Skulduggery Pleasant: Last Stand of Dead Men (28 page)

hey may have been flying on a commercial passenger plane, but of course they were flying First Class.

Skulduggery sat by the window, his hat pulled low and a scarf around his jaw. His façade needed to be conserved for when he really needed it, so the plan was to sit like this for the whole flight, pretending to be asleep. He’d succeeded admirably on the flight from Dublin to Paris. But now that they were on the second leg of their journey, Valkyrie’s toes were tingling, the way they did when she was restless and wanted to run around and hit something. But she behaved, because she was a good girl.

Ghastly and Ravel sat across the aisle. Ghastly wore a similar disguise to Skulduggery to cover up his scars. They needed to be as inconspicuous as possible. It wasn’t easy – not with Shudder glaring at everyone who came close and Saracen chatting up the stewardesses.

Valkyrie nudged Skulduggery. “I’m bored.”

“I’m meditating,” he murmured in reply.

“Do they show movies on this plane?”

“It’s only two hours to France. No, they don’t show movies.”

A thought struck her. “What happens when we pass through the shield? Am I going to fall into a coma?”

“Would that I were so lucky.”

“What?”

“The shield is designed to keep people out – not to keep people in. We’ll be fine.”

The captain came on over the speaker. She could make out every third word he said. None of it was very interesting. She waited till he finished and nudged Skulduggery again. “Want to talk about the case?”

“Our mystery man? What is there to talk about?”

She shrugged. “I was just wondering if you’d come up with any new theories you wanted to discuss. We usually use these quiet moments to talk about cases.”

“But then they cease to be quiet moments.”

“So you don’t want to talk about the case. OK. Want to play I Spy?”

He turned his head to her. She could see her own reflection in his sunglasses. “You’re worried, aren’t you?”

“I’m not worried. I’m just …”

“Anxious.”

“Anxious sounds worse than worried. I’m curious, that’s all. Curious to find out what’s going to happen.”

“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen,” he said. “We’re going to land in Annecy, sneak by security, disabling any cameras as we go. Then we’re going to hire or steal a large car and we’re going to drive for about two hours.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

“And then we’re going to leave the car, and walk.”

“That’s the bit I’m not looking forward to.”

“A nice walk will do you good.”

“We’ll be walking through mountains, Saracen said. That’s called rock climbing.”

“It’s called hillwalking. You’ll be fine. After a few days of that—”

She gasped. “Days?”

“—we’ll get to a town called Wolfsong or, as it is otherwise known, Chant le Loup. Here, we’ll try to enlist some help to get us into the research facility further on.”

“Where they know we’re coming.”

“Yes.”

“And they’re planning an ambush.”

“Yes.”

“And the only way we’re going to get out of there is if the Australians and the Africans have secretly decided to help us.”

“Exactly. So, as you can see, there is nothing to be either worried, anxious, or even curious about. It’s all been sorted out.”

“How about, instead of all that walking, you and me just fly there?”

“I’m afraid not. We’re going to have to restrict our usage of magic to the minimum until we’re in areas where it won’t be noticed. The Supreme Council will have Sensitives scanning the world for unusual activity.”

“Seriously? But … but what’s the point of having magic if we can’t do awesome things?”

“My thoughts exactly. But it won’t be for long.”

“Then … then will you give me a piggyback?”

“Absolutely not.”

They landed in Annecy and had to wait ages for the doors to open. Private jets in private airfields were so much handier, and much less annoying. Once they deplaned, Saracen took the lead and guided them away from cops and civilians and airport staff. Skulduggery fried a camera lens and they jumped a few fences to land in an outdoor car park. Vex hot-wired a minibus and they drove for a little over two hours before pulling in to the side of the road.

Valkyrie hopped out and climbed up on to a rock to take in the view. A lake on one side, mountains on the other, and the sun overhead. France certainly was a pretty place to visit.

The Dead Men were changing out of their normal clothes. She was already wearing her combat gear – the black clothes Ghastly had made her were suitable for practically every occasion.

She saw Skulduggery’s bleached-white bones and looked away immediately, then laughed at her own reaction.

Shudder walked by her, eyes on the compass in his hand. She heard chatter behind her and turned as the rest of the Dead Men approached.

Skulduggery wore black leather, old and scuffed and cracked. His boots were thick and heavy, steel-toed and polished to a gleam despite their age. On his left arm he wore a dull black metal gauntlet that travelled from wrist to shoulder, with a hinge-joint at the elbow. Instead of his gun resting in a shoulder holster, it was now slung low on his right thigh. On the other side of the belt there was a sword in a scabbard.

“Whoah,” said Valkyrie.

He raised his head to her. “You didn’t expect me to fight a war in a suit and tie, did you? These may not be as durable as the clothes you wear, but they’re close.”

She looked at the others, all of whom were kitted out in a similar fashion. “Is that what you wore during the war?”

“This,” Skulduggery said, “and variations of it.”

“You don’t even have a hat.”

