However, all he could do was splutter and breathe heavily as rage consumed him. He'd been practicing the rant he'd inevitably deliver to Rossiter's face when he was either kicked off or left of his own accord and now…the words failed him. He flinched when a hand gripped his elbow. He turned his head to see Bramble, expression unreadable, although Voight swore he picked up a slight smile threatening to split the bodyguard's face.
"You've got until tomorrow afternoon to pack your shit," snarled Rossiter, leaning over the desk, confident that Bramble's presence crushed any wishes Voight had to bid farewell with his fist, "If I see you after then, in any part of my domain, you'll regret it. I'll make you suffer so much you'll wish you'd never popped out of your mum's pussy. Now piss off!"
A tart nod to Bramble, and the bodyguard steered Voight to the door, practically shoving him out. Stumbling a bit, Voight propped himself up against the wall. Watching him, Bramble tilted his head toward the corridor leading to the living quarters and promptly shut the door. Voight stared. He stared and stared until he memorized every little scratch and etch on the door's dark chocolate veneer and when it was clear it wasn't going to open again, he forced himself to turn away and take the familiar path to his room. Damn him. Damn Kurt Rossiter for being the reincarnation of Hitler; damn Bramble for being the arse-licker he was; damn that door for blocking his path to beating and enacting his revenge on the arse-licker and his Führer and damn fucking Darrow for his fucking reports.
But most of all, damn him. Damn Xavier Voight for being the speck of a man that he was, for not even fighting for his right, not even smacking Rossiter just once for the sake of preserving his dignity. That made him stifle a laugh. Dignity? What he had was the antithesis of the word. As he dwelled on his diminishing reasons to stay alive, he passed some of the windows on the way to his destination. The frost had thickened up again on some, but others were spared and flashes of green and blue, red and gold, white and purple spiraled and pirouetted in the night sky, weaving nonsensical but nevertheless gorgeous patterns. It failed to alleviate his mood. He doubted anything could. Voight peered through the last windowpane before the door to his quarters. There. Beyond all the whizzing rockets and joyous carnivalesque colouring, there was the black expanse surrounding it all. That was life and death, he figured. Life came to an end, eventually, and death was always there, always on the precipice of claiming the individual. He'd be a fool to think himself any different. But life made a show of things, it got distracted in all the pointless merriments and festivities in order to console itself that yes, it'd end, in time. But not right now. Not yet. It was just Voight who had absolutely none of these distractions to occupy him, to comfort him. His life would die and there was nothing to contradict that single, inescapable reality.
He twisted the doorknob and entered his living arrangements. It was small and self-contained and yes, quite shitty. The bed creaked, the sheets were stained, the floor was riddled with holes and there was a permanent draught besieging him, shielded as he was by the ragged duvet. This room's window was facing away from all the crazy commemorations and that was just how he preferred it. Blank, dark and empty. A reflection of himself. A better reflection of him than the mirror on his wardrobe. As he changed into a set of thick pyjamas, readying for the bitter cold of the oncoming night, he looked at his face. Crow's feet, receding hair, the first few streaks of silver emerging on his scalp, wrinkles adorning the better part of his neck and face. He looked like a husk someone had dug up for a laugh. He squinted through the dark. Mismatched teeth addled yellow too, a crooked nose that was bent due to genetics and beatings and not bravery in combat, an Adam's Apple that probably stuck out further than his dick. God, he didn't just look like a husk. He looked like shit. Positively shit.
Enough. It was time. Adjusting his pyjama trousers to just the right height and scratching his head to rid an itch, he wandered to the bedside cupboard and opened the second drawer down to reveal his revolver. He reached inside, not bothering to turn the nearby lamp on, and plucked it out, not wasting any time in gazing longingly at all the good times he'd shared with this firearm and all the not-so-good people he'd killed with it. No, he just checked it was loaded, flicked off the safety and placed it against the side of his head, finger hovering over the trigger. He almost did it and stopped. He had until the morning to start packing. He could still scrape some last vestiges of fun. So he jammed it under his chin instead, wondering how much likely he'd die from firing there as opposed to the first option. Next, he did it pointing inside his mouth and again between the eyes. Dancing with the devil. It sure beat sleep.
