Skulduggery Pleasant, Playing With Fire, The Faceless Ones, Dark Days, Mortal Coil, Death Bringer, Kingdom of the Wicked, Last Stand of Dead Men, The Dying of the Light, Resurrection, Midnight and Bedlam first published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2017, 2018 and 2019

Published in this ebook pack edition in 2019

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Text copyright © Derek Landy 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2017, 2018 and 2019

Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2017, 2018 and 2019

Cover illustrations copyright © Tom Percival

Skulduggery Pleasant™ Derek Landy

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

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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Source ISBNs: 9780007279005 (Skulduggery Pleasant), 9780007302123 (Skulduggery Pleasant: Playing with Fire), 9780007318285 (Skulduggery Pleasant: The Faceless Ones), 9780007325979 (Skulduggery Pleasant: Dark Days), 9780007326013 (Skulduggery Pleasant: Mortal Coil), 9780007326037 (Skulduggery Pleasant: Death Bringer), 9780007480210 (Skulduggery Pleasant: Kingdom of the Wicked), 9780007489237 (Skulduggery Pleasant: Last Stand of Dead Men), 9780007489282 (Skulduggery Pleasant: The Dying of the Light), 9780008219581 (Skulduggery Pleasant: Resurrection), 9780008284602 (Skulduggery Pleasant: Midnight), 9780008295660 (Skulduggery Pleasant: Bedlam)

Ebook Edition © May 2019 ISBN: 9780008318208

Version: 2019-05-01

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Skulduggery Pleasant

Skulduggery Pleasant: Playing With Fire

Skulduggery Pleasant: The Faceless Ones

Skulduggery Pleasant: Dark Days

Skulduggery Pleasant: Mortal Coil

Skulduggery Pleasant: Death Bringer

Skulduggery Pleasant: Kingdom of the Wicked

Skulduggery Pleasant: Last Stand of Dead Men

Skulduggery Pleasant: The Dying of the Light

Skulduggery Pleasant: Resurrection

Skulduggery Pleasant: Midnight

Skulduggery Pleasant: Bedlam

About the Author

Also By

About the Publisher

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my parents, John and Barbara.

Dad – this is for your bizarrely unwavering support and unflinching faith.

Barbs – this is for that look on your face when I told you the good news.

I owe you absolutely everything and, y’know, I suppose it’s entirely possible that I feel some, like, degree of affection towards the two of you…

Contents

Title Page Dedication Chapter One: Stephanie Chapter Two: The Will Chapter Three: Little Girl, All Alone Chapter Four: The Secret War Chapter Five: Meeting China Sorrows Chapter Six: A Man Apart Chapter Seven: Serpine Chapter Eight: Ghastly Chapter Nine: The Troll Beneath Westminster Bridge Chapter Ten: The Gal In Black Chapter Eleven: The Little Bit Of Crime Chapter Twelve: Vampires Chapter Thirteen: The Red Right Hand Chapter Fourteen: Elemental Magic Chapter Fifteen: The Torture Room Chapter Sixteen: What’s In A Name? Chapter Seventeen: A Fabulous Rescue Indeed Chapter Eighteen: On The Roof, At Night Chapter Nineteen: The Experiment Chapter Twenty: The Family Curse Chapter Twenty One: The Cave Chapter Twenty Two: The Sceptre Of The Ancients Chapter Twenty Three: Thoughts On Dying Horribly Chapter Twenty Four: Planning For Murder Chapter Twenty Five: The White Cleaver Chapter Twenty Six: The Last Stand Of… Chapter Twenty Seven: No Calm Before The Storm Chapter Twenty Eight: Carnage Chapter Twenty Nine: Deep In Dublin, Death Chapter Thirty: An End, A Beginning

1

STEPHANIE

ordon Edgley’s sudden death came as a shock to everyone – not least himself. One moment he was in his study, seven words into the twenty-fifth sentence of the final chapter of his new book And The Darkness Rained Upon Them, and the next he was dead. A tragic loss, his mind echoed numbly as he slipped away.

The funeral was attended by family and acquaintances but not many friends. Gordon hadn’t been a well-liked figure in the publishing world, for although the books he wrote – tales of horror and magic and wonder – regularly reared their heads in the bestseller lists, he had the disquieting habit of insulting people without realising it, then laughing at their shock. It was at Gordon’s funeral, however, that Stephanie Edgley first caught sight of the gentleman in the tan overcoat.

He was standing under the shade of a large tree, away from the crowd, the coat buttoned up all the way despite the warmth of the afternoon. A scarf was wrapped around the lower half of his face and even from her position on the far side of the grave, Stephanie could make out the wild and frizzy hair that escaped from the wide brimmed hat he wore low over his gigantic sunglasses. She watched him, intrigued by his appearance. And then, like he knew he was being observed, he turned and walked back through the rows of headstones, and disappeared from sight.

After the service, Stephanie and her parents travelled back to her dead uncle’s house, over a humpbacked bridge and along a narrow road that carved its way through thick woodland. The gates were heavy and grand and stood open, welcoming them into the estate. The grounds were vast and the old house itself was ridiculously big.

There was an extra door in the living room, a door disguised as a bookcase, and when she was younger Stephanie liked to think that no one else knew about this door, not even Gordon himself. It was a secret passageway, like in the stories she’d read, and she’d make up adventures about haunted houses and smuggled treasure. This secret passageway would always be her escape route, and the imaginary villains in these adventures would be dumbfounded by her sudden and mysterious disappearance. But now this door, this secret passageway, stood open, and there was a steady stream of people through it, and she was saddened that this little piece of magic had been taken from her.

Tea was served and drinks were poured and little sandwiches were passed around on silver trays, and Stephanie watched the mourners casually appraise their surroundings. The major topic of hushed conversation was the will. Gordon wasn’t a man who inspired, or even demonstrated, any great affection, so no one could predict who would inherit his substantial fortune. Stephanie could see the greed seep into the watery eyes of her father’s other brother, a horrible little man called Fergus, as he nodded sadly and spoke sombrely and pocketed the silverware when he thought no one was looking.

Fergus’s wife was a thoroughly dislikeable, sharp-featured woman named Beryl. She drifted through the crowd, deep in unconvincing grief, prying for gossip and digging for scandal. Her daughters did their best to ignore Stephanie. Carol and Crystal were twins, fifteen years old, and as sour and vindictive as their parents. Whereas Stephanie was dark-haired, tall, slim and strong, they were bottle-blonde, stumpy and dressed in clothes that made them bulge in all the wrong places. Apart from their brown eyes, no one would guess that the twins were related to her. She liked that. It was the only thing about them she liked. She left them to their petty glares and snide whispers, and went for a walk.

The corridors of her uncle’s house were long and lined with paintings. The floor beneath Stephanie’s feet was wooden, polished to a gleam, and the house smelled of age. Not musty exactly but… experienced. These walls and these floors had seen a lot in their time, and Stephanie was nothing but a faint whisper to them. Here one instant, gone the next.

Gordon had been a good uncle. Arrogant and irresponsible, yes, but also childish and enormous fun, with a light in his eyes, a glint of mischief. When everyone else was taking him seriously, Stephanie was privy to the winks and the nods and the half-smiles that he would shoot her way when they weren’t looking. Even as a child she felt she understood him better than most. She liked his intelligence and his wit, and the way he didn’t care what people thought of him. He’d been a good uncle to have. He’d taught her a lot.

She knew that her mother and Gordon had briefly dated (“courted”, her mother had called it), but when Gordon had introduced her to his younger brother, it was love at first sight. Gordon liked to grumble that he had never got more than a peck on the cheek, but he had stepped aside graciously, and had quite happily gone on to have numerous torrid affairs with numerous beautiful women. He used to say that it had almost been a fair trade, but that he suspected he had lost out.

Stephanie climbed the staircase, pushed open the door to Gordon’s study and stepped inside. The walls were filled with the framed covers from his bestsellers and shared space with all manner of awards. One entire wall was made up of shelves, jammed with books. There were biographies and historical novels and science texts and psychology tomes, and there were battered little paperbacks stuck in between. A lower shelf had magazines, literary reviews and quarterlies.

Stephanie passed the shelves which housed the first editions of Gordon’s novels and approached the desk. She looked at the chair where he’d died, trying to imagine him there, how he must have slumped. And then, a voice so smooth it could have been made of velvet:

“At least he died doing what he loved.”

She turned, surprised, to see the man from the funeral in the overcoat and hat standing in the doorway. The scarf was still wrapped, the sunglasses still on, the fuzzy hair still poking out. His hands were gloved.

“Yes,” Stephanie said, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. “At least there’s that.”

“You’re one of his nieces then?” the man asked. “You’re not stealing anything, you’re not breaking anything, so I’d guess you’re Stephanie.” She nodded and took the opportunity to look at him more closely. She couldn’t see even the tiniest bit of his face beneath the scarf and sunglasses.

“Were you a friend of his?” she asked. He was tall, this man, tall and thin, though his coat made it difficult to judge.

“I was,” he answered with a move of his head. This slight movement made her realise that the rest of his body was unnaturally still. “I’ve known him for years, met him outside a bar in New York when I was over there, back when he had just published his first novel.”

Stephanie couldn’t see anything behind the sunglasses – they were black as pitch. “Are you a writer too?”

“Me? No, I wouldn’t know where to start. But I got to live out my writer fantasies through Gordon.”

“You had writer fantasies?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Oh. Then that would make me seem kind of odd, wouldn’t it?”

“Well,” Stephanie answered. “It would help.”

“Gordon used to talk about you all the time, boast about his little niece. He was an individual of character, your uncle. It seems that you are too.”

“You say that like you know me.”

“Strong-willed, intelligent, sharp-tongued, doesn’t suffer fools gladly… remind you of anyone?”

“Yes. Gordon.”

“Interesting,” said the man. “Because those are the exact words he used to describe you.” His gloved fingers dipped into his waistcoat and brought out an ornate pocket watch on a delicate gold chain.

“Good luck in whatever you decide to do with your life.”

“Thank you,” Stephanie said, a little dumbly. “You too.”

She felt the man smile, though she could see no mouth, and he turned from the doorway and left her there. Stephanie found she couldn’t take her eyes off where he had been. Who was he? She hadn’t even got his name.

She crossed over to the door and stepped out, wondering how he had vanished from sight so quickly. She hurried down the stairs and reached the large hall without seeing him. She opened the front door just as a big black car turned out on to the road. She watched him drive away, stayed there for a few moments, then reluctantly rejoined her extended family in the living room, just in time to see Fergus slip a silver ashtray into his breast pocket.

2

THE WILL

ife in the Edgley household was fairly uneventful. Stephanie’s mother worked in a bank and her father owned a construction company, and she had no brothers or sisters, so the routine they had settled into was one of amiable convenience. But even so, there was always the voice in the back of her mind telling her that there should be more to her life than this, more to her life than the small coastal town of Haggard. She just couldn’t figure out what that something was.

Her first year of secondary school had just come to a close and she was looking forward to the summer break. Stephanie didn’t like school. She found it difficult to get along with her classmates – not because they weren’t nice people, but simply because she had nothing in common with them. And she didn’t like teachers. She didn’t like the way they demanded respect they hadn’t earned. Stephanie had no problem doing what she was told, just so long as she was given a good reason why she should.

