Discover what happens between the books …

This collection includes every Skulduggery Pleasant short story ever written, including two awesome novellas – Get Thee Behind Me, Bubba Moon and The End of The World, written for World Book Day.

But that’s not all.

Written specially for this collection are three new short stories. Two of them delve into the things that fan-favourite, Billy-Ray Sanguine, gets up to between books, while the third pits Skulduggery and Valkyrie against a serial killer, a desperate ghost, and a swarm of very nasty insects.

So it’s business as usual, then.

Copyright

First published in hardback in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2014

The edition published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2015

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London, SE1 9GF

Visit us on the web at www.harpercollins.co.uk

Visit Skulduggery Pleasant at

www.skulduggerypleasant.co.uk

Derek Landy blogs under duress at

www.dereklandy.blogspot.com

Copyright © Derek Landy 2015*

Derek Landy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover illustration © Tom Percival;

Skulduggery Pleasant™ Derek Landy

SP Logo™ HarperCollinsPublishers

* The Lost Art of World Domination, first published in Skulduggery Pleasant, 2012 Down-under Tour Edition; Gold, Babies and the Brothers Muldoon, first published in Playing with Fire, 2012 Down-under Tour Edition; The Slightly Ignominious End to the Legend of Black Annis, first published in The Faceless Ones, 2012 Down-under Tour Edition; Myosotis Terra, first published in Mortal Coil, 2012 Down-under Tour Edition; The Wonderful Adventures of Geoffrey Scrutinous, first published in Mortal Coil, 2012 Down-under Tour Edition; Just Another Friday Night, first published in The End of the World, 2012 Australian Edition; The End of the World, first published in 2012; Trick or Treat and The Button, first published on www.dereklandy.blogspot.com; Across A Dark Plain, first published in Armageddon Outta Here, 2014; The Horror Writers’ Halloween Ball, first published in Armageddon Outta Here, 2014; Friday Night Fights, first published in Armageddon Outta Here, 2014; Get Thee Behind Me, Bubba Moon, first published in Armageddon Outta Here, 2014; Death in Texas, Theatre of Shadows and Crazy Little Thing, first published in Armageddon Outta Here, 2015.

Source ISBN: 9780007559527

Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007559558

Version: 2020-09-17

This book is dedicated to my brand new nephew, Cameron.

Cameron, I’m sure you’ll grow taller as you get older, but right now you’re simply way too short. You also can’t talk or stand up, and I have yet to see you read a book. None of this is entirely your own fault, however – I blame the parents – so I hope my words don’t upset you too much.

The problem is, you’re surrounded by a formidable sister and some formidable cousins, so you’re going to have to grow up to be an exceptional person. I’ll do what I can to help, but the rest is up to you.

Contents

COVER

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

THE TIMELINE

INTRODUCTION

ACROSS A DARK PLAIN

THE HORROR WRITERS’ HALLOWEEN BALL

THE LOST ART OF WORLD DOMINATION

GOLD, BABIES AND THE BROTHERS MULDOON

THE SLIGHTLY IGNOMINIOUS END TO THE LEGEND OF BLACK ANNIS

FRIDAY NIGHT FIGHTS

MYOSOTIS TERRA

THE WONDERFUL ADVENTURES OF GEOFFREY SCRUTINOUS

JUST ANOTHER FRIDAY NIGHT

THE END OF THE WORLD

TRICK OR TREAT

GET THEE BEHIND ME, BUBBA MOON

THEATRE OF SHADOWS

EYES OF THE BEHOLDER

THE BUTTON

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

I’ve always loved Introductions.

They remind me of when I was a kid, wandering through second-hand bookstores, pulling battered old horror paperbacks from the shelves. Those wrinkled covers, those dog-eared pages, that wonderful, slightly stale smell of stories … Those books pulled you into their own history, made you a part of it, and if you were lucky – like, really lucky – right before the story started you’d find the Author’s Introduction.

This, to a kid who wanted nothing more than to be a writer, was a portal into imagination. I couldn’t Google a writer’s name and read his blog or watch every interview he’d ever done on YouTube (and I hereby wave to some reader way off in the future who’s just read that and is now getting information about “Google” “Blog” and “Youtube” downloaded directly into his brain), so I had to make do with what brief glimpses I was afforded. It was in the Introductions that authors talked about their work and their process, and I scoured these words, searching for the secret to writing, hunting for the Big Clue that would lead me to Where Stories Come From.

I found glimpses of the Big Clue in the words of Stephen King and other masters of the genre, but nothing definite. Still, in many ways it was enough. These glimpses brought with them their own kind of inspiration, and when I was a kid, when I was a teenager, that’s all I needed. My early stories dripped with blood. They were soaked in it. Drenched. I had yet to learn concepts such as subtlety or restraint, and there is definitely a place for subtlety and restraint – but it was not a place that held any interest for me. I was all about the blood, the rawness, the viscera. I was reading King and Clive Barker and James Herbert and Michael Slade and Skipp and Spector and Shaun Hutson and dear GOD the list goes on. My life was blood-soaked books, horror movies and heavy metal.

Ah, youth …

And yet, dig a little deeper and you reveal a love of film noir and craggy detectives in rumpled suits and cool hats. Dig a little more and you uncover a love of westerns inherited from a father, a love of screwball comedies inherited from a mother (and for a kid who has stammered all of his life, to find these movies where everyone talks really really fast was beyond exhilarating), and a love of science fiction and adventure that blossomed in the eighties because of people like Spielberg and Lucas and shows like Knight Rider and Airwolf and The Six Million Dollar Man …

Taking all this into account, I am the sum of my obsessions. I am every movie I’ve ever seen and every book I’ve ever read. I am every song I’ve ever listened to. I am every comic I’ve ever bought. I am entire collections by Joseph Wambaugh and Elmore Leonard and Joe R Lansdale and I am His Dark Materials and I am Harry Potter.

And in all of these things, I have glimpsed the Big Clue. And these glimpses were enough to open my eyes to the ideas swimming naturally through the soup of my mind. It was from that soup that I plucked Skulduggery Pleasant himself, back in the summer of 2005, and he brought with him every genre I’ve ever loved.

He is a detective (crime) who is also a skeleton (horror) who takes on a partner (screwball) and they fight monsters (fantasy) and they save the world (adventure). With a little bit of sci-fi thrown in, to stop things from getting boring.

The stories in this collection – arranged here in chronological order for your reading pleasure – are but fragments of the world that Skulduggery has opened up for me. It is because of him that I am able to write a western and sit it comfortably beside a novella about a middle-aged man revisiting the horrors of his childhood. It is because of him that the tones of these stories shift so radically between one and the next. It is because of him that I have the freedom to write the kind of stories I loved, and continue to love, to read.

And if there is a fledgling writer out there who is searching through this Introduction in an effort to find the Big Clue – the secret to writing that I, along with all the other writers, share only amongst ourselves – I am afraid I must disappoint you. This is something you must find out for yourself, fledgling writer, as the Author’s Code expressly forbids me from speaking of it in public.

I may already have said too much …

Derek Landy,

Dublin

Saint Patrick’s Day, 2014

t was the year of Our Lord eighteen hundred and sixty-one, and it was up west of the Missouri River in South Dakota, and the Dead Men were riding again.

This was still years before that damn fool Custer stumbled across all that gold in the Black Hills, years before Wounded Knee and the massacre that took place there. This was back before the territory was admitted into the union, back before Deadwood, back even before that pitiful Treaty of Laramie promised the region to the Lakota people, a treaty that, if ever that was one, was drawn up just to be burned.

It was a time of gunfighters and outlaws and hard living and easy dying and, of course, it was a time of mean-spirited, blood-slicked magic.

The Dead Men had travelled east from Wyoming, tracking their quarry, who’d led them a merry dance. But the longer they tracked, the easier it got. This was on account of the fact that their quarry had taken up with a Necromancer named Noche, who was developing a habit of leaving dead folk in his wake. Not regular dead folk, neither, but the kind that jumped up and ran around and had a madness in their dull eyes and a terrible, terrible hunger that could only be sated by human flesh. The kind only fire or a bullet to the brainpan could put down. Thankfully, fire and bullets were what the Dead Men specialised in.

Seven of them, all Irish, some of their accents a little muddied due to all the travelling and the living they’d done. There was Saracen Rue, all easy charm and easy smiles, like a man trying to convince himself he’s nicer than he is. Beside him rode Dexter Vex, one of the more thoughtful of the group, though he wasn’t one to show it. The quiet one with the week’s worth of stubble was Anton Shudder, and a scarier man was hard to find, even in this forsaken land. There was Erskine Ravel, recently returned from his sojourn to lands even more foreign and forsaken than this one, and Hopeless, a man of one name and many faces.

Riding in the lead was the scarred man, Ghastly Bespoke, and beside him the living skeleton, the one who looked like the Grim Reaper himself, the first of the Four Horsemen written about in the Bible and shouted about from pulpits up and down this wounded and pockmarked country.

And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.

Skulduggery Pleasant’s clothes were scuffed and faded, and his coat was long and may have been black once upon a time. Among normal folk, what these men called ‘mortals’, he’d take that kerchief from around his neck there and tie it over all those teeth that were fixed in that permanent grin, and he’d pull that hat down low over those empty eye sockets. He had two pistol belts, criss-crossing low and held in place with tie-downs, and in those holsters he had guns with pearl handles and long barrels. Colt Walkers, they were. Guns built for stopping men.

They’d been riding for days and their horses were tired and thirsty, and the riders with flesh were chafed and sore. They came upon the town of Forbidden, and didn’t think much of it. A town of three streets and dirty people who bathed not often or well. There was a mangy dog lying in the middle of the street, who looked at them with mild indifference as they passed. When they were safely gone, the dog offered up a feeble growl, then lay back down and went to sleep or died. Didn’t make much difference to anyone which one it was.

They found the livery down the other end of town and the owner, an ungrateful piece of work called Sully, limped out into the sun, scratching himself in places soap hadn’t touched in a long, long time.

“Yeah?” he said with a mouth full of spit. “What the hell d’you want?”

The Dead Men dismounted. Pleasant and Bespoke stayed at the back, them being the most likely to draw attention, and Rue and Vex looked at the proprietor and frowned.

“What the hell do you think we want?” Vex said. “We want our horses fed and watered. You own this place, don’t you?”

The piece of work Sully looked at these men, saw the steel in their eyes and the steel on their hips, and he lost some of his scowl and swallowed some of his spit.

“I do,” he said. “Proud owner of Sullivan’s Livery. If the paint hadn’t peeled off years ago, you could see my name on the sign up there, even though it was spelled wrong and the ‘y’ was missing from Livery. I blame myself, not being able to read, and I blame the fella I hired to make the sign, him not being able to write. But regrets are what regrets are – we all have ’em, and those who don’t have ’em don’t miss ’em. Fed and watered, you say. You can depend on me, provided you have coin enough to pay for such a service.”

Vex tapped Rue’s arm. “Show the man some coin, Saracen.” He went to join the others, who were walking down the wide patch of dirt called Main Street towards the saloon. The townspeople gave them a decent berth, watched them with wary eyes and waited till they were out of earshot to start whispering. Men with guns were never a good sign. Men who looked like they knew how to use those guns even less so.

Bespoke was first through the doors into the saloon. Inside were a few uneven tables, a solid bar and a cracked mirror. There was a small piano nobody played and the floor was dried mud and sawdust. As far as patrons went, there weren’t many here, but all heads turned, and all mouths dropped open. To see a man of Bespoke’s scarring was not something you’re ever likely to see again, and most people seemed to realise that, so they made sure to stare extra hard when they first met him.

Bespoke tipped his hat to the room and walked up to the bar.

The other Dead Men followed, filing in one at a time. Pleasant came last, found a table in the corner to sit, watching the room from beneath the brim of his hat.

“Good day to you, barkeep,” said Bespoke. “What sort of drinks do you serve here?”

The barkeep, a man who’d seen a lot and heard more, had never been one to allow ugliness to get in the way of making money. There was a time he’d even served a leper who had wandered through town, though he served him out back, away from the eyes of his regulars. Money was money, he figured, and it didn’t matter a whole lot how many stumps for fingers a hand had if what it was holding could add to the coffers.

Fact is, the barkeep hadn’t even washed the mug the leper had used all that much. So the barkeep told the scarred man what was on offer and the scarred man asked for six drinks. Saracen Rue came in as the sixth was poured, and they all drank like thirsty men. Except for Pleasant, of course.

