Mortal Coil

But now that some time had passed, now that he was viewing it all with a more objective eye, he realised what it was that his pub had really offered. It had offered dim lighting, bad drinks, grumpy bar staff and a toilet that smelled of wet cabbage. There was absolutely nothing to take pride in. Nothing to feel good about. But that, of course, was the whole point. Sorcerer pubs were bad pubs by necessity. If they were good pubs, everyone would be going to them.

Sitting in this particular sorcerer pub in Dublin, Scapegrace reflected on the trials and tribulations he had gone through as a living man, and hoped that by the time this night was done, he would be a step closer to being a living man once again.

Thrasher came through the sombre crowd, spilling someone’s drink and apologising profusely before arriving at Scapegrace’s table. “Some men are here,” he said urgently. “They say they know you.”

Scapegrace leaned back in his chair. “Let’s see them.”

Thrasher nodded, turned, but the crowd was already parting for the six newcomers. Scapegrace did indeed know them. Lightning Dave sidled up on Scapegrace’s right, playing with a bright stream of electricity that crackled between his fingertips. His hair stood on end, and his features had settled into a permanent smirk.

Beside him was Hokum Pete. Hokum Pete had been born in Kerry, but harboured a well-known and widely ridiculed desire to be seen as a Wild West outlaw. He liked to wear cowboy boots and long duster coats, and today he had a six-gun holstered low on his right leg. His hand flashed and the gun cleared the holster. He started to spin it around on his finger, like that was going to impress anyone.

Thrasher gave a delighted “Oooh”, and Scapegrace fought the urge to hit him.

To Scapegrace’s left was a pair of sorcerers who had never managed to garner much of a reputation for themselves. They weren’t powerful and they weren’t smart, and Scapegrace could never remember their names.

Brobding the giant, bringing up the rear, had to hunch over to even fit in here, and the man who stood right in front of Scapegrace was Hieronymus Deadfall. Deadfall had been a mercenary, had fought in a few wars, both magical and mortal, before returning to Ireland and settling down in Roarhaven, where he had stolen Scapegrace’s pub from under him. Not that Scapegrace held a grudge or anything.

“Hello, moron,” said Scapegrace.

“My God,” Deadfall responded. “It’s true. Everything they said is true. You’re a shambling pile of decomposition.”

Hokum Pete sniggered, and Scapegrace sat up a little straighter. “I am the living dead, if that’s what you mean, yes. What can I do for you, Hieronymus? I assume you’ve heard about the auction.”

“We heard,” Deadfall nodded. “So you know where the Skeleton Detective lives?”

“Yes, I do. You want revenge, for the time he smacked you around your own pub? This is how you do it. Catch him unawares. Or you can sell the information to someone else. His little partner will probably be there too.”

“Cain,” snarled one of the sorcerers whose name Scapegrace couldn’t remember.

“This information is worth a lot,” Scapegrace continued, “but all I’m looking for is information in exchange. Kenspeckle Grouse. I want to know where to find him.”

It was all going so perfectly, and Scapegrace had to resist grinning in case any more teeth fell out. He’d give up the Skeleton Detective’s location, and in return he’d find Kenspeckle Grouse and get himself fixed. It was, he had to admit, one of his more brilliant plans.

“Grouse …” Deadfall said. “The scientist? How the hell would I know that?”

“If you don’t know it, you’re of no use to me. Next! Anyone know where Kenspeckle Grouse is?”

Deadfall smiled. “Tell me, Vaurien, what’s to stop us from just pulling you apart, limb from limb, until you tell us the skeleton’s address?”

Scapegrace didn’t really have an answer for that one.

There were mumblings and mutterings in the crowd as a large man in a long coat passed Deadfall and approached the table. He had his hood up, and beneath it Scapegrace could see metal, like a mask.

“I need to know where Skulduggery Pleasant lives,” the big man said with an accent. Eastern European maybe, or Russian. Scapegrace decided on Russian. It was, like many sorcerer’s accents, one that came from a lot of places over the years.

“Do you have what I need in exchange?” Scapegrace asked, ignoring Deadfall’s scowl.