She had spent the first few days of the summer helping out her father, answering phones and sorting through the files in his office. Gladys, his secretary of seven years, had decided she’d had enough of the construction business and wanted to try her hand as a performance artist. Stephanie found it vaguely discomfiting whenever she passed her on the street, this forty-three-year-old woman doing a modern dance interpretation of Faust. Gladys had made herself a costume to go with the act, a costume, she said, that symbolised the internal struggle Faust was going through, and apparently she refused to be seen in public without it. Stephanie did her best to avoid catching Gladys’s eye.

If Stephanie wasn’t helping out in the office, she was either down at the beach, swimming, or locked in her room listening to music. She was in her room, trying to find the charger for her mobile phone, when her mother knocked on the door and stepped in. She was still dressed in the sombre clothes she had worn to the funeral, though Stephanie had tied back her long dark hair and changed into her usual jeans and trainers within two minutes of returning to the house.

“We got a call from Gordon’s solicitor,” her mother said, sounding a little surprised. “They want us at the reading of the will.”

“Oh,” Stephanie responded. “What do you think he left you?”

“Well, we’ll find out tomorrow. You too, because you’re coming with us.”

“I am?” Stephanie said with a slight frown.

“Your name’s on the list, that’s all I know. We’re leaving at ten, OK?”

“I’m supposed to be helping Dad in the morning.”

“He called Gladys, asked her to fill in for a few hours, as a favour. She said yes, as long as she could wear the peanut suit.”

They left for the solicitor’s at a quarter past ten the next morning, fifteen minutes later than planned thanks to Stephanie’s father’s casual disregard for punctuality. He ambled through the house, looking like there was something he’d forgotten and he was just waiting for it to occur to him again. He nodded and smiled whenever his wife told him to hurry up, said “Yes, absolutely,” and just before he was due to join them in the car, he meandered off again, looking around with a dazed expression.

“He does this on purpose,” Stephanie’s mother said as they sat in the car, seatbelts on and ready to go. They watched him appear at the front door, shrug into his jacket, tuck in his shirt, go to step out, and then pause.

“He looks like he’s about to sneeze,” Stephanie remarked.

“No,” her mother responded, “he’s just thinking.” She stuck her head out of the window. “Desmond, what’s wrong now?”

He looked up, puzzled. “I think I’m forgetting something.”

Stephanie leaned forward in the back seat, took a look at him and spoke to her mother, who nodded and stuck her head out again. “Where are your shoes, dear?”

He looked down at his socks – one brown, one navy – and his clouded expression cleared. He gave them the thumbs-up and disappeared from view.

“That man,” her mother said, shaking her head. “Did you know he once lost a shopping centre?”

“He what?”

“I never told you that? It was the first big contract he got. His company did a wonderful job and he was driving his clients to see it, and he forgot where he put it. He drove around for almost an hour until he saw something he recognised. He may be a very talented engineer, but I swear, he’s got the attention span of a goldfish. So unlike Gordon.”

“They weren’t very alike, were they?”

Her mother smiled. “It wasn’t always that way. They used to do everything together. The three of them were inseparable.”

“What, even Fergus?”

“Even Fergus. But when your grandmother died they all drifted apart. Gordon started mixing with a strange crowd after that.”

“Strange in what way?”

“Ah, they probably just appeared strange to us,” her mother said with a small laugh. “Your dad was getting started in the construction business and I was in college and we were what you might call normal. Gordon resisted being normal, and his friends, they kind of scared us. We never knew what they were into, but we knew it wasn’t anything…”

“Normal.”

“Exactly. They scared your dad most of all though.”

“Why?”

Stephanie’s father walked out of the house, shoes on, and closed the front door after him.

“I think he was more like Gordon than he liked to let on,” her mother said quietly, and then her dad got into the car.

“OK,” he said proudly. “I’m ready.”

They looked at him as he nodded, chuffed with himself. He strapped on his seatbelt and turned the key. The engine purred to life. Stephanie waved to Jasper, an eight-year-old boy with unfortunate ears, as her dad backed out on to the road, put the car in gear and they were off, narrowly missing their wheelie bin as they went.

The drive to the solicitor’s office in the city took a little under an hour and they arrived twenty minutes late. They were led up a flight of creaky stairs to a small office, too warm to be comfortable, with a large window that offered a wonderful view of the brick wall across the street. Fergus and Beryl were there, and they showed their displeasure at having been kept waiting by looking at their watches and scowling. Stephanie’s parents took the remaining chairs and Stephanie stood behind them as the solicitor peered at them through cracked spectacles.

“Now can we get started?” Beryl snapped.

The solicitor, a short man named Mr Fedgewick, with the girth and appearance of a sweaty bowling ball, tried smiling. “We still have one more person to wait on,” he said and Fergus’s eyes bulged.

“Who?” he demanded. “There can’t be anyone else, we are the only siblings Gordon had. Who is it? It’s not some charity, is it? I’ve never trusted charities. They always want something from you.”

“It’s, it’s not a charity,” Mr Fedgewick said. “He did say, however, that he might be a little late.”

“Who said?” Stephanie’s father asked, and the solicitor looked down at the file open before him.

“A most unusual name, this,” he said. “It seems we are waiting on one Mr Skulduggery Pleasant.”

“Well who on earth is that?” asked Beryl, irritated. “He sounds like a, he sounds like a… Fergus, what does he sound like?”

“He sounds like a weirdo,” Fergus said, glaring at Fedgewick. “He’s not a weirdo, is he?”

“I really couldn’t say,” Fedgewick answered, his paltry excuse for a smile failing miserably under the glares he was getting from Fergus and Beryl. “But I’m sure he’ll be along soon.”

Fergus frowned, narrowing his beady eyes as much as was possible. “How are you sure?”

Fedgewick faltered, unable to offer a reason, and then the door opened and the man in the tan overcoat entered the room.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, closing the door behind him. “It was unavoidable I’m afraid.”

Everyone in the room stared at him, stared at the scarf and the gloves and the sunglasses and the wild fuzzy hair. It was a glorious day outside, certainly not the kind of weather to be wrapped up like this. Stephanie looked closer at the hair. From this distance, it didn’t even seem real.

The solicitor cleared his throat. “Um, you are Skulduggery Pleasant?”

“At your service,” the man said. Stephanie could listen to that voice all day. Her mother, uncertain as she was, had smiled her greetings, but her father was looking at him with an expression of wariness she had never seen on his face before. After a moment the expression left him and he nodded politely and looked back to Mr Fedgewick. Fergus and Beryl were still staring.

“Do you have something wrong with your face?” Beryl asked.

Fedgewick cleared his throat again. “OK then, let’s get down to business, now that we’re all here. Excellent. Good. This, of course, being the last will and testament of Gordon Edgley, revised last almost one year ago. Gordon has been a client of mine for the past twenty years, and in that time, I got to know him well, so let me pass on to you, his family and, and friend, my deepest, deepest—”

“Yes yes yes,” Fergus interrupted, waving his hand in the air. “Can we just skip this part? We’re already running behind schedule. Let’s go to the part where we get stuff. Who gets the house? And who gets the villa?”

“Who gets the fortune?” Beryl asked, leaning forward in her seat.

“The royalties,” Fergus said. “Who gets the royalties from the books?”

Stephanie glanced at Skulduggery Pleasant from the corner of her eye. He was standing back against the wall, hands in his pockets, looking at the solicitor. Well, he seemed to be looking at the solicitor; with those sunglasses he could have been looking anywhere. She returned her gaze to Fedgewick as he picked up a page from his desk and read from it.

“‘To my brother Fergus and his beautiful wife Beryl,’” he read, and Stephanie did her best to hide a grin, ‘“I leave my car, and my boat, and a gift.’”

Fergus and Beryl blinked. “His car?” Fergus said. “His boat? Why would he leave me his boat?”

“You hate the water,” Beryl said, anger rising in her voice. “You get seasick.”

“I do get seasick,” Fergus snapped, “and he knew that!”

“And we already have a car,” Beryl said.

“And we already have a car!” Fergus repeated.

Beryl was sitting so far up on her chair that she was almost on the desk. “This gift,” she said, her voice low and threatening, “is it the fortune?”

Mr Fedgewick coughed nervously, and took a small box from his desk drawer and slid it towards them. They looked at this box. They looked some more. They both reached for it at the same time, and Stephanie watched them slap at each other’s hands until Beryl snatched it off the desk and tore the lid open.

“What is it?” Fergus asked in a small voice. “Is it a key to a safety deposit box? Is it, is it an account number? Is it, what is it? Wife, what is it?”

All colour had drained from Beryl’s face and her hands were shaking. She blinked hard to keep the tears away, then she turned the box for everyone to see, and everyone saw the brooch, about the size of a drinks coaster, nestled in the plush cushion. Fergus stared at it.

“It doesn’t even have any jewels on it,” Beryl said, her voice strangled. Fergus opened his mouth wide like a startled fish and turned to Fedgewick.

“What else do we get?” he asked, panicking.

Mr Fedgewick tried another smile. “Your, uh, your brother’s love?”

Stephanie heard a high-pitched whine, and it took her a moment to realise it was coming from Beryl. Fedgewick returned his attention to the will, trying to ignore the horrified looks he was getting from Fergus and his wife.

“‘To my good friend and guide Skulduggery Pleasant I leave the following advice. Your path is your own, and I have no wish to sway you, but sometimes the greatest enemy we can face is ourselves, and the greatest battle is against the darkness within. There is a storm coming, and sometimes the key to safe harbour is hidden from us, and sometimes it is right before our eyes.’”

Stephanie joined in with everyone else as they stared at Mr Pleasant. She had known there was something different about him, she had known it the first moment she saw him – there was something exotic, something mysterious, something dangerous. For his part, his head dipped lower and that was the only reaction he gave. He offered no explanations as to what Gordon’s message had meant.

Fergus patted his wife’s knee. “See, Beryl? A car, a boat, a brooch, it’s not that bad. He could have given us some stupid advice.”

“Oh, shut up, would you?” Beryl snarled and Fergus recoiled in his chair.

Mr Fedgewick read on. “‘To my other brother, Desmond, the lucky one of the family, I leave to you your wife. I think you might like her.’” Stephanie saw her parents clasp each other’s hands and smile sadly. “‘So now that you’ve successfully stolen my girlfriend, maybe you’d like to take her to my villa in France, which I am also leaving to you.’”

“They get the villa?” Beryl cried, jumping to her feet.

“Beryl,” Fergus said, “please…”

“Do you know how much that villa is worth?” Beryl continued, looking like she might lunge at Stephanie’s parents. “We get a brooch – they get a villa? There are only three of them! We’ve got Carol and Crystal! We have more! We could do with the extra space! Why do they deserve the villa?” She thrust the box towards them. “Swap!”

“Mrs Edgley, please retake your seat or we shall be unable to continue,” Mr Fedgewick said, and eventually, after much bugeyed glaring, Beryl sat down.

“Thank you,” Fedgewick said, looking like he had had quite enough excitement for one day. He licked his lips, adjusted his glasses, and peered again at the will. “‘If there is one regret that I have had in my life, it is that I have never fathered any children. There are times when I look at what Fergus and Beryl have produced and I consider myself fortunate, but there are also times when it breaks my heart. And so, finally, to my niece Stephanie.’”