“Now that,” said Ravel, “was a long time coming. And it was welcome.” He smiled at the barkeep. “We’re looking for a friend of ours. Two friends, actually, would’ve just passed through here. Maybe you saw them. Maybe you served them two of these delicious and refreshing beers.”

The barkeep said nothing.

“Our first friend,” said Vex, “is like us – he’s Irish. Tall and dark-haired and kinda pale, though in this sun he’s probably reddened up a little. Wears a glove on his right hand. The other fella wears black and carries a staff with him wherever he goes, the height of a man.”

The barkeep looked at the Dead Men and still said nothing.

“It is very important that we catch up to our friends as soon as possible,” Rue said. “We have news from home that requires their immediate and direct attention. Tragic news. Time is of the essence.”

“Haven’t seen anyone,” said the barkeep.

“You’re sure? Our first friend, he has green eyes. Normally eye colour means very little when talking about a man, but if you’d ever looked into those eyes, you’d remember them. Like a snake’s. And the second, as I said, carries a big old staff. That’s something to stick in the memory, isn’t it?”

The barkeep shook his head. “Can’t help you, fellas.”

“Well,” said Ravel, “that is a shame.”

Bespoke turned to the dusty, dirty patrons. “How about the rest of you? Seen anyone like the men we just described?”

A few people kept staring at Bespoke’s face. Others looked down at their beers. One or two, and this caught the attention of the Dead Men, flickered their gaze to a man who sat alone with his eyes fixed on his hands. He was so knotted up, he was shaking. The long silence that followed grew heavy and seemed to weigh down on his narrow shoulders. It grew so heavy he evidently couldn’t take it any more and he jumped to his feet and went for his gun all at the same time. He made a mess of both, went stumbling and fumbling and panicking, and Hopeless crossed to him so quick no one knew quite what was happening till the man hit the floor with a broken nose and no gun in his hand.

Hopeless walked back to the bar, put down the man’s gun and picked up his drink, finished it just as the man realised he was bleeding.

“What did you do that for?” he said. He had a peculiar accent, German or Dutch or some such.

“You were going to shoot us,” said Vex.

“I was not,” said the man, though there wasn’t a person there who believed him.

“People try to shoot me all the time,” Rue told him. “Usually because of a wife or a daughter or a sister or a mother. The point is, I’m used to having people shoot at me. We all are. But we generally know why we’re being shot at.”

The man got to his feet, blood running freely through the fingers that cupped his nose. “I wasn’t going to shoot you.”

“I’m having a hard time believing you,” Ravel said, “seeing as how you were going for your gun at the time.”

The man didn’t have much to say about that.

“What’s your name, friend?” said Rue.

“Joost,” said the man.

“Joost? What kind of name is that?”

“Dutch,” said Joost.

Rue nodded. It figured. From the accent and all, and anyway, half the world had come west to search for gold.

This was when Anton Shudder stepped forward, and the five other Dead Men at the bar seemed to step back, even though no actual steps were taken. Shudder looked at Joost, and to the poor, panicking Dutchman it seemed like the world was narrowing to a very tight space.

“Tell us what the man with the green eyes said to you,” Shudder said in his quiet voice.

“Church,” Joost managed. “He said something about going to church.”

The church, such as it was, stood on a hill a few miles south. A ramshackle place where not much worshipping went on – and when it did, half of it was half-remembered and most of it was made up. It catered to three different townships, of which Forbidden was one. Its roof sagged and let in water when it rained, its walls groaned and let in wind when it blew, and its doors creaked and let in hypocrites when it suited.

There were two sides of narrow pews and a narrow aisle in between, and there was a table for an altar and the pulpit was a box to stand on. It had once been a barn, and it had never got rid of the comforting smell of cow dung.

In town, there’d lived a man named Wooley, a quick wit who always found amusing, if sometimes crude, names for people and places. He’d come up with a name for this falling-down church-barn that smelled of dung, and it was quite a clever and funny name, but he died of dysentery before he could tell anyone. Mighty unlucky man, that Wooley.

The Dead Men walked up from the bottom of the hill towards this sad-looking church with a single candle burning in its window. It was night, and a warm one at that, and they followed the winding trail between all those graves. They walked single file, with Pleasant in the lead, the moonlight making his skull shine beneath his hat. At the top of the hill the trail widened out, and it was at this point that the Dead Men stood abreast of each other, observing the double doors with the window on one side.

“Nefarian Serpine,” Pleasant called, “if you’re in there, come out. Come get what’s coming to you.”

The candle flickered behind the thin, cracked glass. The doors banged gently in the hesitant breeze. Pleasant looked at Rue, who shook his head. No one was in that church.

Pleasant made to step forward, then stopped. The other Dead Men watched him as he turned slowly. They started to turn, too.

Corpses lunged up from the graves all around them, pushing aside packed dirt and overturning markers of wood and stone. They burrowed out from six feet under and less, moaning and groaning and uttering sounds that whistled through dried-up throats. They clambered to their feet and staggered and lurched and shambled, all going straight towards the seven sorcerers who were slowly backing away from them.

More and more crawled to the surface, breaking through to add their sounds to the growing chorus of the dead. Hundreds of graves, going back sixty years. Some of the dead, zombies they were called, were fresh enough, and some were little more than skeletons. Skulduggery Pleasant might’ve felt right at home at that moment. If he did, he didn’t show it.

“Start shooting,” he said.

Guns cleared leather and immediately the night was shaking to the thunder of gunfire. The Dead Men stood in a line and fired calmly, making every bullet count. Shots to the legs to slow them down, to the chests to drive them back, and to the heads to give them a death they wouldn’t be walking away from. Bullets were easier than magic when it came to zombies. Quicker, too. Even the skeletons, those without a brain, went down when a bullet shattered their skulls.

Bone fragments flew. Rotten flesh burst. Soon enough the Dead Men were standing in a cloud of acrid gunsmoke, and still the zombies came.

“Reloading,” Vex said, taking one step back. The other Dead Men closed in, filling the gap. When his guns were ready, Vex said, “Firing,” and stepped into the space that was immediately made for him.

That’s how they went, the Dead Men, doing this dance, covering for their partners. Guns got hot and fingers got singed, and still they fired and reloaded and fired, and still the zombies came.

Three zombies from the back pushed forward. Fresher corpses, these. They ran at Bespoke and he blasted one of them in the face and one in the throat. The bullet passed right through the spinal cord and the head flopped backwards, tearing decaying skin, then fell off. The third zombie he punched with a column of air that lifted it off its feet. He fired at it as it hurtled backwards, hit it in the back of the head.

The zombies were surrounding them now. The Dead Men moved into a tight circle, constantly turning, a spinning top of death. Empty cartridges fell. New ones slid into chambers. Hammers pulled back and struck down and powder lit and lead flew. Faces, heads and bodies disintegrated. The spinning circle of Dead Men spun its way halfway down the trail. The slower-moving zombies had to adjust their lumbering course a few times just to get within snarling distance.

Pleasant slipped into the middle of the circle and Ravel covered his back while he holstered his empty Colts. He held up his hands, gripping the air. It wasn’t easy to do what he was doing. The rifles and shotguns that had stayed behind with the horses lifted from their holsters and packs, and he brought them up the hill, over the heads of the foul-tempered dead.

“I’m out,” said Hopeless, returning his pistols to his belt. His rifle, a Sharps, fell into his waiting hands and he brought it to his shoulder and resumed firing.

Rue was next, and he made his Winchester sing, using the butt whenever a corpse got too eager. Shudder had the shotgun, a double-barrelled monstrosity he liked to call Daisy. He fired that from the hip, blowing apart any zombie dumb enough to go up against him. The others all had Henrys, except for Pleasant himself, who favoured the Spencer. They dug in their pockets for shells, reloading as fast as they were able, but it was clear there were more zombies than there were bullets.

A big zombie, a man who’d died scarcely two weeks before, charged into the circle and the circle split apart. Any rational mind watching might think that this’d be the moment to panic, but the Dead Men went about their business, hurried but calm, knowing that one mistake, one fumble or misfire, could lead to being swarmed and torn apart. They dodged among the grasping hands, firing and lashing out, reloading whenever they had a moment.

One by one, rifles were dropped and balls of fire flew. Coloured streams of light burst from Vex’s hands, sizzled right through necrotic flesh. Rue went to work with his bowie knife and Hopeless took out that machete of his. Only Shudder was still firing, his pockets providing a seemingly endless supply of shells.

“To the church,” Pleasant shouted when it became clear they were about to be overrun, and each of them started making their way back up the hill.

A wave of his hand opened the double doors and they grouped together once more, backing into the shelter of the Lord. But the Lord must’ve been busy that night, or else He was sleeping on the job, because there was no respite in here. The carnivorous corpses kept coming, clambering over the pews, and the Dead Men kept backing up, shoulder to shoulder. They slowed their retreat some, only stopping when they had to, when the sheer numbers forced them to.

Bespoke gestured behind them and the makeshift altar and the pulpit slid to the side, out of their way. By the time they reached the single door at the other end of the church, every zombie still moving was packed inside.

At Pleasant’s signal, Hopeless kicked open the door, held it for his friends, and the Dead Men turned and got the hell out of there. Shudder was last, but instead of running, he turned in the doorway and pulled open his shirt. Pleasant, Bespoke and Ravel held out their hands, forming a wall of solid air, keeping the zombies from getting at their friend. They dropped the wall when Shudder nodded. The zombies rushed forward.

There are types of magic that are easy, relatively speaking, that take no particular toll on the sorcerer using them. They’ll get tired, sure. They’ll get worn out, and drained. That’s what happens when magic is used. Same as anything a body does.

But then there are types of magic that demand a price. Anton Shudder’s magic was one such. The risk he took every time he used it, the pain and anguish it caused him, were immense. Few people ever mastered that discipline of magic. There were those who said it could never be mastered. Shudder himself was one such person.

His gist burst from his chest – a screaming, squawking, nightmarish version of Shudder himself. It was made up of every bad thought and feeling the man possessed, and by the look of the fangs and the claws and the madness, those bad thoughts were many, and resourceful. Attached to Shudder by a twisting stream of light and dark, it went at the zombies like they were the things it hated most in the world. Which, at that moment, they were. It went through them and over them and back again, that stream looping over itself like an ever-growing snake. The zombies, with no room to duck even if they’d had a mind to, were reduced to tatters.

Shudder’s knees gave out and Rue and Vex each grabbed one of his arms, held him up. With the last of his strength, Shudder called the gist back to him. It hollered and screeched and fought, but the thread between them shortened, and shortened again, and then the gist was sucked back into Shudder’s chest, and the night was silent apart from the low moaning of the zombie remains.

Rue and Vex helped Shudder walk away, and Pleasant, Bespoke and Ravel clicked their fingers and filled their hands with flames. They tossed those flames through the door, manipulated them a little, and within seconds the whole church was burning, taking the last of the zombies with it.

The Dead Men headed back down to their tired horses, where Hopeless was waiting for them. He’d collected their fallen rifles and had picked up something extra along the way. A man in black, unconscious, with blood running from his nose and his hands in shackles. Beside him, as he lay in the dirt, was his staff.

They rode back into town, found an empty corner in Sullivan’s Livery and dumped the Necromancer in there while the Dead Men took rooms for the night. Only Pleasant stayed to guard him – true dead men never needing sleep. Pleasant stood, arms folded, looking at Noche. Not saying anything. Not moving – not even to breathe.

A few minutes past eight the next morning, the rest of the Dead Men turned up, rested and fed. A bucket of water woke the Necromancer, who sat up with a lunging breath and then rolled over into a series of coughing fits. When he was done with all the spluttering, he looked up at his captors.

“What’ll we do with him?” asked Bespoke.

“I think we should kill him,” Rue said. “I don’t like him. Look at his eyebrows. They’re odd. He’s got odd eyebrows, and I think they might be magical. He’s trying to hypnotise me with his odd, magical eyebrows.”

“Nobody is trying to hypnotise you,” Shudder said.

“We should shave them from his face and experiment on them.”

“I think the stress has finally got to our dear friend Saracen Rue,” said Ravel sadly. “He was a good man while he lasted. Annoying at times, perhaps, but a good man nonetheless.”

“I will be missed,” Rue nodded.

Noche frowned up at them. “You’re all insane.”