But at last, after aiming it at his groin, he decided he was getting far too carried away. So he chose the position, the first one was the best he thought, after all that effort, since it was out of sight and very soon, permanently out of mind and felt for the trigger. There it was. He wondered whether to leave a note of some kind, but remembered he lacked a paper and pen. Whatever. Life was too short for the little things, he chuckled and he squeezed and a loud smash filled the world.
Wait. A smash? He'd fired many guns and they'd never made that noise before. Was that it? He wasn't dead, was he? No, he couldn't be. How else would he be thinking these thoughts? He opened his eyes. He didn't realise he'd closed them. He was aware of the hand still holding the revolver and he turned to peer at the muzzle. Strange. He checked the chamber. Still six bullets, the same as before. Weird. A blasting cold hit him from behind. Bizarre. Voight blinked and studied his hand. The cold had numbed it slightly and it was very pale but he felt the sensations of touch. A surge of resolution spilled through him, and Voight kicked the bedside cupboard, hissing when his foot exploded in pain and he grasped it, howling and blowing on it to allay the agony. Yep, still alive, then. Well, then what was it that smashed? The window. It had to be. Voight stood up from the bed, assured his big toe hadn't shattered, and saw the window in all its broken glory. A huge gaping hole was there, the freezing breeze funneling through like a metal mouth blowing its vanquishing breath. The glass was on the inside, little shards littering the floor. But nothing was there next to them. No grenade or bomb or anything like that. Not a Shacklewolf attack then. That was their usual routine malpractice.
Voight took a step forward. And another. And a third. If it was hostile, he'd be killed or maimed or injured and he'd be all the better for it. If it weren't, and it was just some teenagers getting a bit too excited for New Year's Day, then he'd sigh, laugh at the distant memory of youth and go back to the side of his bed and kill himself. Simple as that. Funny how life is, though. Voight did neither of those. He skimmed the floorboards for any more debris and potential weapons, found none, travelled to his bed where the revolver was lying patiently on the pillow and something flickered in the shadows and a wisp of blackness leapt onto his face.
It was dark. Dark enough that amidst the shadows, it stood out. It was cold, too, so cold it made the powerful winds invading the room seem mild. Raw panic shot through Voight and he whirled his head around, shaking and scrambling for purchase, but the dark thing repelled his touch and when he emitted a sharp intake of breath, two tiny tendrils sneaked into his mouth and pulled. They prised his mouth open and Voight's body flailed in defence as best it could, but the cold pierced him every which way, and his reactions were sluggish and reluctant. Had he even moved from the same spot? He felt dead. He didn't have nearly enough energy to put up a valiant fight. Soon, the black force succeeded in parting the gates of his teeth and slithered down his tongue and ventured into his throat, beginning its journey down. Voight's vision was now unobscured, but any remaining comfort at that whittled away when his gag reflex tingled, and a lurch of vomit threatened to rise up.
Suddenly, just as his innards contracted, preparing to fire all puke cannons, the monstrosity taking a road trip inside him travelled elsewhere and the sick died down instantaneously. But the coldness stayed. It was in his chest, pulsing and flitting around. It peppered him with brief stings in parts of his upper body, until it stopped, and Voight placed a hand over his heart. Still beating, still alive. Shame. Then like a madman's lightshow, it all flared up. Enormous lances of chill jingled and jangled through his nervous systems, bits and pieces connected and a rocket of something indescribable bolted to his head and split his thoughts in two. His mind froze. His thoughts scattered. Eyesight faded and before anything was discernible, the world was tilting wildly and a hard pressure smacked against his head and right shoulder. Darkness consumed all.