Stephanie’s eyes widened. What? She was getting something? Leaving the villa to her parents wasn’t enough for Gordon?

Fedgewick continued reading. “‘The world is bigger than you know and scarier than you might imagine. The only currency worth anything is being true to yourself, and the only goal worth seeking is finding out who you truly are.’”

She could feel Fergus and Beryl glaring at her and she did her best to ignore them.

“‘Make your parents proud, and make them glad to have you living under their roof, because I leave to you my property and possessions, my assets and my royalties, to be inherited on the day you turn eighteen. I’d just like to take this opportunity to say that, in my own way, I love you all, even those I don’t particularly like. That’s you, Beryl.’”

Fedgewick took off his spectacles and looked up.

Stephanie became aware that everyone was staring at her and she hadn’t a clue what she was supposed to say. Fergus was again doing his startled fish impression and Beryl was pointing one long bony finger at her, trying to speak but failing. Her parents were looking at her in stunned surprise. Only Skulduggery Pleasant moved, walking behind her and gently touching her arm.

“Congratulations,” he said and moved on towards the door. As soon as it clicked shut behind him, Beryl found her voice.

“HER?” she screamed. “HER?”

3

LITTLE GIRL, ALL ALONE

hat afternoon Stephanie and her mother took the fifteen-minute drive from Haggard to Gordon’s estate. Her mum opened the front door and stepped back.

“Owner of the house goes first,” she said with a little smile and a bow, and Stephanie stepped inside. She wasn’t thinking of this house as her property – the idea was too big, too silly. Even if her parents were, technically, the custodians until she turned eighteen, how could she own a house? How many other twelve-year-old kids owned houses?

No, it was too silly an idea. Too far-fetched. Too crazy. Exactly the kind of thing that Gordon would have thought made perfect sense.

The house was big and quiet and empty as they walked through it. Everything seemed new to her now, and Stephanie found herself reacting differently to the furniture and carpets and paintings. Did she like it? Did she agree with this colour or that fabric? One thing that had to be said for Gordon, he had a good eye. Stephanie’s mother said there was very little she would change if she had to. Some of the paintings were a little too unnerving for her taste maybe, but on the whole the furnishings were elegant and understated, exuding an air of distinction that befitted a house of this stature.

They hadn’t decided what they were going to do with the house. Any decision was left up to Stephanie, but her parents still had the villa to consider. Owning three houses between them seemed a bit much. Her father had suggested selling the villa but her mother hated the thought of letting go of a place so idyllic.

They had also talked about Stephanie’s education, and she knew that conversation was far from over. The moment they had left Mr Fedgewick’s office they warned her not to let all this go to her head. Recent events, they had said, should not mean she could stop studying, stop planning for college. She needed to be independent, they said, she needed to make it on her own.

Stephanie had let them talk, and nodded occasionally and muttered an agreement where an agreement was appropriate. She didn’t bother to explain that she needed college, she needed to find her own way in the world because she knew that if she didn’t, she’d never escape Haggard. She wasn’t about to throw her future away simply because she had come into some money.

She and her mother spent so long looking around the ground floor that by the time they got to the bottom of the stairs, it was already five o’clock. With their exploring done for the day, they locked up and walked to the car. The first few drops of rain splattered against the windscreen as they got in. Stephanie clicked her seatbelt closed and her mother turned the key in the ignition.

The car spluttered a bit, groaned a little and then shut up altogether. Stephanie’s mother looked at her.

“Uh oh.” They both got out and opened the bonnet.

“Well,” her mother said, looking at the engine, “at least that’s still there.”

“Do you know anything about engines?” Stephanie asked.

“That’s why I have a husband, so I don’t have to. Engines and shelves, that’s why man was invented.” Stephanie made a mental note to learn about engines before she turned eighteen. She wasn’t too fussed about the shelves.

Her mum dug her mobile phone out of her bag and called Stephanie’s dad, but he was busy on site and there was no way he could get to them before nightfall. They went back inside the house and her mother called a mechanic, and they spent three quarters of an hour waiting for him to arrive.

The sky was grey and angry and the rain was falling hard by the time the truck appeared around the corner. It splashed through puddles on its way up the long drive, and Stephanie’s mum pulled her jacket over her head and ran out to meet it. Stephanie could see a great big dog in the cab of the truck, looking on as the mechanic got out to examine their car. After a few minutes, her mother ran back inside, thoroughly drenched.

“He can’t fix it here,” she said, wringing out her jacket on the porch, “so he’s going to tow it to the garage. It shouldn’t take too long to fix.”

“Will there be room for both of us in the truck?”

“You can sit on my knee.”

“Mum!”

“Or I can sit on your knee, whatever works.”

“Can I stay here?”

Her mother looked at her. “On your own?”

“Please? You just said it won’t take long, and I’d like to have another look around, just on my own.”

“I don’t know, Steph…”

“Please? I’ve stayed on my own before. I won’t break anything, I swear.”

Her mother laughed. “OK fine. I shouldn’t be any more than an hour, all right? An hour and a half at the most.” Her mother gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Call me if you need anything.”

She ran back outside and jumped in the cab next to the dog, who proceeded to slobber all over her face. Stephanie watched their car being towed off into the distance and then it vanished from sight.

She did a little more exploring, now that she was on her own. She climbed the stairs and went straight to Gordon’s study.

His publisher, Seamus T. Steepe of Arc Light Books, had phoned them earlier that day, passing on his condolences and enquiring about the state of Gordon’s last book. Her mother had told him that they’d find out if Gordon had completed it, and if he had, they’d send it on. Mr Steepe was very keen to get the book on the shelves, certain that it would crash on to the bestseller list and stay there for a long time. “Dead writers sell,” he had said, like he approved of Gordon’s clever marketing ploy.

Stephanie opened the desk drawer and found the manuscript in a neat stack. She pulled it out carefully and laid it on the desktop, careful not to smudge the paper. The first page held the title, nothing more, in bold lettering:

And The Darkness Rained Upon Them.

The manuscript was thick and heavy, like all of Gordon’s books. She’d read most of them, and the odd splash of pretension aside, had quite enjoyed his work. His stories tended to be about people who could do astonishing and wonderful things, and the strange and terrible events that invariably led up to their bizarre and horrible deaths. She noticed the way he would set up a strong and noble hero, and over the course of the book systematically subject this hero to brutal punishment in a bid to strip away all his arrogance and certainty so that by the end he was humbled and had learned a great lesson. And then Gordon killed him off, usually in the most undignified way possible. Stephanie could almost hear Gordon laughing with mischievous glee as she’d read.

She lifted the title page and carefully laid it face down on the desk beside the manuscript. She started reading. She didn’t mean to spend long at it, but soon she was devouring every word, oblivious to the creaking old house and the rain outside.

Her mobile phone rang, making her jump. She had been reading for two hours. She pressed the answer button and held it to her ear.

“Hi, sweetie,” came her mother’s voice, “everything OK?”

“Yes,” Stephanie answered. “Just reading.”

“You’re not reading one of Gordon’s books, are you? Steph, he writes about horrible monsters and scary stuff and bad people doing worse things. It’ll give you nightmares.”

“No, Mum, I’m… I’m reading the dictionary.”

Even the brief silence from the other end of the phone was sceptical. “The dictionary?” her mother said. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Stephanie said. “Did you know that popple is a word?”

“You are stranger than your father, you know that?”

“I suspected as much… So is the car fixed yet?”

“No, and that’s why I’m calling. They can’t get it going and the road up to you is flooded. I’m going to get a taxi up as far as it’ll go and then I’ll see if I can find some way around on foot. It’s going to be another two hours at least.”

Stephanie sensed an opportunity. Ever since she was a child she had much preferred her own company to the company of others, and it occurred to her that she had never spent a whole night without her parents nearby. A small taste of freedom and it almost tingled on her tongue.

“Mum, it’s fine, you don’t have to. I’m OK here.”

“There’s no way I’m leaving you in a strange house by yourself.”

“It’s not a strange house; it’s Gordon’s and it’s fine. There’s no point in you trying to get here tonight – it’s lashing rain.”

“Sweetie, it won’t take me long.”

“It’ll take you ages. Where’s it flooded?”

Her mother paused. “At the bridge.”

“The bridge? And you want to walk from the bridge to here?”

“If I speed-walk—”

“Mum, don’t be silly. Get Dad to pick you up.”

“Sweetheart, are you sure?”

“I like it here, really. OK?”

“Well, OK,” her mother said reluctantly. “I’ll be over first thing in the morning to pick you up, all right? And I saw some food in the cupboards, so if you’re hungry you can make yourself something.”

“OK. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Call us if you need anything or if you just want some company.”

“I will. Night Mum.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

Stephanie hung up and grinned. She slipped the phone back into her jacket and put her feet up on the desk, relaxing back into the chair, and went back to reading.

When she looked up again she was surprised to find that it was almost midnight and the rain had stopped. If she were home right now, she’d be in bed. She blinked, her eyes sore, stood up from the desk and went downstairs to the kitchen. For all his wealth and success and extravagant tastes, she was thankful that when it came to food, Gordon was a pretty standard guy. The bread was stale and the fruit was a bit too ripe, but there were biscuits and there was cereal, and the milk in the fridge was still good for one more day. Stephanie made herself a snack and wandered to the living room, where she flicked on the TV. She sat on the couch and was just getting comfy when the house phone rang.

She looked at it, resting there on the table at her elbow. Who would be calling? Anyone who knew Gordon had died wouldn’t be calling because they’d know he had died, and she didn’t really want to be the one to tell anyone who didn’t know. It could be her parents, but then why didn’t they just call her mobile?

Figuring that as the new owner of the house, it was her responsibility to answer her own phone, Stephanie picked it up and held it to her ear. “Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello?” Stephanie repeated.

“Who is this?” came a man’s voice.

“I’m sorry,” Stephanie said, “who do you want to speak to?”

“Who is this?” responded the voice, more irritably this time.

“If you’re looking for Gordon Edgley,” Stephanie said, “I’m afraid that he’s—”

“I know Edgley’s dead,” snapped the man. “Who are you? Your name?”

Stephanie hesitated. “Why do you want to know?” she asked.

“What are you doing in that house? Why are you in his house?”

“If you want to call back tomorrow—”

“I don’t want to, all right? Listen to me, girlie, if you mess up my master’s plans, he will be very displeased and he is not a man you want to displease, you got that? Now tell me who you are!”

Stephanie realised her hands were shaking. She forced herself to calm down and quickly found anger replacing her nervousness. “My name is none of your business,” she said. “If you want to talk to someone, call back tomorrow at a reasonable hour.”

“You don’t talk to me like that,” the man hissed.

“Goodnight,” Stephanie said firmly.

“You do not talk to me like—”

But Stephanie was already putting the phone down. Suddenly the idea of spending the whole night here wasn’t as appealing as it had first sounded. She considered calling her parents, then scolded herself for being so childish. No need to worry them, she thought to herself. No need to worry them about something so—

Someone pounded on the front door.

“Open up!” came the man’s voice between the pounding. Stephanie got to her feet, staring through to the hall beyond the living room. She could see a dark shape behind the frosted glass around the front door. “Open the damn door!”

Stephanie backed up to the fireplace, her heart pounding in her chest. He knew she was in here, there was no use pretending that she wasn’t, but maybe if she stayed really quiet he’d give up and go away. She heard him cursing, and the pounding grew so heavy that the front door rattled under the blows.