“You should have the measure of insanity,” said Vex, “what with all the palling around you’ve been doing with Nefarian Serpine. Why are you associating with the likes of him anyway? The Necromancers have been staying out of the war. Are you really going to join the losing side right before it ends?”

“My brothers and sisters remain neutral.”

“So it’s just you, then,” said Pleasant. “A rogue Necromancer teaming up with the most notorious of Mevolent’s Three Generals. Why? He’s been running from us for months, and we’re closer to him now than ever. It’s only a matter of time before we have him.”

Noche smiled, the smile adopting a certain smug quality. “But time isn’t on your side, is it? You’re absolutely right – Mevolent is rumoured to be injured, his forces are scattered, Vengeous is missing, and the war, they say, is coming to an end. Last I heard, your Sanctuaries were offering a reward to whoever tells them where Mevolent is hiding … But what everyone’s talking about is the amnesty. So long as the war is ended soon, and not allowed to drag out, they’ll be offering forgiveness to all of Mevolent’s followers who aren’t yet imprisoned. That’s why you’re so eager to get to Serpine – because you know that time is ticking away. If you don’t get him before the amnesties are granted, you’ll lose your chance to have your revenge. Won’t you, skeleton?”

Pleasant tilted his head in that way of his. “You’re working with him. I really don’t care why. Maybe he has something on you. Maybe you owe him. Maybe you’re just a glutton for punishment. I don’t care about you or your motives. All I want is a question answered.”

“You’ll not get any information out of me,” Noche sneered.

“We just want to know one little bit of information,” said Rue. “It’s barely worth mentioning, really. Barely worth the breath that would carry the words from my lips.”

“Just one tiny bit of information,” said Vex, “and then we’ll let you go. You can run off and we won’t tell anyone you helped us.”

“We’ll swear to it,” said Bespoke.

“Our word is our bond,” said Rue.

“Serpine,” Ravel said. “Where is he headed?”

Noche glared. “I’ll never tell.”

“Please?” said Ravel. Another glare, and Ravel straightened up. “Right, well. You are of no use to us whatsoever, are you? I don’t even see why you went to the trouble of being captured, I really don’t. What’s the point of being a prisoner if you’re not going to divulge secret plans to your captors?”

“Defeats the purpose,” Vex grumbled.

“It does indeed, Dexter,” Ravel said. “What do you have to say for yourself? Are you suitably ashamed? You should be. If I were you, I’d have a good long think about what a disappointment you’ve been to us. We had high hopes.”

“The highest.”

“That’s right, Saracen, the highest. See? You’ve upset Saracen.”

“I just have something in my eye,” said Rue.

“I have never seen Saracen Rue weep,” Ravel said, “since this morning, but you’ve made him weep like a little child. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

Noche looked at them warily. “You are all insane.”

Anton Shudder walked forward. “Tell us where Serpine is going. I don’t play games like my friends. They’re saying all this to confuse you and frighten you. I prefer to simply ask, and I expect a simple answer.”

“I would rather die,” said Noche, a touch less convincingly.

“Do you know my chosen discipline, little man?”

“You’re a … You have a gist.”

“That’s right. And when I let it out there are times when I just cannot control it. And it’s a sight to behold. Terrifying. Ferocious. Merciless. Tell us what we want to know or I shall release it, and believe you me you will garner its full attention.”

Noche swallowed like he’d something sharp stuck in his craw. “Serpine … he mentioned Lancaster County, in Nebraska, as somewhere he’d be safe. Sounded like that’s where he’s headed.”

Rue peered at him. “Are you lying?”

“No.”

“I don’t trust him.”

Ravel nodded. “I don’t trust him, either.”

“I trust him,” said Vex happily. “And I’ve changed my mind about his eyebrows, too. Skulduggery, can we keep him?”

Pleasant tilted his head at the Necromancer. “You’re lying.”

“No, I—”

Pleasant splayed his hand and Noche flew off the ground, hit the wall, his feet kicking at air.

The Dead Men fell silent, lost their smiles and looks of good humour.

“My friend Anton will kill you,” said Pleasant, “but I will kill you worse. Why are you with Serpine?”

“Please, I …”

“You have one chance. If you lie to me, I will start killing you.”

Something changed in Noche’s eyes, something dripped away. His melting resolve, most likely.

“He’s heading for the Temple,” he said. “I was to meet him, take him back to it.”

“The Necromancers are going to hide him?”

“Y-yes. I don’t know why. He has an … an agreement, of sorts. Made long ago.”

“He left you here to delay us,” said Pleasant, “and went on to the Temple without you. How far is it?”

“Three days’ ride,” Noche said.

Pleasant curled his fingers, and the Necromancer gasped for breath. “Tell us where it is.”

They rode.

On the second day they had grass under their horses’ hooves.

The third day they found Serpine’s horse. It had snapped its leg in a gulley and Serpine hadn’t even had the decency to put it out of its misery. Hopeless laid his hand on its neck and put a bullet in its head, and it was a kindness, and then he remounted and they carried on.

They made good time. Serpine’s tracks got fresher. They reached the top of a hill, looked down across the valley and saw a man running and falling, making his way to a rocky outcrop of curiously shaped stones and boulders. Standing outside the opening to what looked like a cave were a dozen figures in black, all in a line, watching Serpine approach.

The Dead Men tore down that hill like the devil’s own demon dogs. They got close enough so that when Serpine glanced back they could see the fear and exhaustion painted across his dirty, sweating face.

Then he stumbled through the line of black, and disappeared into the cave behind them.

Pleasant leaped from the saddle, using his magic to propel himself through the air like he’d been shot from a cannon. He landed a couple of strides from the line of Necromancers.

“Move,” he said.

The Necromancers, being the contrary lot that they were, showed no intention of budging an inch. The one in the middle, the one who’d stepped aside to allow Serpine pass, gave Pleasant a smile.

“Welcome to our Temple,” he said. “Ours is a place of peace and learning. Do you have business here?”

“Move,” Pleasant said again. His voice, usually so smooth, was coarse as the sand they’d travelled across to get here. The Dead Men dismounted behind him, walked slowly up till they formed a wedge at his back. They kept their hands close to their guns.

“Nefarian Serpine is a guest,” said the talkative Necromancer. “He has provided us a service in the past, and so he is under our protection. I’m afraid I can’t let you through.”

“If you side with our enemy,” said Pleasant, “you become our enemy.”

To his credit, the Necromancer didn’t seem all that intimidated by a walking skeleton with guns on his hips. He gave Pleasant another smile. “That’s a rather simplistic view of things, isn’t it? There’s really not much room for manoeuvring around that little philosophy. I prefer, personally, to take each moment as it comes, and to treat every obstacle as an opportunity to do something different. It makes life interesting.”

His patience worn to a frayed thread already, conversing with a smiling flannel-mouth such as this one was enough to snap it clean. Pleasant went to push by, and suddenly there was a wall of shadows looming over their heads. The Dead Men went for their guns, but froze before drawing. Once those guns cleared leather, death would come flying and there’d be no turning back.

“You think you scare us?” the Necromancer asked. “They call you the Dead Men, but it is my brothers, my sisters and I who wield the true death magic. You think we’re afraid to die? Really?”

“I think you talk big,” said Pleasant. “I think you talk about death like it’s your friend. But if you really want to get acquainted, we can help you with that.”

“Then kill us,” the Necromancer said. “But be warned. We stand at the mouth of a Temple. Beneath our feet, there are more of us than you can imagine. They’ll tear you to pieces and you still won’t be any closer to your quarry.”

“Then we’ll wait,” Bespoke said. “We’ll make camp right here and we’ll wait.”

“As much as I would enjoy seeing you waste your time in such a fashion,” the Necromancer replied, “our Temple has hidden entrances and exits leading far and wide. You’re just going to have to accept the fact that Serpine is out of your reach, get on your horses, and trot away.”

“We don’t give up that easily,” said Ravel.

“Then you should start,” said the Necromancer. “Because you’ve lost this little game. The skeleton knows it. That’s why he’s gone so quiet. All this time, all this effort, all this building of hatred and anger … all for nothing. You were a few seconds too late, gentlemen. That can’t be easy for you. You have my commiserations. But the game is done. It’s over. You can pick it up again in another country, maybe. But when Mevolent does fall – and he will – there will be a treaty, and an amnesty, and then Mr Serpine will be able to walk free without a care in the world, and there won’t be a single thing you can do about it.”

The Dead Men took their hands from their guns. They’d been alive long enough to know when they were beaten, and they had enough wisdom between them to know there was no shame in it. Sometimes the cards flipped right, and sometimes they didn’t.

At Pleasant’s nod, they got back on their horses. The Necromancers began to file into the cave, and the wall of shadows became little more than black smoke in the wind. Finally, there were just Pleasant and the Necromancer left standing there.

“What’s your name?” Pleasant asked.

That smile again. “Cleric Solomon Wreath, at your service,” said the Necromancer. He even gave a little bow.

“Mr Wreath, today you have prevented me from doing my duty.”

“On the contrary, I have prevented you from exacting your revenge.”

“Which amounts to the same thing. I won’t forget this.”

“I don’t expect you to,” said Wreath, but Pleasant had already turned his back on him.

That night they rested their horses by a stream and didn’t talk a whole lot.

Pleasant sat by himself, looking out into the darkness. To say he had a peculiar anger would of course be something of an understatement, but a peculiar anger it was, as it wasn’t the sort any normal folk could understand. It was a slow-burning heat, capable of firing up at a whim, but never in any danger of puttering out. It kept him. It sustained him. Maybe there was even a part of him that was glad Serpine had wormed his way free.

As long as the man who’d killed him and his family was alive, somewhere out there across the dark plain, Pleasant had a reason to fight, a reason to keep putting one foot in front of the other. But kill the killer, and what was left? Something cold and uncertain. Could be he hung on to what he had – his hate, his anger, his job – because hanging on was all he had. The war was coming to an end. His time as a soldier was coming to an end.

What then? Was there something else out there, something he had yet to discover, that could keep him going when he’d used up everything else? Some thing or some person that would give him a purpose again, that would light a different kind of fire within him?

Most likely, he didn’t know. He probably didn’t care to think that far ahead.

The Dead Men slept. But not Skulduggery Pleasant.

No, Skulduggery Pleasant just hung on, waiting.

Because it was all he had.

ell may well be other people,” Gordon Edgley muttered as they entered the ballroom, “but if you’re looking for an everlasting purgatory of snide remarks and bitter snipes, look no further than other writers.”

The costumed guests mingled and laughed, sipped champagne and wine and plucked tasty but pointless canapés from the trays of passing waiters. A string quartet played from the darkened gallery, as if they’d been shunted to one side to make room in the light for the chosen few. And the chosen few they really were; invitations to Sebastian Fawkes’s parties were rarer than an honest coin in a politician’s pocket.

That wasn’t a bad line, actually, Gordon realised. Needed work, but it had potential.

“Invitations to these parties are rarer than an honest coin in a politician’s pocket,” Gordon said to his companion, and waited for the response. When none came, he frowned, stored the line away and vowed to play around with it later.

He recognised a few of the faces – the moustachioed face, for instance, of R. Samuel Keen, an American whose every book had to have either an unnaturally wise child or a psychic dog. His latest one, which Gordon had tried to listen to as a book on tape before the cassette unspooled in his car, had both. It hadn’t been very good.

He saw Adrian Sykes, a soft-spoken Geordie whose work was fantastically gory and outrageously imaginative. The theme of the party was, as usual, horror, and Sykes had come dressed as one of Clive Barker’s Cenobites, all black leather and hooks. Gordon had met him only once before, and had come away thinking of him as a thoroughly decent person. It was occasionally true to say that the writers of the most disturbing horror stories were among the nicest people you could possibly meet.

There were exceptions, of course. For instance, the gentleman Sykes was chatting to, Edgar Looms, another American, was a man of singular vulgarity. Gordon had first met him ten years earlier, just after Gordon’s first book was published, and since then he had developed quite an abhorrence of the man. Tonight Looms was one of many who had come dressed as Frankenstein’s monster – from the James Whale movie, not the book.

For his first time here, Gordon himself had come as the Creature from the Black Lagoon – a costume he’d had specially created at no little cost. It was worth it, though, even if the flippers made it difficult to walk and the mask made it difficult to see, hear or breathe. It also made it difficult to be heard, which may have explained why his companion hadn’t responded to his politician line.

Gordon leaned in closer, careful not to topple over in his costume, and said, quite loudly and clearly, “Invitations to these parties are rarer than an honest coin in a politician’s pocket.”

