Skulduggery Pleasant: Last Stand of Dead Men (7 page)

Thrasher cleared his throat. “Well, sir, not all women are as … physically impressive as you are.”

Scapegrace narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you be getting any ideas.”

“Sir?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

Thrasher looked horrified. “Master, no! I assure you, I do not find your present body to be attractive in the slightest!”

“Oh, really? You think you could do better?” Scapegrace sagged, turned away. “What am I saying? Of course you could do better. Look at you. You could have any woman you want.”

“But I don’t
want
any woman, Master.”

“You say that now …”

“I’ll say that until the end of time, sir. I’m yours.”

Scapegrace turned slowly, looked Thrasher in the eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Uh,” said Thrasher.

“That was an odd thing to say.”

“Was it?”

“Very.”

“Oh.”

“Very odd.”

“We could ignore it, if you want.”

Scapegrace looked at him. Thrasher was acting weird. Even weirder than usual. He appeared to be blushing, for God’s sake. Scapegrace frowned. “What was I saying before?”

“Becoming a warrior, Master.”

“Yes. Soon, I will unlock the secrets of the deadly arts and I will become the greatest warrior the world has ever known.”

Thrasher looked at him. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why become a great warrior? What are you going to do afterwards?”

Scapegrace sneered. “You ask an awful lot of questions.”

“I just … I was just wondering what—”

“I don’t pay you to wonder.”

“You don’t pay me at all.”

“I am a sorcerer, Thrasher. Among the many things that separate us, that is but one. There is no magic in you, but in me? Magic seethes within me. And now that I’m no longer a zombie, I can feel it again. It is reawakening.”

“What kind of magic is it? I’ve always wanted to ask.”

“But you haven’t asked, have you? Not until right now. Why is that, I wonder? Is your new body giving you confidence, Thrasher?”

“What? No, Master!”

“Is it filling you with self-worth? With self-respect?”

“Never! I swear to you!”

“Because if I find out it is …”

Thrasher fell to his knees. “Master, I hate my new body. I do. Granted, it’s perfect in every physical way, but it’s … it’s not the body you attacked and killed on that warm September afternoon, those few short years ago. It’s not the body you bit. It’s not the body that came back, that opened its eyes and saw you, gazing at it …”

“This is getting weird again,” Scapegrace muttered.

Thrasher stood up. He was so tall and good-looking it was stupid. “Master,” he said, “we’ve been through a lot, you and I, and if I could switch bodies with you I would. I really would. Maybe then you could see me the way I see you.”

Scapegrace tried to ponder that one and quickly gave up.

“You are the only important thing in my life,” Thrasher continued, “and I … sir, I …”

“This conversation is boring me,” Scapegrace announced. “Take out the rubbish bins.”

Thrasher sagged. “Yes, Master.”

While Thrasher trudged out with the bins, Scapegrace picked up his fallen sword and returned it to its sheath. Back in olden times, a Samurai would never put his sword away until the blade had tasted blood. But that was the olden times, back when they didn’t understand things like basic hygiene. These days, Scapegrace was sure, a Samurai would much rather break this nonsensical little rule than risk a variety of unfortunate infections.

He heard a scream and, before he knew what he was doing, Scapegrace was running for the door, his sword once more in his hand.

Thrasher was struggling with something in the gloom behind the pub, his back jammed up against the wall while he tried to keep the creature at bay. It was big, as big as a Doberman but with longer hair, and it had a snout and sharp teeth and it snarled and snapped and Thrasher squealed.

“Hey!” Scapegrace shouted, because he could think of nothing else.

The creature turned its head, its eyes flashing. From this angle, the face almost looked human. Then it leaped at Scapegrace and Scapegrace slipped on fallen bits of rubbish and the creature impaled itself on the sword as he fell.

Scapegrace blinked as the creature gave a last rattling breath before it died. He pushed it off him and got to his feet.

Thrasher looked up at him. “Master!”

“What?”

“You saved me!”

“No I didn’t.”

“You rescued me!”

“It was an accident.”

“You saved my life!”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Thrasher bounded to his feet. He was so happy he looked like he was about to cry. “Master, you have no idea how much this means to me. I am a pathetic mortal, not worthy of being saved—”

“I know.”

“—and yet you saved me anyway. You risked your life, which is vastly more important than mine—”

“Vastly.”

“—and you rushed into danger, into the jaws of death … I don’t know what to say. I don’t have the words to … Oh, sir, forgive me, I may cry.”

“Well, do it somewhere else,” Scapegrace said, scowling. “What the hell is that thing anyway? Some kind of dog?”

Thrasher was too busy crying to answer.

Scapegrace pressed his foot against the creature’s body, rolled it into the light. “That’s no dog,” he said. “It looks like a monkey and a dog fell in love and had babies and this is the ugly one they didn’t want.” He crouched down. “Maybe it’s an alien. Maybe we’re being invaded by aliens.”

“Oh, I hope not, sir,” Thrasher sobbed.

“Shut up. Look at that face. It’s definitely an alien. Maybe. It’s not from here, that’s for sure.”

Thrasher sniffled. “Maybe it’s from an alternate dimension.”

“From a what?”

“An alternate dimension, Master. You know, like the one Valkyrie Cain was pulled into.”

Scapegrace stood up. “What the hell are you blubbing about?”

“Last April, sir, when we were waiting for these bodies, there was all this drama going on with Valkyrie being in a parallel dimension and this gentleman called Argeddion running around and … you missed all of this?”

“I was a head in a jar,” Scapegrace said. “I had other things on my mind.”