“Leave me alone!” Stephanie shouted.

“Open the door!”

“No!” she shouted back. She liked shouting – it disguised her fear. “I’m calling the police! I’m calling the police right now!”

The pounding stopped immediately and Stephanie saw the shape move away from the door. Was that it? Had she scared him away? She thought of the back door – was it locked? Of course it was locked… It had to be locked. But she wasn’t sure, she wasn’t certain. She grabbed a poker from the fireplace and was reaching for the phone when she heard a knock on the window beside her.

She cried out and jumped back. The curtains were open, and outside the window was pitch-black. She couldn’t see a thing.

“Are you alone in there?” came the voice. It was teasing now, playing with her.

“Go away,” she said loudly, holding up the poker so he could see it. She heard the man laugh.

“What are you going to do with that?” he asked.

“I’ll break your head open with it!” Stephanie screamed at him, fear and fury bubbling inside her. She heard him laugh again.

“I just want to come in,” he said. “Open the door for me, girlie. Let me come in.”

“The police are on their way,” she said.

“You’re a liar.”

Still she could see nothing beyond the glass and he could see everything. She moved to the phone, snatching it from its cradle.

“Don’t do that,” came the voice.

“I’m calling the police.”

“The road’s closed, girlie. You call them, I’ll break down that door and kill you hours before they get here.”

Fear became terror and Stephanie froze. She was going to cry. She could feel it, the tears welling up inside her. She hadn’t cried in years. “What do you want?” she said to the darkness. “Why do you want to come in?”

“It’s got nothing to do with me, girlie. I’ve just been sent to pick something up. Let me in. I’ll look around, get what I came here for and leave. I won’t harm a pretty little hair on your pretty little head, I promise. Now you just open that door right this second.”

Stephanie gripped the poker in both hands and shook her head. She was crying now, tears rolling down her cheeks. “No,” she said.

She screamed as a fist smashed through the window, showering the carpet with glass. She stumbled back as the man started climbing in, glaring at her with blazing eyes, unmindful of the glass that cut into him. The moment one foot touched the floor inside the house Stephanie was bolting out of the room, over to the front door, fumbling at the lock.

Strong hands grabbed her from behind. She screamed again as she was lifted off her feet and carried back. She kicked out, slamming a heel into his shin. The man grunted and let go and Stephanie twisted, trying to swing the poker into his face but he caught it and pulled it from her grasp. One hand went to her throat and Stephanie gagged, unable to breathe as the man forced her back into the living room.

He pushed her into an armchair and leaned over her and no matter how hard she tried she could not break his grip.

“Now then,” the man said, his mouth contorting into a sneer, “why don’t you just give me the key, little girlie?”

And that’s when the front door was flung off its hinges and Skulduggery Pleasant burst into the house.

The man cursed and released Stephanie and swung the poker, but Skulduggery moved straight to him and hit him so hard Stephanie thought the man’s head might come off. He hit the ground and tumbled backwards, but rolled to his feet as Skulduggery moved in again.

The man launched himself forward. They both collided and went backwards over the couch and Skulduggery lost his hat. Stephanie saw a flash of white above the scarf.

They got to their feet, grappling, and the man swung a punch that knocked Skulduggery’s sunglasses to the other side of the room. Skulduggery responded by moving in low, grabbing the man around the waist and twisting his hip into him. The man was flipped to the floor, hard.

He cursed a little more, then remembered Stephanie and made for her. Stephanie leaped out of the chair, but before he could reach her, Skulduggery was there, kicking the man’s legs out from under him. The man hit a small coffee table with his chin and howled in pain.

“You think you can stop me?” he screamed as he tried to stand. His knees seemed shaky. “Do you know who I am?”

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Skulduggery said.

The man spat blood and grinned defiantly. “Well, I know about you,” he said. “My master told me all about you, detective, and you’re going to have to do a lot more than that to stop me.”

Skulduggery shrugged and Stephanie watched in amazement as a ball of fire flared up in his hand and he hurled it and the man was suddenly covered in flame. But instead of screaming, the man tilted his head back and roared with laughter. The fire may have engulfed him, but it wasn’t burning him.

“More!” he laughed. “Give me more!”

“If you insist.”

And then Skulduggery took an old-fashioned revolver from his jacket and fired, the gun bucking slightly with the recoil. The bullet hit the man in the shoulder and he screamed, then tried to run and tripped. He scrambled for the doorway, ducking and dodging lest he get shot again, the flames obstructing his vision so much that he hit a wall on his way out.

And then he was gone.

Stephanie stared at the door, trying to make sense of the impossible.

“Well,” Skulduggery said, “that’s something you don’t see every day.”

She turned. When his hat came off, his hair had come off too. In the confusion all she had seen was a chalk-white scalp, so she turned expecting to see a bald albino maybe. But no. With his sunglasses gone and his scarf hanging down, there was no denying the fact that he had no flesh, he had no skin, he had no eyes and he had no face.

All he had was a skull for a head.

4

THE SECRET WAR

kulduggery put his gun away and walked out to the hall. He peered out into the night. Satisfied that there were no human fireballs lurking anywhere nearby, he came back inside and picked the door off the ground, grunting with the effort. He manoeuvred it back to where it belonged, leaving it leaning in the doorway, then he shrugged and came back into the living room, where Stephanie was still standing and staring at him.

“Sorry about the door,” he said.

Stephanie stared.

“I’ll pay to get it fixed.”

Stephanie stared.

“It’s still a good door, you know. Sturdy.”

When he realised that Stephanie was in no condition to do anything but stare, he shrugged again and took off his coat, folded it neatly and draped it over the back of a chair. He went to the broken window and started picking up the shards of glass.

Now that he didn’t have his coat on, Stephanie could truly appreciate how thin he really was. His suit, well-tailored though it was, hung off him, giving it a shapeless quality. She watched him collect the broken glass, and saw a flash of bone between his shirtsleeve and glove. He stood, looking back at her.

“Where should I put all this glass?”

“I don’t know,” Stephanie said in a quiet voice. “You’re a skeleton.”

“I am indeed,” he said. “Gordon used to keep a wheelie bin out at the back door. Shall I put it in that?”

Stephanie nodded. “Yes OK,” she said simply and watched Skulduggery carry the armful of glass shards out of the room. All her life she had longed for something else, for something to take her out of the humdrum world she knew – and now that it looked like it might actually happen, she didn’t have one clue what to do. Questions were tripping over themselves in her head, each one vying to be the one that was asked first. So many of them.

Skulduggery came back in and she asked the first question. “Did you find it all right?”

“I did, yes. It was where he always kept it.”

“OK then.” If questions were people she felt that they’d all be staring at her now in disbelief. She struggled to form coherent thoughts.

“Did you tell him your name?” Skulduggery was asking.

“What?”

“Your name. Did you tell him?”

“Uh, no…”

“Good. You know something’s true name, you have power over it. But even a given name, even Stephanie, that would have been enough to do it.”

“To do what?”

“To give him some influence over you, to get you to do what he asked. If he had your name and he knew what to do with it, sometimes that’s all it takes. That’s a scary thought now, isn’t it?”

“What’s going on?” Stephanie asked. “Who was he? What did he want? Just who are you?”

“I’m me,” Skulduggery said, picking up his hat and wig and placing them on a nearby table. “As for him, I don’t know who he is, never seen him before in my life.”

“You shot him.”

“That’s right.”

“And you threw fire at him.”

“Yes, I did.”

Stephanie’s legs felt weak and her head felt light.

“Mr Pleasant, you’re a skeleton.”

“Ah, yes, back to the crux of the matter. Yes. I am, as you say, a skeleton. I have been one for a few years now.”

“Am I going mad?”

“I hope not.”

“So you’re real? You actually exist?”

“Presumably.”

“You mean you’re not sure if you exist or not?”

“I’m fairly certain. I mean, I could be wrong. I could be some ghastly hallucination, a figment of my imagination.”

“You might be a figment of your own imagination?”

“Stranger things have happened. And do, with alarming regularity.”

“This is too weird.”

Skulduggery put his gloved hands in his pockets and cocked his head. He had no eyeballs so it was hard to tell if he was looking at her or not. “You know, I met your uncle under similar circumstances. Well, kind of similar. But he was drunk. And we were in a bar. And he had vomited on my shoes. So I suppose the actual circumstances aren’t overly similar, but both events include a meeting, so… My point is, he was having some trouble and I was there to lend a hand, and we became good friends after that. Good, good friends.” His head tilted. “You look like you might faint.”

Stephanie nodded slowly. “I’ve never fainted before, but I think you might be right.”

“Do you want me to catch you if you fall, or…?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“No problem at all.”

“Thank you.”

Stephanie gave him a weak smile and then darkness clouded her vision and she felt herself falling and the last thing she saw was Skulduggery Pleasant darting across the room towards her.

Stephanie awoke on the couch with a blanket over her. The room was dark, lit only by two lamps in opposite corners. She looked over at the broken window, saw that it was now boarded up. She heard a hammering from the hall, and when she felt strong enough to stand, she slowly rose and walked out of the living room.

Skulduggery Pleasant was trying to hang the door back on its hinges. He had his shirtsleeve rolled up on his left forearm. Ulna, Stephanie corrected herself, proving that her first year of Biology class had not gone to waste. Or was it radius? Or both? She heard him mutter, then he noticed her and nodded brightly.

“Ah, you’re up.”

“You fixed the window.”

“Well, covered it up. Gordon had a few pieces of timber out back, so I did what I could. Not having the same luck with the door though. I find it much easier to blast them off then put them back. How are you feeling?”

“I’m OK,” Stephanie said.

“A cup of hot tea, that’s what you need. Lots of sugar.”

He abandoned the door and guided her to the kitchen. She sat at the table while he boiled the water.

“Hungry?” he asked when it had boiled, but she shook her head. “Milk?” She nodded. He added milk and spoonfuls of sugar, gave the tea a quick stir and put the cup on the table in front of her. She took a sip – it was hot, but nice.

“Thank you,” Stephanie said, and he gave a little shrug. It was hard discerning some of his gestures without a face to go by, but she took the shrug to mean “think nothing of it”.

“Was that magic? With the fire, and blasting the door?”

“Yes, it was.”

She peered closer. “How can you talk?”

“Sorry?”

“How can you talk? You move your mouth when you speak, but you’ve got no tongue, you’ve got no lips, you’ve got no vocal cords. I mean, I know what skeletons look like, I’ve seen diagrams and models and stuff, and the only things that hold them together are flesh and skin and ligaments, so why don’t you just fall apart?”

He gave another shrug, both shoulders this time. “Well, that’s magic too.”

She looked at him. “Magic’s pretty handy.”

“Yes, magic is.”

“And what about, you know, nerve endings? Can you feel pain?”

“I can, but that’s not a bad thing. Pain lets you know when you’re alive, after all.”

“And are you alive?”

“Well, technically, no, but…”

She peered into his empty eye sockets. “Do you have a brain?”

He laughed. “I don’t have a brain, I don’t have any organs, but I have a consciousness.” He started clearing away the sugar and the milk. “To be honest with you, it’s not even my head.”

“What?”

“It’s not. They ran away with my skull. I won this one in a poker game.”