His companion, dressed as he was in a 1930s suit and tie, his head covered in bandages exactly like Claude Rains from The Invisible Man, turned slightly, so that Gordon could see his own costume’s reflection in those sunglasses.

“Are you having a stroke?” Skulduggery Pleasant asked. “You keep repeating the same phrase. Is it hot in there? It looks hot.”

“It is,” Gordon admitted. “But I’m not having a stroke. I’m too young. I’m only thirty-five, for God’s sake. Though I may start hallucinating, and thirst will likely become an issue before too long.”

“How do you take the mask off?”

“I’m not entirely sure. It took two people to get me into this thing. They probably told me how to take it off, but the mask makes it hard to hear properly.”

Skulduggery said something.

Gordon leaned in again. “What?”

“I said what about toilet breaks?”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Can you see a zip anywhere?”

“It looks rather seamless.”

“Damn it. And now I want to pee. I didn’t before you brought it up, but now I can feel how full my bladder is. Oh dear God. If I wet myself in front of all these writers, they’ll never let me live it down.”

Skulduggery nodded. “Writers are small-minded like that.”

A waiter came over. Gordon went to wave him away, but his huge flipper hand caught the edge of the serving tray and sent glasses of champagne flying. Even before they’d crashed to the ground, Gordon was spinning on his heels and lurching awkwardly away.

Skulduggery fell easily into pace beside him. “It’s hard to look innocent when you’re the Creature from the Black Lagoon.”

“I suppose that’s the one advantage of this mask,” Gordon responded. “Nobody knows who I am.”

“Gordon Edgley!”

Gordon had to turn his whole body to look round at whoever had called his name. She came out of the crowd like a bespoiled vision in mint green – 1960s skirt and sweater, her blonde hair tied up, scratches all over her face, and attached to her jacket half a dozen plastic birds.

“Tippi Hedren,” Gordon said at once, smiling even though she couldn’t see it.

“What gave it away?” Susan said, standing on tiptoes to kiss both cheeks of his mask. “It was either this or Grace Jones from Vamp, which would have raised a lot more eyebrows, believe me. Who’s your friend?”

Susan was a typical upstate New Yorker – talking a mile a minute.

“This is my associate, Mr Pleasant,” Gordon said. “Mr Pleasant, may I introduce Susan DeWick, author of the Chronicles of the Dead series.”

“Mr Pleasant,” Susan said, shaking Skulduggery’s gloved hand. “How delightfully formal we suddenly are.”

“Miss DeWick, it is a genuine pleasure to meet you,” Skulduggery responded, his voice beginning to work on her already. “I’ve been a fan ever since Gordon recommended you. Your latest book is one of your best.”

“Oh, you’re just saying that because it’s true,” Susan said, and laughed. She looked back to Gordon. “So, Fishface, is this your first time here? I’ve been waiting years for an invitation. When it finally came, I have to admit, I squealed a little. Just a little, mind you, for I am a horror writer, and so I comport myself with absolute solemnity at all times.”

“Oh, naturally,” Gordon said, really wishing he wasn’t wearing a stupid mask. “When did you get to London?”

“Wednesday,” she said. “I thought travelling all this way for a silly costume party would have appalled my dear late mother, but my dad insists that even she had heard of Sebastian Fawkes and the extravagant bashes he throws. The who’s who of the horror elite, all in one place. Kind of gives you an illicit little thrill, doesn’t it? Mr Pleasant, are you a writer also? I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the name …”

“I am a mere reader,” Skulduggery said. “Gordon allows me to help him with his research and in return I live out my writer fantasies vicariously through him.”

“Oh, I like a man with writer fantasies,” Susan said, flashing him a smile.

Gordon felt the sudden need to step between them, but doubted he could manage it dressed like a big fish-monster.

A heavily bearded Wolfman swooped upon Susan, nuzzling her neck, and she laughed and allowed herself to be dragged away. She looked back before vanishing into the crowd, but Gordon didn’t know if she was looking at him, or Skulduggery.

“She’s nice,” Skulduggery said.

Gordon made a noise that sounded like agreement.

“She looks a little like Grace Kelly.”

“Now listen here,” Gordon said, “I didn’t invite you to this thing so that you could sweep Susan DeWick off her feet. If anyone is going to be sweeping her off her feet, it’ll be me, in a fitting homage to the Gill-man and Julie Adams. Admittedly, it won’t be easy. Co-ordination is not what this suit was designed for, and I do have a bad back, and all this heat is making me feel quite weak so I may pass out and drop her, but just the same—”

“No sweeping her off her feet,” Skulduggery said, clearly amused. “You have my word. Besides, why would I antagonise a friend who has taken me to the first party I’ve been to in years?”

“You have the Requiem Ball, don’t you?”

“Full of sorcerers talking about Sanctuary business,” Skulduggery said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “It’s an evening of carefully chosen words and awkward silences, where nobody wants to mention the name Nefarian Serpine in case I suddenly get it into my head to kick down his door and kill him. As if that thought isn’t constantly swirling through my head as it is. No, Gordon, you have brought me to a proper party, of mortals. Of mortal writers, no less. This is beyond wonderful. This is just what I’ve been looking for.”

“Well, I’m glad,” said Gordon. “We weren’t supposed to bring guests, but I did suspect that you might appreciate it. And if Fawkes finds out and banishes me to the horror wilderness for the rest of my career, it will have been worth it to pay you back, in some small way, for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Why, Gordon, I never noticed this before, but you are such a sentimental fool.”

Gordon laughed. “Indeed I am, my friend, and proud of it.”

The lights suddenly dimmed and the string quartet stopped playing as a spotlight fell upon a balcony high above, on which stood their host for the evening. Sebastian Fawkes was tall and thin with high, narrow cheekbones. His black hair was shot through with startling streaks of silver, as was his goatee beard. Even his eyebrows, arched to perfection, each had a slash of silver. Apart from the Dracula costume he wore, he looked, Gordon realised, exactly like his author photo from twenty years ago. The crowd fell into a deep and respectful hush.

“Horror,” Fawkes said, casting his gaze down upon the room. He had a deep, musical quality to his voice that made him sound like an English Vincent Price. “Fear. Dread. These are the commodities in which we trade. In return for the devotion of our readers, we conjure for them the stuff of nightmares.”

He paused, allowing his words to permeate the air. A tad melodramatic, but Gordon didn’t mind melodrama every now and then – just as long as it didn’t get too pretentious.

“We are the dark guardians of the soul,” Fawkes continued. “The new millennium is a mere twelve years away, and we stand between Scylla and Charybdis to hold back the tide of apathy and indifference that threatens, even now, to engulf us all. We offer glimpses into madness, we bring their hands close to the black fires of terror … and then we guide them, safely, back to the light. Ours is a noble calling.

“Where once we would have sat round the campfire telling our stories, now we sit at our typewriters or our word processors. The world is our campfire now – but while you may think we have banished our demons with our modern technologies, with our VCRs and our CD players and our MTV, they still lurk, out there, in the dark. And we are their hunters.”

He bowed his head and the ballroom erupted in applause. Gordon clapped his webbed hands along with everyone else, glad that he was wearing a fish-mask so no one could see him cringe.

Fawkes motioned for silence. “And here we are, gathered together on this most special of nights. A lot of you have been here before. A lot of you already stand within the inner circle. You know the secrets. You have reaped the rewards.”

A low murmur rippled through Fawkes’s audience. People were nodding and smiling softly.

“But others are here tonight for the very first time,” Fawkes continued. “They stand on the cusp of enlightenment. They stand on the edge of wonder. We have seven uninitiated writers among us, writers who have proven their worth, who are ready to be welcomed into our … family.”

Fawkes chuckled at the word, and the guests laughed along with him. Gordon didn’t know what the hell he was talking about any more.

“But all that is still to be revealed,” said Fawkes. “For now, eat, drink, talk, laugh … be merry. And give me a hip hip hooray for horror. Hip hip …”

“Hooray!”

They did that three times in all, and Gordon could only blink at the sudden shift in tone.

Fawkes gave a wave, everyone clapped, and the lights came back on. A few moments later, Fawkes made his entrance into the ballroom and the string quartet started up again.

Skulduggery looked at Gordon. “The man’s an idiot.”

Gordon nodded. “He does seem to be idiotic.”

“I never liked his books. Maybe he’s improved with age, but his early work is derivative with definite signs of pretention. And look, he’s coming this way. This will be a wonderful opportunity for me to make like the character I’ve come as, and disappear.”

Skulduggery moved backwards into the crowd, and by the time Gordon shifted his position to look around, he was gone.

The mask was ridiculous. He seized it with both hands, squeezed and pulled, and only managed to shift the eyeholes around to his ear. Now he couldn’t see anything.

“Help,” he said. He reached out and heard a crash. Another tray of drinks bites the dust. He stepped back, bumped into someone, heard the unmistakable intake of breath that accompanies a well-dressed lady spilling wine down the front of her dress. “Terribly sorry,” Gordon said, spinning quickly, hitting someone else and getting a muffled curse in response.

Suddenly there was a steadying grip on his arms, and he heard Susan DeWick say, “Hold on there, Fishface. You’re leaving a trail of destruction in your wake.”

“My head’s on sideways,” he explained.

“I can see that. Want me to take it off?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” said Gordon. “Thank you.”

He felt her hands take hold of the mask. She twisted and pulled and fiddled, and just when Gordon’s claustrophobia was closing in on him, she yanked the Creature’s head off. Air rushed in, cooling the sweat on his forehead, and he gasped, laughed and ignored the glares he was getting from the people around him.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he said, and Susan laughed and handed him back the mask.

“I couldn’t watch you flail about any longer,” she said. “It was funny, sure, but also kind of sad and pathetic.”

“Sad and pathetic are two of my most charming traits.”

Susan smiled, a wicked look in her eye, but her response was curtailed by the arrival of Sebastian Fawkes.

“Susan,” Fawkes said, kissing her hand, “it is so good to see you again. I’m sure it’s been said already tonight by men more charming than I, but you look simply ravishing. Tippi Hedren, yes?”

“Got it in one,” Susan replied. “Thank you so much for the invitation, by the way. I was just telling Gordon here how much of an honour it is to be at one of your Halloween parties.”

“Ah, yes, Gordon Edgley,” said Fawkes, shifting his gaze and holding out his hand. “Very good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” said Gordon, smiling broadly as he removed one of his gloves. The handshake that followed was unsatisfying and dry. “I’ve loved your books since I was old enough to read,” he said. “I don’t wish to embarrass you, but you’ve been a huge influence on my own work.”

“Have I?” Fawkes said. “I haven’t read your books so I wouldn’t know if I’m supposed to be flattered or insulted.” He laughed. Susan laughed, too, but it was hesitant and accompanied by a frown. “And how are your sales, Gordon? Robust, I hope?”

“I can’t complain.”

“Well, you could,” said Fawkes, “but who would listen, eh? Sales can always be better, can’t they? It still astonishes me, even to this day, the kind of tripe that sells. Are you one of these exponents of splatterpunk that I’ve been hearing about lately? Writers who value vulgar gore over genuine chills?”

“I wouldn’t count myself as such, no.”

“Dreadful stuff. No finesse to their writing. Violence and bloodshed in graphic detail. Where’s the character? Where’s the theme? Where’s the nuance? Cheap shocks, cheap thrills. Blood spills, cheap thrills, eh?” He chuckled at his rhyme. “I’m sure you’re successful enough, Gordon. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Oh? There’s a sales criterion, is there?”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Fawkes. “My associates go through the numbers, pick out the writers who are currently in vogue, like you, writers who sell enough books, and their names go on the list.”

“I feel so special.”

Fawkes’s smile faded a little. “I’m sorry, Gordon? I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I didn’t quite throw it.”

Now Fawkes’s smile was looking decidedly strained. He took a small spiral-bound notebook from his inside pocket, and flipped through it. “Edgley, Edgley … here we are. Gordon Edgley. Writer of, among others, Caterpillars. Oh, dear … was that the book about the killer caterpillars?”

Gordon reddened. “That’s it.”

“The killer caterpillars who eat people?”

“When they swarm, yes.”

“I’m interested – are caterpillars known to swarm?”

“I took … liberties with the science.”

“I can see that,” said Fawkes.

“They’re a mutant strain of caterpillar that feasts on human flesh.”

“Oh dear Lord.”