He reached behind him with a gloved hand, pulled a hood over his skull. “Happy?”

“Over the moon. What’s the armour thing?”

He pulled the hood back down, and held up his left arm. “In the olden days, mortals charged into battle with a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. For sorcerers, this didn’t leave us any hands free to use magic, so we relied on these instead. It’ll stop a Cleaver’s scythe – which is exactly what we need it to do.”

“Cool.”

“I happen to have one in your size.”

“No thanks.”

He tilted his head.

“I was wearing a gauntlet in Cassandra’s vision,” she explained.

“But that was on your right hand,” Skulduggery said, “and it covered no higher than your wrist. Even if you saw yourself wearing the exact same one I have for you, it means nothing. The future in Cassandra’s vision will not be decided by the gauntlet you wear. If you refuse it, that future or one like it will still happen – you’ll just be a little more vulnerable to attack. The clothes Ghastly made will protect you, but something like this is an added layer.”

Valkyrie sighed. “Fine. I’ll wear it. Is it cool?”

“It’s very cool. It’s pink, though.”

“I’m not wearing it.”

“It’s a very cool shade of pink.”

“Skulduggery … you’re messing with me, aren’t you?”

“Slightly.”

“I hate you so much.”

He left her for a moment, came back with a long bag. From this he drew her gauntlet – black like his own – and held it out while she slipped her left arm through. Once in place, the fastenings tightened till it was snug but not uncomfortable. She flexed her arm, testing the hinge. It moved with her, like a second skin. “Do I get a sword?” she asked.

“No,” he said, “but I did get you this.”

He reached into the bag, and took out a stick.

She looked at it. “What?”

“Did you really think I’d forgotten my promise to get you a stick for Christmas?”

“It’s not Christmas.”

“Happy birthday.”

She took it from him. It was some kind of dark wood, a little over an inch thick and hexagonal in shape, with symbols carved into it. It was oddly cold in her hand.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Skulduggery said.

“It’s a stick.”

“It’s a special stick.”

“It’s a stick.”

“Well, yes, but it is, as I say, a special stick. The sharpest Cleaver blade couldn’t cut through this. Probably. I’ve trained you in stick-fighting. Tanith trained you in staff-fighting. All you have to do to turn the stick into a stun baton is press your thumb against this symbol here.”

He showed her, and she pressed, and the stick remained a stick.

“Hmm,” said Skulduggery.

“It’s broken,” Valkyrie said.

“It does appear to be not working.”

“You got me a broken stick for my birthday.”

“A broken stick is still a stick.”

“Which brings us back to the fact that you got me a stick for my birthday. I want a sword.”

“You don’t want a sword. Swords are sharp. Especially these swords. You’d lose a finger on these swords. There’d be no chance of you losing a finger on that stick. It’s not sharp, for one thing. It doesn’t work, for another. It’s perfectly safe.”

“I don’t want a perfectly safe weapon. I want a dangerous weapon that hurts people.”

He took the stick from her, rapped it against her head. She howled and he nodded.

“See? It hurts people.”

She grabbed it off him, smacked it against his skull.

“Ow,” he said.

“Not so funny now, is it?”

“Of course not. It’s only funny when it happens to other people. I’d have thought that was obvious.”

She went to hit him again and suddenly the sigils started glowing. “Woah.”

“There you go,” Skulduggery said. “On its first time out, it just needed a few moments to warm up. It recharges itself just by being in contact with your skin. The shock it delivers is enough to incapacitate an average-sized person. Don’t worry, the effects aren’t permanent. They’ll wake up with a headache, nothing more.”

“Well,” she said grudgingly, “I suppose that’s pretty cool. So where do I keep it? Do I get a scabbard or do I have to carry it around with me?”

“Neither,” he said, taking something from his pocket. It was a small disc, no bigger than a contact lens. He motioned to her to turn round, then he pressed it into her jacket near her shoulder blade. “Think of this as a kind of magnet,” he said. “Go on. Put the stick away.”

She moved the stick over her shoulder and let go when she felt the pull. The stick stayed there, tight against her back. She reached for it, pulled it loose, and returned it to her back. It slapped in and didn’t move. “Nice,” she said.

Shudder came over. “We should start now if we want to make our first camp by nightfall,” he said, and without waiting for a reply he moved off.

Valkyrie looked at Skulduggery. “Last chance to give me a piggyback.”

“Sorry, Valkyrie. You’re one of the Dead Men now, and no one ever said it was easy.”

he sounds of people talking drifted up from the floorboards, filling the dark room with the low murmur of half-formed words. Tanith sat on the ground, cuffed to the radiator. So much for her wonderful plan.

The worst thing about the shackles wasn’t that they bit into her wrists or that they robbed her of her magic. The worst thing about them was that they kept her magic just out of reach, like an itch she couldn’t scratch, or a sneeze that wouldn’t come. It was so close, so eye-wateringly close, and yet she had no way of getting to it.

A shudder went through her body, and Tanith closed her eyes. She’d never been good with things like this.