“That’s not even yours? How does it feel?”

“It’ll do. It’ll do until I finally get around to getting my own head back. You look faintly disgusted.”

“I just… Doesn’t it feel weird? It’d be like wearing someone else’s socks.”

“You get used to it.”

“What happened to you?” she asked. “Were you born like this?”

“No, I was born perfectly normal. Skin, organs, the whole shebang. Even had a face that wasn’t too bad to look at, if I do say so myself.”

“So what happened?”

Skulduggery leaned against the worktop, arms folded across his chest. “I got into magic. Back then – back when I was, for want of a better term, alive – there were some pretty nasty people around. The world was seeing a darkness it might never have recovered from. It was war, you see. A secret war, but war nonetheless. There was a sorcerer, Mevolent, worse then any of the others, and he had himself an army, and those of us who refused to fall in behind him found ourselves standing up against him.

“And we were winning. Eventually, after years of fighting this little war of ours, we were actually winning. His support was crumbling, his influence was fading, and he was staring defeat in the face. So he ordered one last, desperate strike against all the leaders on our side.”

Stephanie stared at him, lost in his voice.

“I went up against his right-hand man who had laid out a wickedly exquisite trap. I didn’t suspect a thing until it was too late.

“So I died. He killed me. The twenty-third of October it was, when my heart stopped beating. Once I was dead, they stuck my body up on a pike and burned it for all to see. They used me as a warning – they used the bodies of all the leaders they had killed as warnings – and, to my utter horror, it worked.”

“What do you mean?”

“The tide turned. Our side starting losing ground. Mevolent got stronger. It was more than I could stand, so I came back.”

“You just… came back?”

“It’s… complicated. When I died, I never moved on. Something was holding me here, making me watch. I’ve never heard of it happening before that and I haven’t heard of it happening since, but it happened to me. So when it got too much, I woke up, a bag of bones. Literally. They had gathered up my bones and put them in a bag and thrown the bag into a river. So that was a marvellous new experience right there.”

“Then what happened?”

“I put myself back together, which was rather painful, then climbed out of the river and rejoined the fight, and in the end, we won. We finally won. So, with Mevolent defeated, I quit that whole scene and struck out on my own for the first time in a few hundred years.”

Stephanie blinked. “Few hundred?”

“It was a long war.”

“That man, he called you detective.”

“He obviously knows me by reputation,” Skulduggery said, standing a little straighter. “I solve mysteries now.”

“Really?”

“Quite good at it too.”

“So, what, you’re tracking down your head?”

Skulduggery looked at her. If he’d had eyelids, he might well be blinking. “It’d be nice to have it back, sure, but…”

“So you don’t need it, like, so you can rest in peace?”

“No. No, not really.”

“Why did they take it? Was that another warning?”

“Oh, no,” Skulduggery said with a little laugh. “No, they didn’t take it. I was sleeping, about ten or fifteen years ago, and these little goblin things ran up and nicked it right off my spinal column. Didn’t notice it was gone till the next morning.”

Stephanie frowned. “And you didn’t feel that?”

“Well, like I said, I was asleep. Meditating, I suppose you’d call it. I can’t see, hear or feel anything when I’m meditating. Have you tried it?”

“No.”

“It’s very relaxing. I think you’d like it.”

“I’m sorry, I’m still stuck on you losing your head.”

“I didn’t lose it,” he said defensively. “It was stolen.”

Stephanie was feeling stronger now. She couldn’t believe that she’d fainted. Fainted. It was such an old woman thing to do. She glanced up at Skulduggery. “You’ve had a very unusual life, haven’t you?”

“I suppose I have. Not over yet though. Well, technically it is, but…”

“Isn’t there anything you miss?”

“About what?”

“About living.”

“Compared to how long I’ve been like this, I was only technically alive for a blink of an eye. I can’t really remember enough about having a beating heart in my chest to miss it.”

“So there’s nothing you miss?”

“I… I suppose I miss hair. I miss how it… was. And how it was there, on top of my head. I suppose I miss my hair.” He took out his pocket watch and his head jerked back. “Wow, look at the time. I’ve got to go, Stephanie.”

“Go? Go where?”

“Things to do, I’m afraid. Number one is finding out why that nice gentleman was sent here, and number two is finding out who sent him.”

“You can’t leave me alone,” she said, following him into the living room.

“Yes,” he corrected, “I can. You’ll be perfectly safe.”

“The front door’s off!”

“Well, yes. You’ll be perfectly safe as long as they don’t come through the front door.”

He pulled on his coat but she snatched his hat away.

“Are you taking my hat hostage?” he asked doubtfully.

“You’re either staying here to make sure no one else attacks me or you’re taking me with you.”

Skulduggery froze. “That,” he said eventually, “wouldn’t be too safe for you.”

“Neither would being left here on my own.”

“But you can hide,” he said, gesturing around the room. “There’s so many places to hide. I’m sure there are plenty of good solid wardrobes your size. Even under a bed. You’d be surprised how many people don’t check under beds these days.”

“Mr Pleasant—”

“Skulduggery, please.”

“Skulduggery, you saved my life tonight. Are you going to undo all that effort by leaving me here so someone else can come along and just kill me?”

“That’s a very defeatist attitude you’ve got there. I once knew a fellow, a little older than you. He wanted to join me in my adventures, wanted to solve mysteries that beggared belief. He kept asking, kept on at me about it. He finally proved himself, after a long time, and we became partners.”

“And did you go on to have lots of exciting adventures?”

“I did. He didn’t. He died on our very first case together. Horrible death. Messy too. Lots of flailing around.”

“Well, I don’t plan on dying any time soon and I’ve got something he didn’t.”

“And that is…?”

“Your hat. Take me with you or I’ll stand on it.”

Skulduggery looked at her with his big hollow eye sockets, then held out his hand for his hat. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

5

MEETING CHINA SORROWS

kulduggery Pleasant’s car was a 1954 Bentley R-Type Continental, one of only 208 ever made, a car that housed a six-cylinder, 4.5-litre engine, and was retro-fitted with central locking, climate control, satellite navigation and a host of other modern conveniences. Skulduggery told Stephanie all of this when she asked. She’d have been happy with, “It’s a Bentley.”

They left Gordon’s land via a back road at the rear of the estate to avoid the flooding, a road that Stephanie hadn’t even noticed until they were on it. Skulduggery told her he was a regular visitor here, and knew all the little nooks and crannies. They passed a sign for Haggard and she thought about asking him to drop her home, but quickly banished that idea from her head. If she went home now she’d be turning her back on everything she’d just seen. She needed to know more. She needed to see more.

“Where are we going?” she asked as they drove on.

“Into the city. I’ve got a meeting with an old friend. She might be able to shed some light on recent events.”

“Why were you at the house?”

“Sorry?”

“Tonight. Not that I’m not grateful, but how come you happened to be nearby?”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “Yes, I can see how that question would arise.”

“So are you going to answer it?”

“That’s unlikely.”

“Well, why not?”

He glanced at her, or at least he turned his head a fraction. “The less you know about all this, the better. You’re a perfectly normal young lady, and after tonight, you’re going to return to your perfectly normal life. It wouldn’t do for you to get too involved in this.”

“But I am involved.”

“But we can limit that involvement.”

“But I don’t want to limit that involvement.”

“But it’s what’s best for you.”

“But I don’t want that!”

“But it might—”

“Don’t start another sentence with ‘but’.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“You can’t expect me to forget about all of this. I’ve seen magic and fire and you, and I’ve learned about wars they don’t tell us about in school. I’ve seen a world I never even knew existed.”

“Don’t you want to get back to that world? It’s safer there.”

“That’s not where I belong.”

Skulduggery turned his whole head to her and cocked it at an angle. “Funny. When I first met your uncle, that’s what he said too.”

“The things he wrote about,” Stephanie said, the idea just dawning on her, “are they true?”

“His books? No, not a one.”

“Oh.”

“They’re more inspired by true stories, really. He just changed them enough so he wouldn’t insult anyone and get hunted down and killed. Your uncle was a good man, he really was. We solved many mysteries together.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes, you should be proud to have had an uncle like him. Of course, he got me into a hundred fights because I’d bring him somewhere, and he wouldn’t stop pestering people, but… Fun times. Fun times.”

They drove on until they saw the lights of the city looming ahead. Soon the darkness that surrounded the car was replaced with an orange haze that reflected off the wet roads. The city was quiet and still, the streets almost empty. They pulled into a small outdoor car park and Skulduggery switched off the engine and looked at Stephanie.

“OK then, you wait here.”

“Right.”

He got out. Two seconds passed, but Stephanie hadn’t tagged along just to wait on the sidelines – she needed to see what other surprises the world had in store for her. She got out and Skulduggery looked at her.

“Stephanie, I’m not altogether sure you’re respecting my authority.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I see. OK then.” He put on his hat and wrapped his scarf around his jaw, but did without the wig and the sunglasses. He clicked his keyring and the car beeped and the doors locked.

“That’s it?”

He looked up. “Sorry?”

“Aren’t you afraid it might get stolen? We’re not exactly in a good part of town.”

“It’s got a car alarm.”

“Don’t you, like, cast a spell or something? To keep it safe?”

“No. It’s a pretty good car alarm.”

He started walking. She hurried to keep up.

“Do you cast spells then?”

“Sometimes. I try not to depend on magic these days, I try to get by on what’s up here.” He tapped his head.

“There’s empty space up there.”

“Well, yes,” Skulduggery said irritably, “but you know what I mean.”

“What else can you do?”

“Sorry?”

“With magic. Show me something.”

If Skulduggery had had eyebrows, they would most likely be arched. “What, a living skeleton isn’t enough for you? You want more?”

“Yes,” Stephanie said. “Give me a tutorial.”

He shrugged. “Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt. There are two types of mages, or sorcerers – Adepts practise one branch of magic, Elementals practise another. Adepts are more aggressive; their techniques are more immediately powerful. In contrast, an Elemental, such as myself, chooses the quieter course and works on mastering their command of the elements.”

“Command of the elements?”

“Maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. We don’t command them as such, we manipulate them. We influence them.”

“Like what? Like earth, wind—”

“Water and fire, yes.”

“So show me.”

Skulduggery tilted his head a little to the right and she could hear the good humour in his voice. “Very well,” he said and held up his open hand in front of her. She frowned, feeling a little chilly, and then she became aware of a droplet of water running down her face. In an instant her hair was drenched, like she had just surfaced from a dive.

“How did you do that?” she asked, shaking her head, flinging drops of water away from her.

“You tell me,” Skulduggery answered.

“I don’t know. You did something to the moisture in the air?”

He looked down at her. “Very good,” he said, impressed. “The first element, water. We can’t part the Red Sea or anything, but we have a little influence with it.”

“Show me fire again,” Stephanie said eagerly.

Skulduggery snapped his gloved fingers and sparks flew, and he curled his hand and the sparks grew to flame, and he held that ball of flame in his palm as they walked. The flame intensified and Stephanie could feel her hair drying.

“Wow,” she said.

“Wow indeed,” Skulduggery responded and thrust his hand out, sending the ball of fire shooting through the air. It burned out as it arced in the night sky and faded to nothing.

“What about earth?” Stephanie asked, but Skulduggery shook his head.