Seconds passed, yet the number eluded him. It was strange. He was aware of lying there, like that, for ages. Or maybe it just seemed like ages. For the second time that night, his eyes opened and the black void vanished. No fear. No more alien cold coursing through his veins. He was fine. He was more than fine. Two were one now, and one was unstoppable. There was a hand just in front of him, fingers curled in, giving the illusion of death. He moved them, just to see them move and gradually lifted the whole hand at the wrist, then at the elbow, and propped his entire vessel on one arm. Blood was rushing, his heart was beating. Oh, how he'd missed that, the tell-tale pulse of a blood-filled heart. His head ached from the collision with the tough wooden floor but he savoured the ache, for it was sensuous and any sensation now, good or bad, was simply divine. It was glorious. He spent the next few minutes or however long getting to grips with movement again, despite hardly needing to. After all, the takeover was instinctive, and all bodily functions immediately activated and enhanced the strength, speed and life of it all. It was a fascinating process, and it'd been admittedly a long time since he'd experienced such a thing as this, but all the memories and facts flooded back to him. He recalled past lifetimes, past deeds and past emotions. It all flashed by him in an eyeblink. When he was done with the past, he decided to focus on the present and began to formulate the future in his mind.
He was Xavier Voight. Yes, he was him but also many others. One other in particular stood out from the ancient gallery of old faces that stared at him in the broken timeline that darted in and out of his thoughts. This other was him, a beacon of identity that shone through the black shield that filtered out the others. This one's memories were stronger and more vivid. Almost touchable. Blink. Now he beheld the Voight man's pillow and the revolver that in the ensuing melee had been knocked onto the floor. Dutifully, he retrieved it and used his pyjama top to wipe off the dust. It wasn't perfect, but it'd do. He checked the chamber once more, eyes absorbing the six bullets within. Memories melded and he was reminded of what he was about to do before the invasion of his self. Suicide.
It all was so unfamiliar, odd that he'd considered taking his own life when for many centuries, all he'd been hell bent on preserving his essence at all costs. The need to escape, that overwhelming desire to cut short his pathetic existence still echoed around his head and he didn't like it one bit. No. It was growing stronger, too. What the hell was that about? Somehow, the fortress that imprisoned his heart was being eroded even as he wondered. The man's emptiness was apparent, but the feelings of worthlessness and disrepair within Voight had been literally at their zenith when the takeover had happened. Bracing himself, he shoved back the urges and twisted his neck, eliciting a satisfying snap as he reinforced the prison that restrained all traces of empathy and compassion. There. The little voices that smattered his lack of conscience were crushed for another day. Now it was time for action.
Anger rose up. Familiar anger. A storm of rage prickled in his fingers and his fist involuntarily clenched. Interesting. He was very angry. But what he could do? He'd been fired by his boss, mistreated by him and all his minions. He'd been hesitant to take even the slightest bit of vengeance and the opportunity had long since deserted him. It'd been a pity at the time. But there was something he could do. He was Voight and yet not, and the anger that plagued him was something so easily corrected. A new purpose, a new mission filled him, filled them both. They were different, yet they melded just like Voight and him. Flawless merging. Smiling and loving the feel of his face splitting like that, the smile turned into a grin, and wearing this grin, they stroked the gun in their hands and walked up to the door, opening it. A quick glance at the time, eyes darting to the lonely watch perched on top of the cupboard. Just after one o'clock. Usually, Rossiter stayed in his office until three, sometimes even slept there, Voight told them. Ideal.
Xavier Voight, the improved Xavier Voight, strolled through the door, not bothering to close it, and headed for the familiar corridor that lead to Kurt Rossiter's office to kill Rossiter for all his crimes and infractions on his person. Maybe Bramble too, if he was there. If not, it didn't matter. There were many other ways to make one suffer. After that, the world was his. Theirs, even. His brain, stimulated with fortitude, was fed with plans and goals, lapped up greedily as all forms of wants and wishes filled him. He was alive again and this time, he'd see his ambition, his duty up to the bitter end. Unfortunately, for Rossiter and many others, they'd be dead long before they saw that duty come to beautiful fruition. This was going to be fun.
Author's Notes: I do not own any of the Skulduggery Pleasant books or characters. I'm just a fan, a die-hard Minion who wanted to write this. I haven't yet developed a schedule, but I'll try and do this on a weekly basis. I'm planning a seven volume series based around these characters and this setting, but I'm writing as I go, just to warn you. Thanks for reading and I promise, yes, it will all make sense in due course. Next time: we meet our protagonist in the flesh.