The head beneath the hood shook. “I have heard of this Grouse person, but I do not know where he lives.”

“Then why are you wasting my time?”

The Russian didn’t answer for a bit. Then he placed both hands on the table, and leaned in. “Because I’m giving you a chance to avoid bloodshed. Tell me where the Skeleton Detective lives and we can all walk out of here. You are a dead man, but there are ways to kill even dead men.”

The conversation had tilted wildly out of Scapegrace’s control in a remarkably short amount of time, with an astonishingly small amount of words.

It was the tone the big Russian was using, a tone that implied that violence was a mere afterthought. Scapegrace didn’t like that one bit. Anyone who did not give violence its careful and rightful due was someone to whom violence was an old pair of shoes – slip on, slip off, think nothing more about it. That wasn’t Scapegrace’s style at all.

“Maybe,” he said, “we can reach a compromise.”

“No way,” Deadfall said to the mysterious Russian. “Listen, pal, a funny accent and a funny mask don’t scare me. We were here first, so you, take a hike.”

The big man turned to him slowly. “You do not want to make trouble with me.”

Deadfall actually chuckled in disbelief. “Scapegrace, take note. After we deal with the funny man here, you’re next.”

Hokum Pete was still showing off with his six-gun. His finger in the trigger guard, he spun it until it blurred, then flipped it, reversed it, slid it into the holster. It barely had time to settle before it flashed out again. He tossed it into the air and caught it as it spun, tossed it to his other hand, still spinning. He threw it over his shoulder and caught it, reversed the motion and that was when the Russian reached back, snatched it from the air, and shot him point-blank.

Hokum Pete flew backwards, there were screams and yells and cries, and suddenly everyone was moving.

Lightning Dave snarled and electricity burst from his fingers. The Russian dodged behind the giant, and Brobding shrieked as the stream hit him instead. Scapegrace toppled backwards over his chair, saw Thrasher dive to the floor. Panic spread, and there was a stampede for the exits.

The Russian shot Lightning Dave twice in the chest. Deadfall, his fists already turning to hammers, knocked the gun from the Russian’s hand and swung for his head. The Russian ducked under the swing and moved past him, towards the two sorcerers with the forgettable names.

The first of them had glowing hands, ready to discharge a blast of energy. The second had opted for the up-close-and-personal approach, drawing a long dagger from his sleeve. Scapegrace watched as the Russian bent the second sorcerer’s arm back, stabbing him with his own blade. The poor, unmemorable fool gurgled in astonishment, and the Russian took the dagger from him and whipped it across the throat of his friend. Then he turned, saw Brobding coming for him and flicked the dagger to the ground. It impaled itself through the giant’s foot, pinning it to the floor. Brobding shrieked.

Deadfall came at him. The Russian swayed back out of range, watched the hammer swing uselessly by his face, then leaned in. His knuckles met the hinge of Deadfall’s jaw, and Deadfall’s legs gave out from under him.

Brobding pulled the dagger from his foot with a self-pitying squawk of pain. He fixed his face with a snarl, and charged. He didn’t have far to charge, but he did have to keep himself stooped, so it resembled more of a stumble. Still, the intent behind it was unmistakable.

The Russian ducked under the giant’s arms. Brobding’s great fist came around, but the masked man avoided it easily. Brobding lunged and the Russian snapped out a pair of jabs that broke the giant’s nose and split his lip. Brobding bellowed and the Russian kicked his knee. The bellow became a howl, drawn-out and horrified, his huge hands clutching at his leg.

The Russian tapped a single fingertip lightly against Brobding’s chest. There was a terrible crack of bone, and Brobding fell, dead. It was like a great oak falling in a forest.

Deadfall was up again, preparing to swing his hammer-fists, but the Russian just stepped close and pressed his hand against him. Every bone that comprised the skeleton of Hieronymus Deadfall gave a slight tremor, and then came apart with a violence that ruptured his body. Bone shards burst both organs and skin, spraying blood into the air. His corpse dropped, contorted and disfigured beyond recognition. The Russian turned to look at Scapegrace, his eyes red beneath his mask.