“You don’t want to see that, and hopefully you’ll never have to. The earth power is purely defensive and purely for use as a last resort.”

“So what’s the most powerful? Is it fire?”

“That’s the flashiest, that gets all the ‘wows’, but you’d be surprised what a little air can do if you displace it properly. Displaced air doesn’t just disappear – it needs somewhere to be displaced to.”

“Can I see?”

They reached the edge of the car park and passed the low wall that encircled it. Skulduggery flexed his fingers and suddenly splayed his hand, snapping his palm towards the wall. The air rippled and the bricks exploded outwards. Stephanie stared at the brand-new hole in the wall.

“That,” she said, “is so cool.”

They walked on, Stephanie glancing back at the wall every so often. “What about the Adepts then? What can they do?”

“I knew a fellow, a few years ago, who could read minds. I met this woman once who could change her shape, become anyone, right in front of your eyes.”

“So who’s stronger?” Stephanie asked. “An Elemental or an Adept?”

“Depends on the mage. An Adept could have so many tricks up his sleeve, so many different abilities, that he could prove himself stronger than even the most powerful Elemental. That’s been known to happen.”

“The sorcerer, the worst one of all, was he an Adept?”

“Actually, no. Mevolent was an Elemental. It’s rare that you get an Elemental straying so far down the dark paths, but it happens.”

There was a question Stephanie had been dying to ask, but she didn’t want to appear too eager. As casually as she could, thumbs hooked into the belt loops of her jeans, she said, as if she had just plucked this thought out of thin air, “So how do you know if you can do magic? Can anyone do it?”

“Not anyone. Relatively few actually. Those who can usually congregate in the same areas, so there are small pockets of communities, all over the world. In Ireland and the United Kingdom alone, there are eighteen different neighbourhoods populated solely by sorcerers.”

“Can you be a sorcerer without realising it?”

“Oh, yes. Some people walk around every day, bored with their lives, having no idea that there’s a world of wonder at their fingertips. And they’ll live out their days, completely oblivious, and they’ll die without knowing how great they could have been.”

“That’s really sad.”

“Actually it’s quite amusing.”

“No, it’s not, it’s sad. How would you like it if you never discovered what you could do?”

“I wouldn’t know any better,” Skulduggery answered, stopping beside her. “We’re here.”

Stephanie looked up. They had arrived outside a crumbling old tenement building, its wall defaced with graffiti and its windows cracked and dirty. She followed him up the concrete steps and into the foyer, and together they ascended the sagging staircase.

The first floor was quiet and smelled of damp. On the second floor, splintered shards of light escaped through the cracks between door and doorway into the otherwise dark corridor. They could hear the sound of a TV from one of the apartments.

When they got to the third floor, Stephanie knew they had arrived. The third floor was clean, it didn’t smell and it was well-lit. It was like an entirely different building. She followed Skulduggery to the middle of the corridor and noticed that none of the doors were numbered. She looked at the door Skulduggery knocked on, the door that had a plaque fastened to it: ‘Library’.

While they waited there, Skulduggery said, “One more thing. No matter how much you might want to, do not tell her your name.”

The door opened before she could ask any more questions and a thin man with large round spectacles peered out. His nose was hooked and his wiry hair was receding. He wore a checked suit with a bow tie. He glanced at Stephanie then nodded to Skulduggery and opened the door wide for them to come through.

Stephanie realised why none of the doors were numbered – it was because they all led into the same room. The walls between apartments had been taken away in order to accommodate the vast number of books on the shelves. Stacks and stacks of books, a labyrinth of bookshelves that stretched from one side of the building to the other. As they followed the bespectacled man through the maze she saw more people, their attention focused on their reading, people half-hidden in shadow, people who didn’t look exactly right…

In the middle of the library was an open space, like a clearing in a forest, and in this open space stood the most beautiful woman Stephanie had ever seen. Her hair was black as raven wings, and her eyes were the palest blue. Her features were so delicate Stephanie feared they might break if she smiled, and then the lady smiled and Stephanie felt such warmth that for an instant she never wanted to be anywhere else but at this lady’s side.

“Stop that,” said Skulduggery.

The lady let her eyes move to him and her smile turned playful. Stephanie stared, enraptured. Her body felt so heavy, so clumsy; all she wanted to do with her life was just stand here, in this spot, and gaze at pure and true beauty.

“Stop that,” Skulduggery said again, and the lady laughed and shrugged and looked back at Stephanie.

“Sorry about that,” she said, and Stephanie felt a fog lift from her mind. She felt dizzy and staggered, but Skulduggery was there, a hand on the small of her back, supporting her.

“My apologies,” the lady said, giving her a small bow. “I do forget the effect I have on people. First impressions and all that.”

“Seems like every time you meet someone new, you forget that little fact,” Skulduggery said.

“I’m a scatterbrain, what can I say?”

Skulduggery grunted and turned to Stephanie. “Don’t feel self-conscious. The first time anyone sets eyes on China, they fall in love. Believe me, the effect lessens the more you get to know her.”

“Lessens,” the woman named China said, “but never entirely goes away, does it, Skulduggery?”

The detective took off his hat and looked at China, but ignored her question. China smiled at Stephanie and handed her a business card. It was eggshell white and bore a single telephone number, etched with delicate elegance.

“Feel free to call me if you ever stumble across a book or an item you think I might be interested in. Skulduggery used to. He doesn’t any more. Too much water has flowed under that proverbial bridge, I’m afraid. Oh, where are my manners? My name is China Sorrows, my dear. And you are…?”

Stephanie was about to tell China her name when Skulduggery turned his head to her sharply, and she remembered what he had said. She frowned. The urge to tell this woman everything was almost overwhelming.

“You don’t need to know her name,” Skulduggery said. “All you need to know is that she witnessed someone breaking into Gordon Edgley’s house. He was looking for something. What would Gordon have that someone might want?”

“You don’t know who he was?”

“He wasn’t anyone. His master, that’s who I’m after.”

“So who do you think his master is?”

Skulduggery didn’t answer and China laughed. “Serpine again? My darling, you think Serpine is the culprit behind practically every crime.”

“That’s because he is.”

“So why come to me?”

“You hear things.”

“Do I?”

“People talk to you.”

“I am very approachable.”

“I was wondering if you’d heard anything: rumours, whispers, anything.”

“Nothing that would help you.”

“But you have heard something?”

“I’ve heard nonsense. I’ve heard something that doesn’t even deserve to be called a rumour. Apparently Serpine has been making inquiries about the Sceptre of the Ancients.”

“What about it?”

“He’s looking for it.”

“What do you mean? The Sceptre’s a fairy tale.”

“Like I said, it’s nonsense.”

Skulduggery fell silent for a moment, as if he was storing that piece of information away for further study. When he spoke again, it was with a new line of questioning. “So what would Gordon have that he – or anyone else – might want?”

“Probably quite a lot,” China answered. “Dear Gordon was like me: he was a collector. But I don’t think that’s the question you should be asking.”

Skulduggery thought for a moment. “Ah.”

Stephanie looked at the two of them. “What? What?”

“The question,” Skulduggery said, “is not what did Gordon have that someone might want to steal, but rather what did Gordon have that someone had to wait until he was dead in order to steal it?”

Stephanie looked at him. “There’s a difference?”

China answered her. “There are items that cannot be taken, possessions that cannot be stolen. In such a case, the owner must be dead before anyone else can take advantage of its powers.”

“If you hear anything that might be of use,” Skulduggery said, “will you let me know?”

“And what do I get in return?” China responded, that smile playing on her lips again.

“My appreciation?”

“Tempting. That is tempting.”

“Then how about this?” Skulduggery said. “Do it as a favour, for a friend.”

“A friend?” China said. “After all these years, after everything that’s happened, are you saying that you’re my friend again?”

“I was talking about Gordon.”

China laughed and Stephanie followed Skulduggery as he walked back through the stacks. They left the library and travelled back the way they’d come.

When they were out on the street, Stephanie spoke up at last.

“So that was China Sorrows,” she said.

“Yes, that was,” Skulduggery responded. “A woman not to be trusted.”

“Beautiful name, though.”

“Like I said, names are power. There are three names for everyone. The name you’re born with, the name you’re given and the name you take. Everyone, no matter who they are, is born with a name. You were born with a name. Do you know what it is?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“Do you know what your name is?”

“Yes. Stephanie Edgley.”

“No.”

“No?”

“That’s your given name. That’s the name other people handed you. If a mage with any kind of knowledge wanted to, he could use that name to influence you, to attain some small degree of control – to make you stand, sit, speak, things like that.”

“Like a dog.”

“I suppose so.”

“You’re likening me to a dog?”

“No,” he said, and then paused. “Well, yes.”

“Oh, cheers.”

“But you have another name, a real name, a true name. A name unique to you and you alone.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. You don’t know it either, at least not consciously. This name gives you power, but it would also give other people absolute power over you. If someone knew it, they could command your loyalty, your love, everything about you. Your free will could be totally eradicated. Which is why we keep our true names hidden.”

“So what’s the third name?”

“The name you take. It can’t be used against you, it can’t be used to influence you and it’s your first defence against a sorcerer’s attack. Your taken name seals your given name, protects it, and that’s why it’s so important to get it right.”

“So Skulduggery is the name you took?”

“It is.”

“What about me? Should I have a third name?”

He hesitated for only a moment. “If you’re going to be accompanying me on this, then yes, you probably should.”

“And am I going to be accompanying you?”

“That depends. Do you need your parents’ permission?”

Stephanie’s parents wanted her to find her own way in life. That’s what they’d said countless times in the past. Of course, they’d been referring to school subjects and college applications and job prospects. Presumably, at no stage did they factor living skeletons and magic underworlds into their considerations. If they had, their advice would probably have been very different.

Stephanie shrugged. “No, not really.”

“Well, that’s good enough for me.”

They reached the car and got in, and as they pulled out on to the road, she looked at him.

“So who’s this Serpine you were talking about?”

“Nefarian Serpine is one of the bad guys. I suppose, now that Mevolent is gone, he’d be considered the bad guy.”

“What’s so bad about him?”

The purr of the engine was all that filled the car for a few moments. “Serpine is an Adept,” Skulduggery said at last. “He was Mevolent’s most trusted lieutenant. You heard what China was saying, about how she is a collector, how Gordon was a collector? Serpine is a collector too. He collects magic. He has tortured, maimed and killed in order to learn other people’s secrets. He has committed untold atrocities in order to uncover obscure rituals, searching for the one ritual that he, and religious fanatics like him, have been seeking for generations. Back when the war broke out, he had this… weapon. These days he’s full of surprises, but he still uses it because, quite frankly, there is no defence against it.”

“What’s the weapon?”

“To put it simply, agonising death.”

“Agonising death… on its own? Not, like, fired from a gun or anything?”

“He just has to point his red right hand at you and… well, like I said, agonising death. It’s a necromancy technique.”

“Necromancy?”

“Death magic, a particularly dangerous Adept discipline. I don’t know how he learned it, but learn it he did.”

“And what does the Sceptre thing have to do with all this?”

“Nothing. It has nothing to do with anything.”

“Well, what is it?”

“It’s a weapon of unstoppable destructive power. Or it would be, if it actually existed. It’s a rod, about the length of your thigh bone… Actually, I think I might have a picture of it…”

He pulled the car over and got out to open the Bentley’s boot. Stephanie had never been to this part of town before. The streets were quiet and empty. She could see the bridge over the canal in the distance. Moments later Skulduggery was back behind the wheel, they were driving again and Stephanie had a leather bound book on her lap.

