When he got back to his apartment, Kenny started packing all that nonsense away. He couldn’t believe he had wasted so much of his time on this, couldn’t believe he had actually got excited about the possibilities. What possibilities? A group of nutcases who all subscribed to the same delusion? He would have burnt everything, shoved it in the bin, but that wasn’t his way. He never discarded his notes – not until the article was done. Everything was useful. He might not write a world-shattering exposé on a secret subculture of superheroes, but he could use what he’d learned if he was ever tasked to write about the homeless in Dublin, or the plight of the psychologically disturbed. Nothing, he knew, was ever wasted. Not really.

He flicked through his notes. The Remnants. Darquesse. The Death Bringer – one word or two – the Passage. The tall man and the teenage girl: Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain. They were real, even if the identities they had given him were not. But that was to be expected, after all. Fragments of reality can be glimpsed through even the most fractured of window.

He read back over it, battling the tide of boredom that swept over him. It didn’t stop him reading, of course. He was a journalist. Research was what he did, and oftentimes research was mind-numbingly boring, just like this was.

He didn’t know why it was boring, though. He couldn’t put his finger on it. It didn’t sound boring. Super powers and the apocalypse and saving the world. But Geoffrey had known. For all his lunacy, he’d hit the nail right on the head with that one, and the moment he’d uttered those words, Kenny had felt it. The boredom. The dullness. It just seeped in, robbing him of his enthusiasm.

Kenny frowned. Before Geoffrey had told him that this was all boring, Kenny had found it fascinating. He remembered that distinctly. But then it was like a switch had been flicked inside him, and all his interest had faded away. He sat on the arm of the chair, brow furrowed. How had that happened? How could it have happened?

He remembered Geoffrey’s face. Smiling. Avuncular. A bit of an oddball, granted. A crackpot, even, as he himself had said. His voice was nice. It wasn’t as smooth as the tall man’s, but it had a quality that got inside your head. It was a warm voice. Comforting. It made you want to trust him. It made you want to believe him.

Kenny’s notes dropped from his hand, scattered across the floor. His eyes were wide. His mouth was half open.

He’d been hypnotised.

He didn’t know how Geoffrey had done it, but he’d convinced him with a few short words that he didn’t think what he thought, that he didn’t believe what he believed.