“I wrote it when I was nineteen,” said Gordon, a touch aggrieved. “It was my first published book.”

“You’re hugely fortunate it wasn’t your last, dear boy. Carnivorous caterpillars, eh? Have you written the sequel yet? Butterflies? Or the prequel? Larvae?”

Gordon ground his teeth. “They’re in the pipeline.”

Fawkes roared with laughter. “Oh, that is brilliant! That is wonderful!”

“Caterpillars is actually an excellent debut,” said Susan, “and it follows in a glorious tradition. You have Herbert’s The Rats, Hutson’s Slugs, Guy N. Smith’s Night of the Crabs, Halkin’s Blood Worm … Caterpillars stacks right up there with the best of them.”

“I’m sure it is esteemed company indeed. I apologise, Gordon, I didn’t wish to insult or belittle you. I’m sure you have enough critics belittling you without me judging you by my own standards.”

Gordon frowned. “That’s an apology?”

“It is nevertheless a pleasure to meet you,” said Fawkes, smiling again, “and thank you for coming. Stick around – I have a feeling it will be a memorable night for you both. If you’ll excuse me …?”

He walked away.

“You’re excused,” Gordon muttered.

Susan looked at him. “Wow.”

“Yes.”

“Wow.

“So that was Sebastian Fawkes, eh?”

Susan gave a small shrug. “If it’s any consolation, whenever I meet him, he’s lovely to me. Always calls me ravishing.”

“He didn’t call me ravishing.”

“I noticed that.”

“Maybe he has something against Irish people.”

“He probably just hates you,” said Susan.

“I think he’s racist.”

“Are Irish people a race?”

Gordon frowned. “Aren’t we?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Damn. Maybe he just hates me, then. It’s probably because I’m better looking than him.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Susan.

“What? You seriously think he’s better looking than me? He’s old!”

“He looks great.”

“He’s been around forever!”

“Doesn’t look a day over fifty.”

“Fifty is old,” said Gordon sullenly.

“You won’t be saying that when you’re fifty.”

Gordon peered at her, making sure she was telling the truth. “You really think he’s good-looking?”

“I really do.”

“So why does he hate me?”

“I don’t know. Did you sleep with his wife?”

Gordon looked around. “Which one’s his wife?”

Susan laughed. “Hey, I think you’re a great writer, and I loved the hell out of Caterpillars, and every book since just gets better and better, and I’m a ravishing young lady. So who are you going to believe – me or him?”

“Well,” Gordon said, “you do have better taste.”

“See? Now quit your bellyaching and dance with me, you subaquatic fool.”

Gordon stopped drinking halfway through the night. He had a longstanding policy – never drink too much in front of rivals and colleagues. Also never drink too much when you don’t know where the zip is on your costume. That was an important policy, too, but it was a new one, with limited applicability. Still, what these policies allowed him was the chance to stand back and watch as fellow authors got drunk, and the drunker they got, the funnier it all became. Petty jealousies reared their heads. Comments got snippier. Compliments became barbed. There were many backs behind which many things were said. It was all highly amusing.

He started to notice the crowd being thinned. Very slightly at first, with certain people – all at the low end of the pecking order – being escorted into another room. When it was done, the guests had been split into two groups, with Gordon staying in the main ballroom. Walking with his mask tucked under his arm, he searched for Skulduggery, whom he had glimpsed charming various people throughout the night. Surely Skulduggery would not have allowed himself to be escorted away.

Gordon noticed that the music had stopped and, in fact, the string quartet had left. He was about to ask somebody the time when he saw the waiters and waitresses leaving the ballroom, stepping out as if synchronised, and closing the doors behind them.

The conversation died, and all attention was turned to Sebastian Fawkes, standing where the quartet had been playing. He waited for absolute, solemn silence.

“My fellow writers,” Fawkes said, “and here I speak only to the uninitiated … welcome to the darkest of secrets.”

Gordon stifled a groan.

“As writers, it is our solemn duty to take our readers by the hand and lead them down a barely lit path, on either side of which lie perils, waiting in the shadows. This we do out of a sense of duty. Someone has to shine a light into the dark, after all.”

Gordon examined his mask, wondering if he could put it back on by himself. Then maybe he could look as bored as he felt.

“I was approached, years ago, by a being,” Fawkes continued, “an … entity. A man, but … something more than a man. And this being, this magnificent presence, showed me a way to use my talents and be rewarded … not just financially, but also spiritually. Physically. He showed me a way to draw life energy – anguish and pain and emotional suffering – from the hearts and minds of my readers, and to use that energy to keep me successful, young and virile. Behold, Argento.”

OK, now Gordon was deciding he should be paying attention. Had Fawkes just talked about how virile he was? How was that appropriate ballroom conversation? He became aware of someone moving through the crowd. An excited thrill rippled by, utterly failing to thrill Gordon himself. He stood on his tiptoes, but all he saw were the guests parting before a man in a white toga. He was pale and heavily muscled, and brightness seemed to spill out of him, although that may just have been the spotlight that followed his every step.

Fawkes continued talking as the big man in the toga moved gracefully through the room like a body-building angel. “He showed me the symbols to hide in the words on the page, in the arrangement of the letters, the order of the sentences, of the paragraphs. These mystical symbols not only act upon the readers’ subconscious, convincing them to buy multiple copies of my books, but they also draw forth energy, which then flows into me and keeps me young …”

Fawkes smiled beatifically at the people around him. “Fifteen per cent of which goes to Argento, naturally, with twenty per cent for foreign territories.”

Gordon had gone cold inside his Creature from the Black Lagoon costume. Fawkes was talking here about magic. Real, actual, supposed-to-be-kept-secret-from-mortals magic.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Fawkes said. “I thought it, too. I asked the same questions you’re asking. We all did. Is this right? Is this fair? But don’t we deserve this, after all we sacrifice for them? As writers? We hold a mirror to the face of society, a scalpel to its dark underbelly … Don’t we deserve a little extra for the depths to which we must plunge?”

Gordon spotted Susan in the crowd, looking mystified.

“You have been invited here tonight so that you may become one of us. So that you may become family. We will share with you the secrets, the symbols you need to put in your books. You will learn the different types of pain, the particular strain of anguish that is most effective. You will be shown how to get your readers to care about your characters so much that when those characters die the readers are traumatised far past the point of tears. You will be instructed on the best way to bombard your readers with emotions, with feelings.”

Susan stepped forward. “So you make your readers suffer, and you draw strength from that?”

“Their pain makes me strong,” said Fawkes, smiling. “And your readers’ pain can make you strong.”

“And you actually believe everything you’re saying?”

“You will believe, too, my dear.”

“Uh-huh,” said Susan. “You said something about draining their life energy. Isn’t that, like, bad?”

“No, not necessarily. Is it exploitative? Yes. But fatalities are few.”

“Fatalities? Are you saying you’ve killed your readers?”

“It is regrettable, obviously. We don’t want to hurt anyone. We’re refining the process even now. Argento is supplying me with new, safer symbols. We want our readers living a long life … so they can keep buying our books!” He chuckled.

Susan looked around. “I don’t get what’s going on here. Are you all this stupid?”

“There’s always one,” Fawkes said, his smile growing sad. “Always one who needs convincing.”

The crowd parted and a gap opened between Susan and Argento.

“I can feel your doubt,” Argento said, his voice soft yet piercing.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Susan replied.

“Doubt, uncertainty … these are feelings laced with a bitter aftertaste. Powerful, in their own way, and made all the more so by the fear that always follows.”

“Uh-huh,” said Susan.

Argento held out his hand. “I will drink from you now.”

Susan gasped, her body sagging, and Gordon tried to push through the tightly packed guests.

Argento’s hand glowed and he closed his eyes. “Delicious,” he said. “Doubt turns to realisation … to the truth … and the truth is a scary thing. Let me taste your fear.”

Susan had gone ashen-white, and still Gordon fought to get to her, and then suddenly there was a cry from above and everyone turned, looked up at the balcony from which Skulduggery had just thrown the spotlight operator. He stood there, looking down at them all.

“Terribly sorry,” he said, “but I’m going to have to bring an end to tonight’s festivities. It’s just … I’m disappointed. I wanted tonight to be special. I’m here with my friend, I’m surrounded by writers and I wanted to talk about books and stories and creativity and I wanted to overhear conversations about social responsibilities and the writer as outcast, but … but instead I get this.

“I get an empathy vampire and a group of idiots who are working with him. And he looks ridiculous. I mean we’re all here dressed up in costumes, I understand that, but he wants you to think that this is how he dresses normally. It’s not. No one dresses like that normally. Why would they? I met a vampire once, an ordinary vampire, who dressed like Lestat. I told him what I’m telling this one – stop reading books about vampires.”

Fawkes cleared his throat and looked at Argento, who stepped forward with a dramatic swish of his toga.

“You talk like you know my kind,” Argento said. “You, who are nothing to me but an insect, would dare stand upon that balcony and attempt to wound me with insults. I am made of sturdier stuff, my friend. I cannot be hurt by words, nor by blade, nor by bullet. I am eternal. I am the night. I am the day. I am forever. And who are you?”

Skulduggery let his sunglasses fall, then clicked his fingers and set fire to the bandages around his head. They went up in a blaze that died as suddenly as it began, revealing the skull beneath. “I’m Skulduggery Pleasant.”

“Oh, hell,” said Argento.

“And you’re under arrest.”

Argento spun on his heels and sprinted away. Skulduggery leaped high into the air, using his magic to boost himself halfway across the ballroom. He landed and gave chase. Argento shrieked.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then somebody screamed, and the guests surged to the doors, yelling and shouting and tripping over each other. Gordon pushed his way through, catching Susan as she fell. He checked her pulse and her eyes fluttered open.

“That was weird,” she said, sounding drunk. “Did that happen?”

“It did,” said Gordon, making sure she could stand on her own. “Are you OK? Will you be OK here?”

Susan frowned at him. “Where’re you going?”

“I’m going after Fawkes.”

Susan grinned. “I’m fine. You go get him, tiger.”

He nodded, left his mask with her, and ran as fast as his costume would allow. He got to the door, emerged into a narrow corridor. He followed it to an empty kitchen with three doors leading out from it. He chose one at random, ran the length of it, and found Sebastian Fawkes trying to get out of a window.

“You’re going nowhere,” Gordon said.

Fawkes turned. “Edgley,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here? Go away. There are forces at work you cannot possibly fathom.”

“I know all about magic,” Gordon said. “I know about the Sanctuaries and the sorcerers. You’re not the holder of dark secrets. You’re an idiot, and you’re not going to get away with what you’ve done.”

Fawkes stopped trying to get away, and regarded Gordon with new eyes. “I don’t understand why you’re against this. It’s power. It’s success. It’s wealth. And it’s a longer life to enjoy all that. Why won’t you just go along with it?”

“Because you’re hurting your readers,” said Gordon.

“Writers hurt their readers all the time! And the readers love it!”

“This is different. This is torture.”

“Nonsense! How can it be torture, how can it be cruel, if they don’t even know it’s happening? We give them stories, they give us longer life. It’s a fair trade.”

Gordon approached. “So what about the readers who’ve died reading your books? What do you call them?”

Fawkes shrugged. “The learning curve.”

“No. This will not continue.”

Colour rose in Fawkes’s cheeks. “Who are you to stand up to me? I am Sebastian Fawkes! The Telegraph called me the world’s greatest living horror novelist. The New York Times said my work was artfully sublime. My last novel was heralded as a humane, heartbreaking journey through a nightmare landscape and a triumph in form. What awards have you won? What accolades have you gathered? You’re a flavour of the month, easily dismissed, easily forgotten. I am a literary horror novelist. What the hell are you?”

Gordon took a last step towards him. “I’m a storyteller, you pretentious buffoon,” he said and he pushed Fawkes.

Fawkes stared at him, his eyes wide. He pushed Gordon back.

Gordon lost his temper, gave Fawkes an extra-hard push to teach him a lesson.

Fawkes let out a roar and charged. Gordon tried to keep him away, but he was too slow. They collided, and stood there, wrestling. Every so often, they’d move their feet slightly. There was a lot of grunting.