“What’s this?” she asked, opening the clasp and flicking through the pages.

“Our most popular myths and legends,” said Skulduggery. “You just passed the Sceptre.”

She flicked back and came to a reproduction of a painting of a wide-eyed man reaching for a golden staff with a black crystal embedded in its hilt. The Sceptre was glowing and he was shielding his eyes. On the opposite page was another picture, this time of a man holding the Sceptre, surrounded by cowering figures, their heads turned away. “Who’s this guy?”

“He’s an Ancient. In the legends, they were the very first sorcerers, the first to wield the power of the elements, the first to use magic. They lived apart from the mortal world, had no interest in it. They had their own ways, their own customs and their own gods. Eventually, they decided that they wanted to have their own destinies too, so they rose up against their gods, rather nasty beings called the Faceless Ones, and battled them on the land, in the skies and in the oceans. The Faceless Ones, being immortal, won every battle, until the Ancients constructed a weapon powerful enough to drive them back – the Sceptre.”

“You sound like you know the story well.”

“Tales around the campfire might seem quaint now, but it’s all we had before movies. The Faceless Ones were banished, forced back to wherever they came from.”

“So what’s happening here? He’s killing his gods?”

“Yep. The Sceptre was fuelled by the Ancients’ desire to be free. That was the most powerful force they had at their disposal.”

“So it’s a force for freedom?”

“Originally. However, once the Ancients no longer had the Faceless Ones to tell them what to do, they started fighting among themselves, and they turned the Sceptre on each other and fuelled it with hate.”

The streetlights played on his skull as they passed in and out of darkness, flashing bone-white in a hypnotic rhythm.

“The last Ancient,” he continued, “having driven his gods away, having killed all his friends and all his family, realised what he had done and hurled the Sceptre deep into the earth, where the ground swallowed it.”

“What did he do then?”

“Probably went for a snooze. I don’t know, it’s a legend. It’s an allegory. It didn’t really happen.”

“So why does Serpine think it’s real?”

“Now that is puzzling. Like his master before him, he believes some of our darker myths, our more disturbing legends. He believes the world was a better place when the Faceless Ones were in charge. They didn’t exactly approve of humanity, you see, and they demanded worship.”

“The ritual that he’s been looking for – is it to bring them back?”

“It is indeed.”

“So he might think that the Sceptre, which drove them away, could somehow call them home, right?”

“People believe all kinds of things when it comes to their religion.”

“Do you believe in any of it? The Ancients, Faceless Ones, any of it?”

“I believe in me, Stephanie, and that’s enough for now.”

“So could the Sceptre be real?”

“Highly unlikely.”

“So what does any of this have to do with my uncle?”

“I don’t know,” Skulduggery admitted. “That’s why they call it a mystery.”

Light filled the car and suddenly the world was bucking, the only sounds a terrifying crash and the shriek of metal on metal. Stephanie lurched against her seatbelt and slammed her head against the window. The street outside tilted wildly and she realised the Bentley was flipping over. She heard Skulduggery curse beside her and for an instant she was weightless, and then the Bentley hit the ground again and jarred her against the dashboard.

It rocked back on to its tyres. Stephanie looked at her knees, her eyes wide but her brain too stunned to think. Look up, said a faint voice in her head. Look up to see what’s happening. The Bentley was still, its engine cut out, but there was another engine. A car door opening and closing. Look up. Footsteps, running footsteps. Look up now. Skulduggery beside her, not moving. Look up, there’s someone coming for you. Look up NOW.

A window exploded beside her for the second time that night, and the man from the house was grabbing her and hauling her out of the car.

6

A MAN APART

is clothes were ragged and charred but his skin had been untouched by the fireball that had enveloped him at Gordon’s house. She glimpsed his face as she was dragged through the yellow light of the Bentley’s headlamps, a face that was twisted in anger and hatred, and then she was lifted and slammed on to the bonnet of the car that had hit them. His hands had her collar bunched, his knuckles digging into her throat.

“You will die,” he hissed, “right here and now if you do not give me that damned key.”

Her hands were on his, trying to break his grip. Her head felt light, blood pounding in her temples. “Please,” she whispered, trying to breathe.

“You’re going to make me look bad,” the man growled. “My master is going to think I’m a fool if I can’t get one stupid little key off one stupid little girl!”

The street was empty around them. Shopfronts and businesses, closed for the night. No one was going to hear her. No one was coming to help her. Where was Skulduggery?

The man lifted her off the bonnet and slammed her down again… Stephanie cried out in pain and the man leaned in, his right forearm pressed beneath her chin. “I’ll snap your scrawny neck,” he hissed.

“I don’t know anything about a key!” Stephanie gasped.

“If you don’t know anything you’re of no use to me and I’ll kill you here.”

She looked up at that horribly twisted face and stopped trying to pull his hands away. Instead she dug her thumb into the bullet hole in his shoulder. He screamed and let her go and staggered back, cursing, and Stephanie rolled off the car and ran to the Bentley. Skulduggery was pounding at the door but it had buckled under the impact, trapping his leg.

“Go!” he shouted at her through the broken window. “Get away!”

Stephanie glanced back, saw a figure loom up, and pushed herself away from the car. She slipped on the wet road but scrambled to her feet and ran, the man right behind her, clutching his injured shoulder.

He lunged and she ducked, caught a streetlight and swung herself from her course, and the man shot by her and sprawled on to the pavement. She took off the opposite way, passing the two cars and running on. The street was too long, too wide, and there was nowhere she could lose him. She turned off into a narrow lane and sprinted into the shadows.

She heard him behind her, heard the footsteps that seemed to be moving much more quickly then her own. She didn’t dare look back – she didn’t want the fear that was lending her speed to suddenly sabotage her escape. It was too dark to make out anything ahead of her: she couldn’t see one arm’s length ahead. She could be about to run smack into a wall and she wouldn’t—

Wall.

Stephanie twisted at the last moment and got her hands up and hit the wall then pushed away, kicking off without losing too much momentum, continuing around the corner. The man couldn’t see in the dark any better than she could and she heard him hit the wall and yell out a curse.

Up ahead was a break in the darkness. She saw a taxi pass. The man slipped and stumbled behind her – she was getting away. All she had to do was run up to the nearest person she could find and the man wouldn’t dare follow her.

Stephanie plunged out of the shadows and screamed for help, but the taxi was gone and the street was empty. She screamed again, this time in desperation. The streetlights tinted everything orange and stretched her shadow out before her. Then there was another shadow moving up behind and she threw herself to one side as the man barrelled past, narrowly missing her.

The canal was ahead, the canal that flowed through the city. She ran for it, aware that the man was once again behind her and gaining fast.

She felt his fingers on her shoulder. The first touch was fleeting, but the second was a grip. His hand curled around her shoulder and tightened just as she reached the edge of the canal, and she managed to throw herself forward before he could drag her back. She heard a panicked shriek from behind and realised she had pulled him after her. Then the freezing water enveloped them both.

The cold stunned her for a moment but Stephanie fought it and kicked out. She clutched at water and dragged it down to her sides, just like she had done countless times off the Haggard beach. Now she was moving up, up to where the lights were.

She broke the surface with a gasp and turned her head, saw the man struggling, flailing his arms in terror. For a moment she thought he couldn’t swim, but it was more than that. The water was hurting him, working through him like acid, stripping pieces of him away. His cries became mere guttural sounds and Stephanie watched as he came apart and was silent and most dead.

She turned from the bits of him that floated to her and ploughed through the water. Her hands and feet were already numb with the cold, but she kept going until the bridge was far behind.

Shivering, Stephanie reached the edge of the canal and managed to haul herself out. Arms crossed over her chest, trainers squelching with every step and her hair plastered to her scalp, she hurried back to the Bentley.

When she got there, the Bentley was empty. Stephanie hung back, out of the light. A truck passed, slowing when it approached the crash. When the driver didn’t see anyone, he drove on. Stephanie didn’t move from her spot.

A few minutes later, Skulduggery emerged from the narrow lane she’d been chased down. He was walking quickly, looking up and down the street as he returned to his car. Stephanie stepped out of the shadows.

“Hey,” she said.

“Stephanie!” Skulduggery exclaimed, rushing over to her. “You’re all right!”

“I went for a swim,” she said, trying to stop her teeth from chattering.

“What happened?” he asked. “Where is he?”

“Here and there.” The light breeze was passing through her soaking garments. “The water kind of… took him apart.”

Skulduggery nodded. “It happens.”

He held out his hand and she felt herself drying and saw the water drifting off her, collecting as mist in the air over her head. “You’re not surprised?” she asked.

He moved the cloud away and released it. A faint shower fell to the street. “Certain types of Adept magic don’t come cheap. As we saw at Gordon’s house, your attacker had made himself impervious to fire, and was probably very proud of himself for doing so. Unfortunately for him, the cost of that little spell was that a large amount of water would be lethal. Every big spell has a hidden snag.”

He clicked his fingers and conjured fire, and Stephanie started to feel warm again.

“Neat trick,” she said. “You’ll have to teach me it some time.”

With quite a bit of effort, Stephanie pulled open the car door. She wiped the broken glass from the seat and got in, buckling the seatbelt. Skulduggery went around the other side to his own broken window and climbed in behind the wheel. He twisted the key and the engine turned, complained and then came to life.

Her body was tired. Her mind was tired. Her limbs felt heavy and her eyes wanted to close. She dug her mobile phone out of her pocket – miraculously, the canal water hadn’t ruined it. She pressed a button and the time flashed up and she groaned then looked outside as the first light of the morning started to seep into the sky.

“What’s wrong?” Skulduggery asked. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she said, “but I will be if I don’t get back to Gordon’s house. Mum will be picking me up soon.”

“You don’t look too happy.”

“Well, I don’t want to go back to that world – a boring old town with nosy neighbours and nasty aunts.”

“You’d rather stay in a world where you get attacked twice in one night?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but yes. Things happen here.”

“I’m going to see a friend later today, someone who might be able to help us out. You can come along if you want.”

“Really?”

“I think you might have a real feel for this line of work.”

Stephanie nodded and gave a little shrug, and when she spoke she fought hard to keep the sheer joy out of her voice. “And what about magic?”

“What about it?”

“Will you teach me?”

“You don’t even know if you’re capable of doing magic.”

“How do I find out? Is there a test or something?”

“Yes, we cut off your head. If it grows back, you can do magic.”

“You’re being funny again, aren’t you?”

“So glad you noticed.”

“So will you teach me?”

“I’m not a teacher. I’m a detective. I already have a career.”

“Oh, right. It’s just, I’d really like to learn, and you know it all.”

“Your flattery is subtle.”

“But it’s OK, if you don’t want to teach me, that’s OK. I suppose I could always ask China.”

Skulduggery looked at her. “China won’t teach you. She won’t teach you because there is nothing that she does that is not for her own gain. You mightn’t see it at first, you might think she’s actually being nice to you, but you can never trust her.”

“OK then.”

“OK. So we’re agreed?”

“We’re agreed. No trusting China.”

“Good. Glad we’ve got that sorted.”

“So will you teach me magic?”