“I’ll tell you,” Scapegrace said, hands high above his head. “I’ll tell you where Skulduggery Pleasant lives. Just please, don’t explode me.”

The man with the golden eyes stood by the stagnant lake, his coat buttoned up against the cold. “Marr?” he asked.

“Still alive,” said the old man behind him.

The veiled woman in black spoke quietly. “I thought we hired the best.”

The old man didn’t bother to keep the irritation out of his voice. “We did.”

“She needs to die,” said the woman. “She’s far too dangerous to be languishing in chains.”

“Tesseract assures me she will be dead soon.” The old man looked away from the woman. “Do they still think the Americans are to blame?”

The man with the golden eyes shrugged. “Who knows what Skulduggery Pleasant thinks? We can only stick to the plan. If he begins to suspect us, we’ll deal with him then. For the moment, though, we’re on schedule. This town will hold the new Sanctuary. From here, we’re going to change the world.”

Valkyrie followed Skulduggery down the dank staircase. His façade was up, but still refused to settle. She watched as his face started to drift round to the back of his head.

“Where are we going?” she asked. A pair of dull green eyes floated slowly through Skulduggery’s hair.

“To the basement.”

“I didn’t know this place had a basement.”

“There wasn’t one until China bought this building and commissioned the work to add a sub-level. Even the people living here don’t know about it.”

“You’ve got eyes in the back of your head, you know, and I don’t mean that as compliment.”

“I know,” said Skulduggery sadly.

“How can you even see right now?”

He glanced back at her. The mouth of the façade was gaping wide over his left eye socket.

“That is so wrong,” she murmured.

They continued walking.

“There’s only one reason why China ever goes down into the basement,” Skulduggery said. “Well, it’s also where she keeps her car. OK, so there’s only two reasons why she ever goes down there, apart from the fact that it’s secure and dry and it works well as a storage area. So that’s three, only three reasons why she ever goes down there, and apart from the car and the storage, the main reason is privacy. Seclusion. Why does she need privacy and seclusion?”

“Don’t know.”

“She needs privacy and seclusion when she catches someone trying to steal from her.” They reached the ground floor.

“How do we get there?” Valkyrie asked. “Is there an invisible elevator? A trapdoor? Oh, is it one of those fire station poles that we get to slide down?”

Skulduggery went to the broom closet, and opened the door. There were no brooms in there, and no floor. There were only—

“Stairs,” Valkyrie said, disappointed.

“Not just ordinary stairs,” Skulduggery told her as he led the way down. “Magic stairs.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes.”

She followed him into the darkness. “How are they magic?”

“They just are.”

“In what way?”

“In a magicky way.”

She glared at the back of his head. “They aren’t magic at all, are they?”

“Not really.”

The basement was cold. A dim bulb struggled valiantly against the darkness. They walked down a narrow corridor between chain-link walls, passing stacks of boxes and crates. Rusted pipes crossed the ceiling, the failing light making them look like boa constrictors, liable to drop down and snatch the pair of them up and slowly squeeze the life out of them. Out of her. Skulduggery had no life to squeeze.

They heard voices ahead. Finally, the chain-link maze came to an end, and they stepped into a wide-open space, illuminated only by the headlights from an idle car. A man was on his knees, doing his best to shield his eyes. Whether he was shielding his eyes from the blinding light or the blinding beauty of the woman who stood above him was hard to tell.

China Sorrows was cast in half-shadow. Her raven hair was tied off her face in a simple ponytail. The light hit her back and made her clothes shine and her skin glow. She held a book by her side. Skulduggery and Valkyrie stayed where they were, watching silently.

“I’m sorry!” the man sobbed. “Oh God, Miss Sorrows, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to do it!”

“You didn’t mean to hide this book under your jacket and leave without telling me?” China clarified. “This is a very valuable edition, and would be sorely missed from my collection.”

“Please. Please, I have a family. They’re starving.”

“And so you planned to feed them the book?”

“No … No, but …”

“You planned to sell it then. To whom, I wonder?”