Fawkes got a hand against Gordon’s face. Gordon squeezed his eyes shut. Fawkes’s palm was crushing Gordon’s lips painfully. Gordon stuck out his tongue and Fawkes snapped his hand away, yelling in disgust. Gordon tried to press his advantage, but the Creature of the Black Lagoon suit was making it difficult. Fawkes stumbled and flailed, and his elbow whacked against Gordon’s chin. Gordon cried out and dropped to his knees, cradling his face. Fawkes stood over him, too out of breath to say anything. Ignoring the pain in his chin, Gordon lunged at Fawkes’s leg, wrapping his hands round the left knee.

Gordon held on as Fawkes cursed and staggered back. He weathered the storm of slaps that fell upon his head. One of them clipped his ear – it really hurt – but he didn’t let go. Fawkes turned, tried to pull his leg free. Gordon’s grip slipped a little, but his fingers tightened again like a vice round Fawkes’s ankle. He was dragged a few centimetres across the floor every time Fawkes took a step.

“Let go of me!” Fawkes screeched.

“No,” Gordon gasped.

Fawkes overbalanced and fell and, like a ninja, except slower and with less co-ordination, Gordon crawled on top of him. He was sweating badly now. The suit was way too hot to fight in. Fawkes struggled, tried to turn over on to his back to push him off, but Gordon let his body go limp, and he lay on top of him.

Fawkes’s breath came in ragged wheezes. “You may …” wheeze, wheeze, “think you’ve …” wheeze, “won, but …” wheeze, “you’ll never,” really long wheeze, “escape.”

Gordon focused all his attention on staying as heavy as possible, and gasped. “Your time is …” gasp, “over, you …” gasp, “you utter …” gasp, “utter nutball.”

“Ar …” wheeze, “ … gento will …” wheeze, “tear your soul into …” wheeze, “tiny little bits.”

“Your friend is …” gasped Gordon, “already in handcuffs …” gasp, “and your reign of …” gasp, “terror is at an …” gasp, “end.”

Fawkes shook his head fiercely. Gordon nodded insistently. They lay there like that for some time.

When Skulduggery Pleasant and Susan DeWick found them eight minutes later, Gordon was sitting astride Fawkes like an oddly dressed cowboy riding an exhausted and flattened-out horse.

The Cleavers arrived to take Argento into custody, and a pair of Sensitives talked to the main body of guests, convincing them they’d had a nice, if slightly boring, night, and that nothing unusual had happened.

The writers who knew the intricate details of Fawkes’s deal could not be dealt with in the same manner, so they were instead threatened with terrible and gruesome deaths if they spoke a word of this to anyone. According to Skulduggery, threats worked just as well as psychics.

Sebastian Fawkes was released, since an unexplained disappearance would not have gone unnoticed in the mainstream media. His next book, however, failed to reach a receptive audience. The follow-up barely punctured the Top Twenty Bestseller list. After he appeared, uninvited and drunk, on Wogan, a light-entertainment talk show broadcast by the BBC, his publishers quietly dropped him, and nobody much cared.

Gordon asked that Susan DeWick’s memory of the night be left intact. Skulduggery granted this request. Gordon and Susan were entangled romantically for three months afterwards before she fell for a struggling young actor and he fell for a supermodel. They remained close friends until Gordon’s sudden and unexpected death years later. Her book Stirrings at Norfolk, the first true horror novel to win the Booker Prize, was dedicated to him. It said, simply, To Fishface.

Gordon was to go on to document, in hi,s way, the darker realities of life of which the normal person is not aware. He wrote stories to shock, entertain, thrill and traumatise, and he regretted not one moment of it. His participation in real-life adventures was not quite so prolific (that role would, of course, eventually go to his niece), but he did accompany Skulduggery Pleasant on at least one more case, solving the mystery of the Phantom Killer at Darkenholme House. But that … is another story.

It’s also not very interesting. The butler did it.

ith the shadows wrapped around him and the sliver of light falling dramatically over his eyes, the evil sorcerer Scaramouch Van Dreg stood in the dungeon and watched his captive with predatory amusement.

The dungeon was dark and damp and dank, and the chains that bound the skeleton detective were big and thick and heavy. They shackled the bones of his wrists to the stone floor, forcing him to kneel.

Scaramouch liked that. The great detective, the living skeleton who had foiled plan after plan, scheme after scheme, was now forced to look up at Scaramouch. Like he had always been meant to. Like everyone had always been meant to.

The detective, his dark blue suit burnt and torn and muddy, hadn’t said anything for almost an hour. In fact, he hadn’t moved for almost an hour. Scaramouch had been standing in the shadows, gloating, for a little over fifteen minutes, but he wasn’t entirely sure that his captive had noticed.

He shifted his weight noisily, but the detective still did not acknowledge his presence.

Scaramouch frowned. There was very little point in going through all this if his efforts weren’t rewarded with due and proper attention.

He brought himself up to his full height, which wasn’t very high, and sucked in his belly, which was substantial. He gathered his cloak and stepped forward, gazing down at the top of the detective’s skull with the pitiless gaze he had practised for hours.

“Skulduggery Pleasant,” he sneered. “Finally, you are within my grasp.”

The detective shifted slightly, and muttered something.

Good God. Was he asleep?

Scaramouch cleared his throat and gave the detective a little kick. The detective jerked awake and looked around for a moment, then looked up with those empty eye sockets.

“Oh,” he said, like he had just met a casual acquaintance on the street, “hello.”

Unsure how to counter this unexpected approach to being a captive, Scaramouch decided to replay the sneer.

“Skulduggery Pleasant,” he repeated. “Finally, you are within my grasp.”

“It does appear so,” Pleasant agreed, nodding. “And in a dungeon, no less. How brilliantly postmodern of you.”

“You have interfered in my plans for the last time,” Scaramouch continued. “Unfortunately for you, you will not live to regret your mistake.”

Pleasant tilted his head curiously. “Scaramouch? Scaramouch Van Dreg? Is that you?”

Scaramouch smiled nastily. “Oh, yes. You have fallen into the clutches of your deadliest enemy.”

“What are you doing here?”

Scaramouch’s smile faltered. “What?”

“How are you mixed up in all this?”

“How am I …? What do you mean? This is my plot.”

“You’re plotting to use the Crystal of the Saints to bring the Faceless Ones back into our reality?”

Scaramouch frowned. “What? No. What do the Faceless Ones have to do with this? I don’t want the Faceless Ones back, I don’t even worship them. No, this plot is for me, to gain absolute power.”

“Then … you’re not in league with Rancid Fines or Christophe Nocturnal?”

“I’ve never even met Rancid Fines,” Scaramouch said, “and I hate Christophe Nocturnal.”

Pleasant absorbed this information with a nod. “In that case, I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding.”

Scaramouch felt like he’d been punched in the gut. All the breath left him, and his shoulders slumped. “You mean, you’re not here for me?”

“Dreadfully sorry,” Pleasant said.

“But … but you arrived at the hotel. You and your partner, the girl. You were asking all those questions.”

“We were looking for Fines and Nocturnal. We didn’t even know you were in the country. To be honest, and I don’t mean to offend you or anything, but I thought you had passed away some time ago.”

Scaramouch gaped. “I just took a little break …”

Pleasant shrugged. “Well, at least now I know. So what are you up to these days?”

“I’m … I have plans,” Scaramouch said, dejected.

“The absolute power thing you mentioned?”

Scaramouch nodded.

“And how’s that going?”

“It’s going OK, I suppose. I mean, you know, everything’s on schedule and proceeding apace …”

“Well, that’s good. We all need something to get us up in the mornings, am I right? We all need goals.”

“Yeah.” An unwelcome thought seeped into Scaramouch’s mind and lingered there. He tried ignoring it but it flickered and swam, and finally he had to ask, “You don’t view me as your deadliest enemy, do you?”

Pleasant hesitated. His skull remained as impassive as ever, but this hesitation spoke volumes. “I view you as a deadly enemy,” he said helpfully.

“How deadly?”

“I don’t know … relatively?”

“Relatively deadly? That’s all? I thought we were arch-enemies.”

“Oh,” Pleasant said. “No, I wouldn’t call us arch-enemies. Nefarian Serpine was an arch-enemy. Mevolent, obviously. A few others.”

“But not us?”

“Not really …”

“Why? Is it because I’m not powerful enough?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Then why? What’s so different between me and, say, Serpine?”

“Well,” said Pleasant, “Serpine had options. He was adaptable. Remember, the deadliest enemies are not necessarily the strongest, they’re the smartest.”

“So it’s because I’m not smart enough? But I am smart! I am highly intelligent!”

“OK,” Pleasant said in an understanding voice.

“Don’t patronise me!” Scaramouch snapped. “I have you as a prisoner, don’t I? You fell into my trap without even a hint of a suspicion!”

“It was a clever trap.”

“And those chains that bind your powers – you think that’s easy to do? You think that doesn’t require intelligence?”

“No, no,” Pleasant said, “I have to admit, you got me fair and square.”

“You’re damn right I did,” Scaramouch sneered. “And you don’t even know about my plot yet, do you? You don’t even know how intelligent that is.”

“Well, like I said, I’ve been busy—”

“Busy with Fines, and with Nocturnal, busy with the threat of the Faceless Ones – but you haven’t been busy with the real threat, have you?”

“I suppose not,” Pleasant said, and then added, “You mean you, don’t you?”

“Of course I mean me! I’ve been smart enough to fool you all into thinking I was dead. I’ve been smart enough to work under your radar, to set in motion events that will grant me absolute power, which will lead to my total dominion over this world! Now that, detective, that is smart!”

“Total dominion?”

“Oh, yes, skeleton. How does it feel to know that an opponent such as I, an adversary you would have classified as merely ‘relatively deadly’, will soon rule this planet with a will of iron, and a fist of …” He faltered. “ … iron.”

“Um …”

“What?”

“I was just going to say, have you really thought this through?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re talking about ruling the world, right?”

“Yes.”

“Not bringing back old gods, not turning the world into some new version of hell, not remaking it as you see fit …”

“Well, no.”

“You’re just talking about ruling it, then?”

“Yes. With a will of iron and a fist of iron.”

“Yes. And again, I’m compelled to ask – have you really thought this through?”

Scaramouch pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He was getting a headache. He could feel it coming on. “What do you mean? What is so wrong with planning to rule the world?”

“Well, for a start, think of all the work.”

“I’ll have minions,” Scaramouch said dismissively.

“But they’ll still need orders. They’ll need you to tell them what to do. You’ll be inundated with reports, with documents, with briefings. There won’t be enough hours in the day to go over them all, let alone make any decisions.”

“Then I’ll just order that the days be longer,” Scaramouch said. “I will decree that a day stops and starts when I decide, not the sun or the moon.”

“And how will you cope with warring nations?”

Scaramouch laughed. “When I am ruler, there will be no wars. Everyone will do what I tell them.”

“There are billions of people in the world, all with their own viewpoints, all with their own rights. It won’t be as simple as telling them to just stop. What about famine?”

“What about it?”

“What will you do about it?”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“If famine strikes a country, what will you do?”

Scaramouch smiled evilly. “Maybe I will do nothing. Maybe I will let the country die.”

“In which case, you will have an entire country rise against you, because they have nothing left to lose.”

“Then I will destroy them.”

“And you’ll have to deal with the neighbouring countries squabbling over the remains.”

“Then I’ll destroy them – no, I’ll order them to … they’ll do what I tell them, all right?”

“And the media?”

Scaramouch sighed. “What about them?”

“How will you cope with the media questioning your policies?”

“There will no questions. This won’t be a democracy, it will be a dictatorship.”

“There will always be dissent.”

“What did I say? I’ll have minions, I told you. They’ll take care of any rebels.”

“You’ll have a secret police?”

“Of course!”

“You’ll assign minions to levels of power?”

“Naturally!”

“And when these minions get ambitions of their own, and they go to overthrow you?”

“Then I’ll kill them!” Scaramouch said, exasperated. “I’ll have absolute power, remember?”

“And how do you plan to attain this absolute power?”

“It’s all in my plan!” Scaramouch yelled, pacing to the wall of the dungeon.

“What about sorcerers?”

Scaramouch tore the cloak from around his neck. It was heavy, and too warm, and when he paced it was annoying. “What about the bloody sorcerers?”

Pleasant’s chains jangled slightly as he shrugged. “You don’t really think they’ll just stand back and let this happen, do you? I realise I’ll be dead, so that’s one less you’ll have to worry about, but there are plenty more.”

“There won’t be,” Scaramouch said, stepping back into the shadows for dramatic affect. “When my plan is complete, I will be the only one capable of wielding magic.”

“So you’re going to kill them all?”