“Yes, sir, of course. But maybe this creature is from an alternate dimension just like that one. Maybe someone shunted back and brought that with them accidentally.”

“Shunted?”

“That’s what they call it, sir. The Shunter who caused all the trouble for Valkyrie was a man called Silas Nadir.”

“Nadir,” Scapegrace said. “Where have I heard that name before?”

“From what I gathered, he is a rather notorious serial killer, sir.”

Scapegrace’s eyes widened. “A serial killer? Where is he now? Did they catch him?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. He escaped the cells and—”

“He was in the Sanctuary?” Scapegrace interrupted. “So he escaped the cells, disappeared, and a few months later there’s a … thingy …”

“Shunter.”

“… Shunter, active in Roarhaven?”

Thrasher paled. “Oh, sir. You don’t … you don’t think he’s still here, do you?”

Scapegrace turned away from him, eyes on the street. “I know the criminal mind, Thrasher. I know the mind of a murderer. Once upon a time, I was the Killer Supreme. I was the Zombie King. But I have changed my ways since then. I will now channel my inner darkness into
fighting
evil, not
being
evil, in an epic tale of redemption and quiet dignity. And if there is one thing I know, if there is one thing of which I am certain, it is that Silas Nadir has never left Roarhaven, and this town needs a protector. Which makes it two things I know.”

“Should we call Skulduggery?”

“No. We should call me.”

“You?”

“This town cries out for a hero.”

“You?”

“Let Pleasant and Cain save them from obvious threats. Let them stand in the spotlight. I will stand in the shadows. I will fight in darkness.”

“You’ll need a torch, sir,” said Thrasher, rushing over to stand beside him. “Please – let me hold that torch.”

“You can be my sidekick.”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“I will be this town’s champion, its unsung hero, its Dark and Stormy Knight.”

“Yes, sir!” Thrasher squealed, clapping his hands.

Scapegrace narrowed his eyes. He could practically smell the evil. “We’ll need masks.”

f it hadn’t been for his mother, Ghastly reckoned he’d have taken to running instead of boxing. The bare-knuckle champion of her age, she had taught him everything she knew as he was growing up. To the taunts that followed him wherever he went, to the bullying that came soon after, his fists were his responses. They were the only words he needed.

He’d valued every moment he spent with her when she was alive, and he cherished every memory he had of her when she was gone. Along with his father, she was responsible for the man he became, for the man he was now. A fighter.

But fighting takes its toll. It took its toll on his mother. She’d entered into a fight she hadn’t a hope of winning. And all this fighting, all this arguing and confrontation and playing politics, it was taking a toll on Ghastly now, too. He’d needed his few days off. He’d needed a lot more.

He wondered sometimes what person he would have been if he had chosen running instead of boxing. He could have run from the bullies, then, instead of turning and fighting them. He could have left their taunts far behind. He could have tuned the world out and just focused on his breathing and the rhythm – not of fists on leather, but of feet on track. If he’d been a runner, would he have fought in the war? Would he have become a Dead Man? Would he have lost a year of his life as a blank, unthinking statue? Would he have lost Tanith Low to a Remnant, and then lost her again to a killer?

Ghastly put his head down and ran.

The Sanctuary had so many long, winding corridors in its depths that he could run here for an hour and not see one other person. That’s the way he liked it. Up there, where the corridors were brighter and warmer, he was Ghastly Bespoke the Elder, who had to wear that damn robe and appear respectable at all times. Down here, he was Ghastly Bespoke, the scarred tailor, the man who put on a tracksuit to go running and could sweat and push himself as hard as he damn well wanted.

He ran until he wasn’t thinking of the Supreme Council. He ran until he wasn’t thinking of the Warlocks. He ran and ran and tried to outrun the idea of Tanith Low and Billy-Ray Sanguine, but it caught up with him, ran alongside, and he lost his rhythm and his feet became clumsy and he slowed to a graceless stop.

He stood there, bent over, hands on his knees, sucking in air, and then he straightened, controlled his breathing, started walking. He shook out his arms and legs with each stride. No one would miss him for another twenty minutes or so. Plenty of time to cool down, shower, and pull on that stupid … robe …

He stopped, waiting for the air around him to settle. Once it had fallen back to its natural pattern, he concentrated on the currents and the draughts against his skin, and felt something else, a slight nudging, almost too gentle to notice. Someone was reading the air, keeping track of him. Someone skilled.

Raising his hands, Ghastly formed a vacuum, roughly the size of his own body, and pressed it outwards. Staying very, very still, he sent it rippling down the corridor at walking pace. The gentle nudging moved away from him, following the human-sized disruption. Once the Elemental, whoever he was, was satisfied that the threat had passed, he withdrew his probing little tentacles of awareness.

Ghastly took the stairs slowly down, both hands out to subdue the ripples he was making in the air and to prevent the sounds of his footsteps from travelling. In Ireland, running shoes were called runners. In Britain, trainers. In America, sneakers. The American term was the most sinister, in his opinion, but definitely most appropriate for this situation. At the bottom of the stairs there was a man, standing with his back to him. Now it was Ghastly’s turn to read his surroundings, but he made sure to do it at an even gentler level than the Elemental had managed. Slowly, he used the air to reach past this man with the silenced pistol in a shoulder holster, then round the corner, and down the corridor. He ignored the open spaces he passed, the doorways, and focused on who was standing in the corridor itself. One person, halfway down. Big. Probably male. Another one, at the end, moving around. Fidgeting. Nervous.