“I don’t … I can’t …”

“If you tell me who the interested party is, I will let you go.” At a wave of her hand, a section of wall opened up at the top of a concrete ramp – obviously the means of exit for her car – and daylight flooded the gloom. “You will never be allowed back here, and you will cross the street and run away to avoid me, but I will take no further action. Against you. The actions I will take against the interested party, however, will be quite severe, even by my standards. I never ask twice – my patience is quite short. You will tell me now.”

He sagged. “Eliza Scorn.”

If there was any reaction shown in China’s face, the shadows hid it. “I see,” she said. “You may leave.”

“I … can?”

China sighed, and the man scrambled up, wiped his eyes, and hurried towards the ramp.

“Wait,” China said. She looked at him for a long moment. “If you return to Eliza Scorn without this book, she will most likely kill you and your pathetic starving family.” She held it out. “Take it.”

“Really?”

“I have three more around here somewhere. Take it before I change my mind.”

He scurried back to her, accepting the book. “Thank you,” he wept. “Thank you for your kindness and your, and your beauty. I … I love you, Miss Sorrows. I’ve never loved anyone as much as—”

“You have a pathetic starving family to get back to, you grubby little man. Get back to them.”

He tore his eyes away from her and ran, wailing, up the ramp and out into the alley. The wall closed up behind him, and China turned, allowing the light to cast itself over her perfect features.

“An act of kindness,” she said, “purely for your benefit, Valkyrie. I know how much you dislike me being mean to people.”

Valkyrie stepped out of the shadows, smiling. “Kindness suits you.”

“Really? I think I’m quite allergic to it. Now what can I do for you both? Perhaps you are here seeking my opinion on matters discussed at this top-secret meeting to which I was not invited?”

“You may not have been there,” Skulduggery said, “but I’m sure a woman of your resources has heard detailed accounts of everything that was spoken about.”

“Nonsense. That meeting was highly confidential. Congratulations, by the way.”

Skulduggery grunted. “There’s nothing to congratulate.”

“Don’t be so modest – I haven’t laughed so hard in years. Erskine, possibly, has the makings of a good Elder, and Corrival Deuce is an inspired choice for Grand Mage. But you? Skulduggery my dear … that is inspired lunacy.”

“Yes, well, we’ll see how it all pans out, but I’m afraid we’re here on matters much more cosmetic.” Skulduggery took a step out of the gloom, and China saw his drooping face.

“Oh dear,” she said.

“It gets better when I do this.” He began slapping himself and shaking his head violently, causing the face to tighten slightly.

“Well,” China said, “at least you’re keeping your dignity. Come. Keep the façade active.”

She touched the car and the headlights went out. They followed her out of the basement and up the stairs.

“What have you heard about Tesseract?” Skulduggery asked as they climbed. His bottom lip hung over his chin like a dead slug.

“The Russian killer? Why on earth would you want …” China looked down at them, her pale blue eyes narrowed. “He’s in the country?”

“You didn’t know?” Skulduggery asked, actually sounding shocked.

There was a brief flicker of annoyance on China’s perfect face, and then it evaporated. She turned, and resumed climbing to the third floor.

“Here is what I know about Tesseract. Born and raised in Russia, somewhere between three and four hundred years ago. He is an Adept, nobody knows who trained him, and nobody knows how many people he’s killed. He wears a mask – again, nobody knows why. He lives in a truck of some description. He’s self-sufficient, doesn’t need to resupply for weeks at a time. His method of communication is a mystery to me – how those who require his services get in touch with him, I confess, I do not know.

“What all this means is that he could be living across the street from me and I’d never know it. It means that I have not heard one single rumour about him in twenty years, and the fact that he is here and I didn’t know about it causes me no small amount of alarm and drives me to unimaginable fury. I am, however, hiding it well. You are sure he is here?”

“We saw him,” said Skulduggery.

They reached the third floor and stopped talking as a man and a woman passed. The man stared at China, entranced by her beauty. The woman stared at Skulduggery, repulsed by the face that was slowly sliding down his head. China led them into her apartment – to Valkyrie it was as beautiful and elegant as China herself – and shut the door after them.

“He went after Davina Marr,” Skulduggery said.