“I won’t have to. They will be left as ordinary mortals, while I will be filled with their powers.”

“Ah,” Pleasant said. “OK.”

“Now do you appreciate my vast and superior intelligence?”

Pleasant thought for a moment. “Yes,” he decided.

“Excellent. I’m sorry we can’t talk further, detective, but my Hour of Glory is at hand, and your death will be—”

“One more question.”

Scaramouch’s chin dropped to his chest. “What?” he asked bleakly.

“On the surface, this plot is fine. Drain the magic from others, and then use this magic to become all-powerful and unstoppable and take over the world. I can’t see anything wrong with that plot – in theory. But my question, Scaramouch, is how exactly are you going to achieve all this?”

Scaramouch picked his cloak off the ground, felt through it until he came to the cleverly concealed pocket. From this pocket he withdrew a small wooden box with a metal clasp.

He held the box for Pleasant to see. “Recognise this?”

Pleasant peered closer, examining the etchings in the wood. “Ohhh,” he said, impressed.

“Exactly. This container, enchanted with twenty-three spells from twenty-three mages, is one of the fabled Lost Artifacts. I have spent the last fifteen months tracking it down – and tonight, it is finally mine.”

“So it’s true, then?”

“Of course it’s true. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Pleasant’s head jerked up sharply. “You mean you haven’t checked it?”

Scaramouch suddenly felt a little foolish. “I … I don’t have to,” he said. “Everyone knows—”

“Oh, Scaramouch,” Pleasant said, disappointment in his voice.

“I just got it!” Scaramouch said defensively. “Literally, I just got it three hours ago!”

“And you haven’t checked it?”

“I didn’t have time. I had to capture you.”

Pleasant looked back at the box, and his head tilted thoughtfully. “If that is the box from the Lost Artifacts, and it certainly does look like it might be authentic, then it contains an insect with the power to drain magic at a bite.”

“Exactly.”

“Providing that insect is still inside.”

Scaramouch looked at the box. “There are no holes in it.”

“It’s been lost for three hundred years.”

“But the insect’s meant to live forever, right? It doesn’t need food or anything?”

“Well, that’s the legend. Can you hear it? You should be able to hear it buzzing around in there.”

Scaramouch shook the box, and held it up to his ear. “Nothing,” he said.

“Well, it’s a thick box,” Pleasant said. “You probably wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway.”

Scaramouch shook it again, then listened for any buzzing. Even a single buzz. Anything.

“Did you pay much for it?” Pleasant asked.

“The guy who found it, he needed to mount expeditions and things. It wasn’t cheap.”

“How much did he charge?”

“I, uh, I gave him everything I had.”

The detective went quiet.

“But I’m going to be ruler of the world!” Scaramouch explained. “What difference does it make to me?”

“He made an awful lot of money by just handing over a box, without even verifying that it contained what you hope it contains.”

“How will I know?”

“There’s only one way. You have to open it.”

“But the insect will fly away!”

“Let it out near me,” the skeleton suggested. “You’re going to kill me anyway, right? So what do I care if it drains my powers before I die?”

Scaramouch narrowed his eyes. “Why would you make this offer?”

“Because I’m curious. Scaramouch, I’m a detective. I solve mysteries. If my final act in this world is to establish whether or not a mythological insect could still be contained in one of the Lost Artifacts, then that, to me, would be a good death.”

Scaramouch looked at him, and nodded. “OK.”

“Put it on the ground, open it, and stand back. When it’s finished draining me, it’ll be sluggish. That’s when you recapture it.”

Scaramouch nodded. He licked his lips nervously, and placed the box on the floor. He undid the metal clasp, felt his heart pound in his chest, and he opened the lid.

He scampered back into the shadows.

The detective gazed down into the box.

“Well?” Scaramouch asked from the corner.

“Can’t see anything,” Pleasant said. “It’s a little dark … wait.”

“Yes? What?”

And then, the most beautiful sound Scaramouch had ever heard – a buzzing.

“Amazing,” Pleasant said in a whisper.

Something rose from the box, rising into the air after centuries of being trapped. It was unsteady, and weak, but it flew. It lived.

“One little insect,” Pleasant was saying. “The legends say it rose from the carcass of a slain demon. An insect borne of evil, and wickedness, the demon’s last attempt to destroy its enemies.” The insect flew up, dancing in a shaft of light. “One little insect, and it could be responsible for bringing this world to its knees.”

“Wonderful,” Scaramouch breathed.

The insect landed on the ground in front of its box, its prison for all those years. Pleasant looked down at it, then moved slightly and knelt on the insect and squished it.

Scaramouch screamed and the door burst open and Valkyrie Cain stepped into the dungeon.

“What the hell is going on here?” she asked.

Scaramouch charged at her and the girl closed her eyes and flexed her fingers. Her eyes and hand snapped open and the air around her rippled. Scaramouch was hurled back off his feet. He crashed into the far wall, hitting his head and collapsing with a groan. He heard the girl and the detective talking, and he heard the chains being unlocked. Moaning, he turned over and looked up at them.

“It was a trick,” he said. “You really were here to stop me, weren’t you? You really were here to foil my plan. This is the last time, you hear me? I will escape whatever prison you send me to, and the next time we meet you will pay for—”

“Who’s this?” Valkyrie Cain asked.

Scaramouch paled. “What? What do you mean, who am I?”

“His name’s Scaramouch Van Dreg,” Pleasant told her.

“She knows who I am!” Scaramouch shrieked. “I am your deadliest enemy!”

Cain raised an eyebrow but ignored him. “Has he got anything to do with Fines and Nocturnal?”

“Nope.”

“Then why are we wasting our time? Come on, we’ve got real bad guys to stop.”

Cain walked out. Skulduggery Pleasant looked down at Scaramouch and shrugged.

“I’ll just chain you up for the moment, but the Cleavers will be around soon to take you into custody. Is that all right with you?”

Scaramouch started crying.

“Good man. Don’t let this get you down, though. We all need goals, and I fully expect to do battle with you again, OK?”

Scaramouch wailed.

“We need more villains like you, you know that? We need more bad guys who want to take over the world. There aren’t enough of them. The others think it’s just, you know … silly.”

Scaramouch felt the shackles on his wrists. He had to look up to watch Skulduggery Pleasant leave the dungeon.

he cemetery was cold and dark, and the dead man was standing on his grave, watching her as she approached.

“Hello,” she said.

The clothes he had been buried in were torn and musty, his shoes caked with mud. He stood with a slight stoop and he had, for the most part, skin and hair. The middle of his face had rotted, however, robbing him of lips and nose and eyelids.

“You’re late,” he grumbled. “Midnight has come and gone.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Lives hang in the balance. You’re lucky I stayed.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You are Valkyrie Cain.”

“That’s right.”

“Thirteen years old, Elemental by power, partner of the skeleton detective, and late.”

“I suppose.”

“You’re lucky I stayed.”

“So you said.”

“I could have left, you know. One minute past midnight, when you weren’t here, I could have walked away. I didn’t have to wait here for you. I was under no obligation. But I stayed, because I have no wish to see innocent lives taken.”

“You’re a corpse,” Valkyrie said. “Where were you going to go?”

He glared at her, but didn’t answer.

He started walking, shuffling off his grave, up towards the ruined church. She followed.

“I thought the skeleton would be with you,” the dead man said as they walked.

“We’re quite busy at the moment, so Skulduggery had to stay behind. I said I’d take care of this one on my own.”

He looked back, and she was thankful the moon was only a sliver, for his face was mostly hidden. “Maybe you underestimate what awaits.”

“No, I think I’ve got it. Three babies snatched from their cots, being held by a family of goblins who want to exchange them for gold. Fairly straightforward.”

“If you fully realised the danger you are walking into, you would not be so calm.”

“Ah, I’m sure I would. They’re goblins, you know? How bad can they be?”

“They were not always goblins,” the dead man said, irritation in his voice. “The Muldoons were sorcerers, descended from a long line of the most powerful mages the world had ever seen. They were rumoured to be descended from the Ancients themselves.”

“That was disproved,” Valkyrie said.

“What?”

“I asked Skulduggery about that. He said the Muldoons reinvented their own family tree in a sad attempt to appear threatening, and then they actually started to believe their own lies.”

“If you know so much,” the dead man scowled, “then why are you asking me?”

“Oh, right, sorry. Please go on.”

The corpse muttered something under his breath, then resumed. “The father died, and the mother went insane, but the children maintained the belief that, because of their heritage, they should be the rulers of the world. They believed in the inherent superiority of those who wield magic, and they despised the mortals, whom they saw as pedestrian and drab.”

“Why are they called mortals?” asked Valkyrie.

“What?”

“I’ve been wondering that. Non-magical people, I mean, why are they called mortals? Sorcerers are mortal, too.”

“Sorcerers don’t claim any different.”

“But by calling non-magical people mortal, it’s like they’re implying that they themselves are immortal. And they’re not – magic just makes them live longer.”

The dead man stopped suddenly and turned. His brows were furrowed across his unblinking eyes. “Do you want to hear the story of the Muldoons or not?” he asked.

“Sure. Sorry.”

He grunted, then turned and carried on towards the church. The breeze caught the mustiness of his clothes and brought it down to her. “The Council of Elders identified the Muldoons as the sorcerers behind a spate of attacks on mortals. In an effort to keep the mortals safe, and to keep the magical communities hidden, the Muldoons were ambushed, and although they escaped, they were not unharmed.”

“This is my favourite bit,” Valkyrie said. “This is when they get turned into goblins, right?”

“Correct. Over the years they have amassed a collection of gold, for gold is the only thing that could return them to human form, but it has not been enough.”

“So they started stealing babies.”

“Yes.”

They arrived at the ruined church. The dead man looked at her “My role is almost fulfilled. I agreed to make the introductions and witness that both parties keep their side of the bargain. There are innocent lives at stake.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Earlier, I was with the goblins, and I saw that the three babies were safe and well. Thus far, they have kept their word. And you, Valkyrie Cain, are you here with gold?”

“Yes, I am.”

“May I see it?” the dead man asked.

“No, you may not.”

“And why not?”

“Because it’s not for you to see.”

The dead man looked at her, and he gave the slightest of nods. “Very well.”

He turned to the open door of the church, and spoke loudly. “It is I, and I stand with the girl, the Elemental and the partner of the skeleton detective, and although she is late she is here, which is the important thing, and we are moving on. I ask that the exchange take place, the three innocent lives for the gold she claims to possess, though as of yet I have not seen it. If it makes a difference, she has an honest face, although her eyes are as dark as her hair. Will you bid her enter?”

Torches flared in wall brackets inside the ruin, beating the darkness back. The dead man stepped away.

“You may enter,” he said.

“You’re not coming?”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t be letting me walk into a trap, would you?” asked Valkyrie.

“Why would I do that? I’m dead. What do I have to gain? I can’t leave this graveyard. There is nothing that brings me joy any more, there is no pleasure to be had, there is nothing I can use so there is nothing that I want. I am empty. My existence is a shallow thing of coldness and—”

“OK,” Valkyrie interrupted, “I get it. You’re miserable, fine. I’ll go in now.”

The dead man shrugged. Valkyrie left him there and stepped into the church.

Part of the roof had caved in, and her boots brushed rubble as she walked. Her boots, like the trousers she wore, and the tunic and the coat, were made of impenetrable materials that had saved her life on numerous occasions. Everything she wore was black, and it was a black that melted into the shadows and hid her from unsuspecting eyes. It wasn’t hiding her tonight, however. Every move she made was being watched. She could feel eyes on her.

There were a few broken pews in the church, but no altar, and no decoration. The flickering torches reflected off wet patches on the stone walls where the rain had fallen.

Valkyrie stopped walking.

“Hello?” she called. “Goblins?”

“Gold,” came the voice from behind her.

She turned slowly, making no sudden moves.

The goblin was maybe up to her shoulder, short and squat and distressingly ugly. He had large bulbous eyes and a long bulbous nose, and his nostril hair mingled with a moustache in a way that was far from appealing. His green skin looked unhealthy in the torchlight, afflicted as it was with sores and boils. He wore a filthy grey suit that had lost all the buttons from the jacket. His belly protruded. Hair sprouted from his belly button.

“Give us the gold,” he said.

“Give me the babies,” she told him. “Then you get your gold.”

He shook his head. “Give us the gold, then you get the babies.”

“How do I know the babies are here? I can’t hear them crying.”

“Maybe they’re happy.”

“Then show me them smiling.”

The goblin scratched his belly thoughtfully. “Compromise,” he said.

“OK.”

“We’ll give you half now, you give us the gold, and then we give you the other half.”

“There are three babies. How do you give me half?”

He shrugged. “Chop a baby in two.”

“You know, even for a goblin, that’s disturbed. Bring the kids out, right now, or I walk away with the gold.”

The goblin growled in displeasure. “Colm,” he said, “Fintan, bring them out.”

From behind him, two more goblins emerged. Valkyrie was amazed to realise that the first goblin was the handsome one of the family. His brothers wore rags, torn and dirty, and they carried the babies between them. The babies had dummies jammed in their mouths.

“See?” the first goblin said. “Alive, uneaten, and not chopped or anything. Now, the gold.”

Valkyrie reached into her coat and brought out a bag that jangled in her grip.

The goblins stared at the bag, practically drooling.

“Put the kids down,” she said. “Just place them on the ground over here, very gently, and step away. Then I’ll give you the gold and we’ll say goodbye.”

One of the goblins, she didn’t know which one he was, so she decided that he should be Colm, grunted. “How do we know there’s gold in that bag?”

“Because I tell you there is.”

“We don’t know you. Liam, we can’t trust this girl.”

The first goblin, Liam, scratched his belly. “We were expecting the skeleton. Where is he?”

“He couldn’t make it.”

“He sent you instead?”

“Yes, he did,” said Valkyrie

“You’re his assistant, then?”

“Partner.”

“You’re a child.”

“You’re a goblin.”

“Only on the outside.”

“And on the inside you steal babies. Looks and personality.”

“I don’t like you.”

“You just have to get to know me,” she said. “Are we going to stand around talking all night, or are we going to do this ransom thing?”

“The skeleton should be here,” the third goblin, Fintan, mumbled.

“Shut up,” Liam barked. “We’ll settle that later. Right now, give her the brats. I want to see that gold.”

Colm and Fintan walked forward, bringing with them an interesting aroma of dried sweat and boiled cabbage. They put the babies on the ground, close to Valkyrie, and the babies gurgled and made baby noises.

The goblins stepped back, rejoined their brother.

“Now,” Liam said with a snaggle-toothed smile, “give us our payment.”

“And then you’ll let us go?”

“Of course.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

Liam shrugged. “A deal’s a deal – we held up our part, now you have to do the same.”

If things turned nasty, Valkyrie would only be able to scoop up one of the kids before the goblins were on her. The goblins didn’t look very fast, so she’d probably be able to beat them to the door, but it would mean leaving two babies here. She didn’t see any alternative, however, and the goblins’ patience was running out.

She tossed the bag, and Liam caught it and yanked open the drawstring. He let the gold coins spill out into his hand.

Fintan licked his lips. “They real? Liam, they real?”

Liam put one of the coins in his mouth and sucked on it a moment, then reached his grimy fingers between his lips to retrieve it. “It’s gold,” he said happily. His wide eyes glinted.

“Pleasure doing business,” Valkyrie said, hunkering down to the kids.

“You’re not leaving,” said Liam.

Valkyrie sighed. “Is this a double-cross?”

“That’s what this is. It’d be better if the skeleton was here instead of you, but when we send him your head, wrapped up in a pretty bow, he’ll come looking for us and we’ll get him then.”

“You have issues with Skulduggery?”

“We hate him,” Fintan snarled. “He’s the one responsible for turning us into creatures of slime and bad breath.”

“I see,” said Valkyrie. “Before you kill me, can I ask you a question?”

Liam laughed. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you. My question is, what makes you think I came alone?”

Liam’s smile faded. “What?”

“You know Skulduggery, right? You’ve gone up against him before. You know how smart he is.”

“Not that smart,” Colm grumbled.

“And he knows you,” Valkyrie continued. “He knows how treacherous you are, and he’s told me how you never keep your side of a bargain, and how you always double-cross …”

Liam frowned. “So?”

“So smile, goblin. Skulduggery Pleasant has been here all along, and tonight’s the night when he gets to kick your green and wrinkly little—”

There was a crash on the roof above them and the rotten wood splintered and gave, and Skulduggery fell through and hit the ground with his face.

“Oh my God,” he muttered as he lay there. “Oh my God, that hurt.”

Valkyrie hesitated. No one made a move, and no one made a sound. Even the babies had stopped gurgling. The goblins grinned. Valkyrie chewed her lip.

“This is … slightly unexpected,” she said.

Skulduggery Pleasant, the skeleton detective, his blue suit ripped and streaked with dirt, rolled on to his back and groaned. If his skull had features, they would surely be twisted in pain. “Don’t move,” he managed to say. “You’re all under arrest.”

The goblins laughed.

“You think you’re the only one with back-up?” Liam grinned at Valkyrie. “You think you’re the only one with a surprise?”

Valkyrie glared at him. “So who’ve you got out there? More of your little buddies? Some assassins? Couple of monsters, maybe? Because I have to tell you, we’ve faced them all, and we keep winning.”

“No assassins,” Liam said. “No monsters. Just Peg.”

“Who’s Peg?”

Liam sneered. “Oh, of course, you haven’t met our sister, have you? Peg’ll be the one who threw your friend there through the roof. Peg!”

A massive shape filled the doorway, and Peg the Ugly Goblin stepped in. She was twice Valkyrie’s height, and had legs as wide as tree trunks, and arms as wide as her legs. Her body was a solid slab of meat, clothed in what appeared to be a half dozen grimy wedding dresses sewn together, and her hair hung long and lank over her face.

Skulduggery got unsteadily to his feet. “Don’t worry,” he told Valkyrie. “I have her on the ropes now.”

“She threw you over a church,” Valkyrie pointed out.

For a moment he was silent. And then he said, “Not all the way over.”

“Skuluggy,” Peg moaned. “Oo uv me.”

Valkyrie frowned. “Did she just say what I think she said?”

Skulduggery shook his head quickly. “No.”

Peg took another few steps inside. Her brothers cackled and let her pass.

“Skuluggy,” Peg moaned again. “I uv oo.”

Skulduggery glanced at Valkyrie. “OK. She may have a thing for me.”

“She loves you?”

“Well, yes, but I assure you, it’s very unrequited.”

Liam grinned. “Weren’t expecting this, were you, Mr Detective? Probably thought, once a mountain fell on her, you’d seen the last of our sister, eh?”

“To be honest,” Skulduggery said, “yes.”

“She’s tougher than she looks,” Fintan said.

“Now that’s an achievement,” Skulduggery murmured.

Peg stood there, a wall in a wedding dress, and held her arms out. A swollen tongue dragged itself over her cracked lips, and she struggled to form her next word.

“Kiss,” she said.

Valkyrie arched an eyebrow. Skulduggery nodded, more to himself than anybody else.

“I’m going to have to let her down gently,” he said, and ran forward and leaped, slamming both feet into Peg’s belly. She roared in anger and swiped at him and he dodged, kicking at the back of her knee. She barely noticed.

The three brothers were coming for Valkyrie. She clicked the fingers of her right hand and made a spark, then caught the spark and cultivated it into a flame that burned in her hand.

Fintan was closest. She reached out with her left hand, feeling the air against her skin. He ran at her and she felt the space between them, felt how it connected, and when she found the right spot she splayed her hand and snapped her palm and the air rippled and hit Fintan like a truck. He flew back and smacked into the church wall.

The fire in her other hand was burning fiercely and she threw it. The fireball hit Colm’s ragged coat and he shrieked and stumbled back, tearing it off. He raised his head to see her running straight at him, but couldn’t do anything to stop the elbow that smashed into his jaw. He spun around, then tipped over backwards and didn’t get up.

Liam rushed her and she tried to move but she wasn’t fast enough. She was taken off her feet and slammed into the ground, Liam’s hands at her throat, trying to throttle her.

Behind him, she saw Peg strike Skulduggery. He hurtled into the shadows.

Valkyrie tried breaking Liam’s grip, but his fingers were short and thick and she couldn’t pry them loose. She grabbed his wrist and twisted, but he was too strong. His fingers dug into her throat and black spots flashed in her vision, her head swimming. She brought her hands in, felt the air between herself and the goblin, but Liam scuttled up, knelt on her left hand and pinned it to the ground. He took one hand from her throat and held her right wrist away from him.

“Try your little tricks now,” he snarled, his foul breath hot on her cheek.

Blood pulsed through her temples. Her lungs burned, and although her struggles were getting more frantic, she could feel herself growing weaker.

Spittle dripped from Liam’s lips on to her face. Her muscles ached and her body was tired, and darkness seeped into her vision. She couldn’t hear anything over the beating of her own heart.

Liam was kneeling on her left hand. His right knee was pressed into her belly, leaving her legs to kick uselessly behind him.

She brought her legs in, bent them, the soles of her boots flat to the ground. With the last ounce of her strength, Valkyrie lifted her backside off the church floor. Liam lurched forward a little and laughed.

“Think that’ll do it? I’ve tamed wild horses, little girl, and they buck a lot harder than you.”

Valkyrie took her right foot off the ground. She could feel the air on her face, on her hands, on her exposed skin. Now she struggled to feel the air through her boot. It was possible. She knew it was.

And as her consciousness ebbed, she thought she felt it, a slight resistance, and that’s all she needed. She stepped on the air and it shimmered, and Valkyrie’s body flipped over backwards, and the goblin screeched as he was catapulted away.

Valkyrie landed on her belly and gasped, sucked in breath hungrily. Tears had sprung to her eyes and she wiped them away, in time to see Skulduggery reach out a hand. A large piece of rubble lifted off the ground. Skulduggery made circular motions and the piece of rubble started to move. Faster and faster it went, in an ever-increasing circle.

The piece of rubble slammed into Peg’s jaw and before she could even growl, it had made its way around and slammed into her jaw again. It struck her repeatedly until Skulduggery’s hand stiffened, and the piece of rubble hurtled into Peg’s face and shattered.

Peg fell back to a sitting position. She held a huge hand to the side of her face and moaned.

Valkyrie stood, and saw Liam. He was on his feet and sneaking towards the babies.

She ran at him and he snarled. She ducked under a punch and he twisted to get at her again. His fist swung and she blocked but her block wasn’t strong enough, and his knuckles hit the side of her face and she staggered. He grinned and she smacked him, and goblin blood, the colour of mucus, sprayed from his lip.

In the middle of the church, Peg had Skulduggery wrapped up in a bear hug. He was trying to hit her with a section of a broken pew.

Liam ran at Valkyrie, yelling out a war cry. She clicked her fingers and he stopped and cowered, expecting the fireball. But instead she moved in, stiffened the fingers of her other hand and jabbed into his neck. His head swung around, offering up the perfect target. Her elbow connected with the hinge of his jaw, and Liam the goblin crumpled to the ground.

“You don’t really love me,” she heard Skulduggery say.

Peg was sitting against a wall, Skulduggery standing over her, the remains of the broken pew in his hands.

“I’m flattered,” he continued, “really I am. I’m sure you’re a lovely girl.”

Peg moaned.

“But the truth is, we don’t know each other. Not really. I don’t know what your favourite song is, or what flower you like most, or what you like to do on long summer evenings. And what do you really know about me?”

“I uv oo, Skuluggy.”

“No, you don’t, Peg. This isn’t real love. This isn’t true love. You deserve someone who can give you true love.”

“Oo?”

“No, not me.”

“Moh.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

Peg sniffled.

“He’s out there, you know. Your Mister Right. And I’m sure he’s looking for you.”

She looked up. “Eally?”

“Really. You just have to find him.”

Peg nodded, then nodded again, with renewed determination. Skulduggery stepped back as she stood up and brushed some of the dust off her wedding dress.

“Stay away from your brothers, OK? They’re not a very good influence on you.”

She nodded, and marched for the church door. Before she stepped out, she stopped, and looked back tearfully. “I awah ink awoo, Skuluggy.”

“And I’ll always think of you, too,” Skulduggery replied.

And then Peg was gone.

Valkyrie stood beside Skulduggery. “Anything you want to tell me?”

“No,” he said. “Not really. Are all the babies safe?”

“Safe and unharmed. Their folks will be glad to have them back. Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me? To share?”

“Relatively positive, yes.”

“She seems nice. Peg, I mean.”

He looked at her. “It’s going to take you a while to stop teasing me about this, isn’t it?”

She grinned. “Oh, yes.”

He sighed. “Then you may as well get started.”

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