He sighed. “Dealing with you is going to be a trial, isn’t it?”

“That’s what my teachers at school say.”

“This is going to be fun,” Skulduggery said dryly. “I just know it.”

Skulduggery dropped Stephanie off at Gordon’s house, and half an hour later her mother’s car splashed through huge puddles and Stephanie went outside to meet her. She managed to keep her mother’s attention off the house, lest she notice that the front door was merely leaning against the doorframe.

“Good morning,” her mother said as Stephanie got in the car. “Everything OK?”

Stephanie nodded. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

“You’re looking a little bedraggled.”

“Oh, thanks Mum.”

Her mother laughed as they drove back towards the gate. “Sorry. So tell me, how was your night?”

Stephanie hesitated, then shrugged. “Uneventful.”

7

SERPINE

efarian Serpine had a visitor.

The Hollow Men bowed deeply as he strode through the corridors of his castle. They looked real from a distance, but up close they were nothing more than cheap imitations of life. Their papery skin was a mere expressionless shell, inflated from within by the foulest of gases. It was only their hands and feet that were solid and heavy – their feet clumped when they walked and their hands weighed down their arms, so they stood with a perpetual stoop.

Their number increased the closer he got to the main hall. They were simple creatures, but they did what they were told, and they hadn’t known what to make of the visitor. Serpine entered the main hall, the crowd of Hollow Men parted and a man in a dark suit turned to him.

“Mr Bliss,” Serpine said politely. “I thought you were dead.”

“I heard that too,” Bliss responded. He was an elegant man of muscle and mass, as tall as Serpine, but whereas Serpine had black hair and glittering emerald green eyes, Bliss was bald, with eyes of the palest blue. “In fact, it was a rumour I started. I thought it might make people leave me alone in my retirement.”

“And has it?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

Serpine motioned for the Hollow Men to leave them and then led his guest into the drawing room.

“Can I get you a drink?” Serpine asked, heading to the liquor cabinet. “Or is it too early in the day?”

“I’m here on business,” Bliss said. “Elder business.”

Serpine turned, gave him a smile. “And how are the Elders?”

“Worried.”

“When are they not?”

Serpine went to the armchair by the window, watched the sun as it struggled to rise then settled into the chair, crossed his legs and waited for Bliss to continue. The last time they had been in the same room together they had been trying to kill each other while a hurricane tore the place down around them. The very fact that Bliss remained standing right now told Serpine that he was thinking the same thing. Bliss was wary of him.

“The Elders called me in because, five days ago, two of their people went missing – Clement Gale and Alexander Slake.”

“How very unfortunate, but I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting either of them.”

“They were assigned to… observe you, from time to time.”

“Spies?”

“Not at all. Merely observers. The Elders thought it prudent to keep tabs on a few of Mevolent’s followers, to make sure no one strayed from the terms of the Truce. You were always at the top of that list.”

Serpine smiled. “And you think I had something to do with their disappearance? I’m a man of peace these days, not war. I seek only knowledge.”

“You seek secrets.”

“You make that sound so sinister, Mr Bliss. As for the missing ‘observers’, maybe they’ll turn up safe and well, and the Elders can apologise for dragging you out of your retirement.”

“They turned up yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“Dead.”

“How terrible for them.”

“Not a mark on their bodies. No indication at all as to how they died. Sound familiar?”

Serpine thought for a moment then arched an eyebrow and held up his gloved right hand. “You think this did it? You think I killed those men? I haven’t used this power in years. When I first learned it, I thought it was a wonderful thing, but now I look on it as a curse, and a reminder to me of my many mistakes and transgressions in my servitude to Mevolent. I don’t mind telling you, Mr Bliss, that I am deeply ashamed of what I have done with my life.”

Bliss stood there and Serpine almost spoiled it all by laughing, but he managed to retain his look of mocking innocence.

“Thank you for your co-operation,” Bliss said, turning to leave. “I shall be in touch if I need to ask you more questions.”

Serpine waited until Bliss was at the door before speaking again. “They must be scared.”

Bliss stopped. “What makes you say that?”

“They sent you, didn’t they? Why didn’t they send the detective, I wonder?”

“Skulduggery Pleasant is busy with another investigation.”

“Is that so? Or maybe they thought I would be intimidated by you.”

“They thought you’d listen to me. This Truce will hold only for as long as both sides want it to. The Elders want it to hold.”

“That must be nice for them.”

Mr Bliss looked at him like he was trying to read his thoughts. “Be careful, Nefarian. You might not like what’s at the end of this road you’re on.”

Serpine smiled. “You’re sure you won’t join me for a drink?”

“I have a plane to catch.”

“Going somewhere nice?”

“I have a meeting in London.”

“I hope that goes well for you. We’ll have a drink some other time then.”

“Perhaps.”

Mr Bliss inclined his head in a small bow, and left.

8

GHASTLY

tephanie went to bed as soon as she got home and woke at a few minutes past two in the afternoon. She padded to the bathroom and showered, her body aching as she stood under the spray. Her knees were scraped and cut from when she’d been dragged along the road. Her skin was mottled with deep bruises. Her neck was stiff.

She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, dried herself off and pulled on fresh jeans and a T-shirt. Barefoot, she took her old clothes downstairs and threw them in the washing machine, added the powder and turned it on. It was only after she’d had something to eat that she allowed herself to think about the previous night.

Well, she said to herself, so that happened.

She pulled on her shoes and went out, the sunshine warm on her face. At the end of her road, she passed the old pier and started towards Main Street. Normality. Kids playing football, riding bikes and laughing, dogs running about, tails wagging, neighbours talking to neighbours and the world being as she’d always thought it was. No living skeletons. No magic. No men trying to kill her.

A crazy laugh escaped her lips when she reflected on how much her life had changed in the space of a day. She had gone from being a perfectly ordinary girl in a perfectly ordinary world to becoming a target for water-soluble weirdos and a partner for a skeleton detective out to solve her uncle’s murder.

Stephanie faltered. Her uncle’s murder? Where had she got that from? Gordon had died of natural causes: the doctors had said so. She frowned. But these were doctors who lived in a world without walking, talking skeletons. But still, why assume he’d been murdered? What on earth had made her think that?

“There are items that cannot be taken,” China had said, “possessions that cannot be stolen. In such a case, the owner must be dead before anyone else can take advantage of its powers.”

Her attacker, and whoever had sent him, wanted something. They wanted something badly enough to kill her to get it. And if they wanted it that badly, would they really have waited for her uncle to die of natural causes before they went looking for it?

Stephanie felt cold. Gordon had been murdered. Someone had killed him and no one was doing anything about it. No one was asking the questions, no one was trying to figure out who did it.

Except for Skulduggery.

She narrowed her eyes. He must have known Gordon was murdered. If he hadn’t already suspected it when they first met, he must have worked it out in the library. China probably knew as well, but neither of them had told her. They didn’t think she could handle it, maybe. Or maybe they didn’t think it was any of her business. It had to do with their world after all, not hers. But Gordon was still her uncle.

A car pulled up behind her. People stared. She looked back and saw the Bentley.

The driver’s side was still badly buckled from where the car had rammed it, and the windscreen was cracked. Three of the windows were without glass and the bonnet had a series of ugly dents running up its left side. The usual purr of the engine was replaced by a worrying rattle that cut out abruptly when the engine turned off. Skulduggery – in hat, scarf and sunglasses – went to get out, but the door wouldn’t open.

“Oh, boy,” Stephanie muttered.

She watched him lean away from the door and raise his knee, and then he kicked it open and got out, adjusting his coat as he walked over.

“Good afternoon,” he said brightly. “Wonderful weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

“People are staring,” Stephanie whispered as he neared.

“Are they really? Oh, so they are. Good for them. So, are we ready to go?”

“That depends,” she answered, speaking softly and keeping a smile on her face. “When were you going to tell me that my uncle was murdered?”

There was a slight hesitation. “Ah. You worked that out, then?”

Stephanie turned down a narrow lane between two buildings, moving away from the prying eyes of Haggard’s gossip mongers. Skulduggery hesitated a moment, then caught up to her, walking fast.

“I had a very good reason for not telling you.”

“I don’t care.” Now that no one could see her, she dropped the smile. “Gordon was murdered, Skulduggery. How could you not have told me?”

“This is a dangerous business. It’s a dangerous world that I’m part of.”

She stopped suddenly. Skulduggery kept walking, realised she wasn’t beside him any more and turned on his heel. She crossed her arms. “If you don’t think I can handle it—”

“No, you’ve certainly proved yourself capable.” She heard the tone of his voice change slightly. “I knew from the moment I met you that you’re just the type of person who would never walk away from danger, simply out of stubbornness. I wanted to keep you out of it as much as I could. You’ve got to understand – Gordon was my friend. I thought I owed it to him to try and keep his favourite niece out of harm’s way.”

“Well, I’m in harm’s way, so it’s not your decision any more.”

“No, apparently it isn’t.”

“So you won’t keep anything from me again?”

He put his hand to his chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“OK.”

He nodded and led the way back to the Bentley.

“Though you don’t actually have a heart,” she said.

“I know.”

“And technically, you’ve already died.”

“I know that too.”

“Just so we’re clear.”

“What’s he like?” Stephanie asked as they drove.

“What’s who like?”

“This guy we’re going to see. What’s his name?”

“Ghastly Bespoke.”

She looked at Skulduggery to make sure he wasn’t joking, then realised there was no way she could tell. “Why would anyone call themselves Ghastly?”

“All manner of names suit all manner of people. Ghastly is my tailor and also happens to be one of my closest friends. He first taught me how to box.”

“So what’s he like?”

“Decent. Honourable. Honest. But more fun than I’m making him sound, I swear. Also, he’s not magic’s biggest fan…”

“He doesn’t like magic? How could he not like magic?”

“He just doesn’t find it interesting. He prefers the world he reads about in books and sees on TV, the world with cops and robbers and dramas and sports. If he had to choose, I expect he’d live in the world without magic. That way, he could have gone to school and got a job and been… normal. Of course, he’s never been given the choice. I suppose, for him, there could never really be a choice. Not really.”

“Why not?”

Skulduggery hesitated for only a moment, as if he was choosing how best to say it, then told her that Ghastly was born ugly.

“Not just unattractive,” he said, “not merely unappealing, but really, honestly ugly. His mother was jinxed when she was pregnant with him and now his face is ridged with scars. They tried everything to fix it – spells, potions, charms, glamours, various and sundry creams, but nothing worked.”

He explained that, as a child, Ghastly had always told his friends that he got his love of boxing from his father and his love of sewing from his mother. The truth was, his father was the one who was constantly making alterations to hemlines and such, and his mother was a bare-knuckle boxing champ, who boasted twenty-two consecutive wins. Skulduggery had seen her fight once. She had a right hook that could take a head clean off. And according to legend, it had once too.

Regardless, Ghastly was brought up in these two separate disciplines and, figuring he was ugly enough already, decided to try a career as a tailor, rather than a boxer.

“And I for one am glad he did,” Skulduggery said. “He makes extraordinary suits.”

“So we’re going to see him because you need a new suit?”

“Not quite. You see, his family has amassed a unique collection of artwork, paintings and literature about the Ancients, from all over the world. Included are a couple of rare volumes that could be very useful indeed. All anyone knows about the Sceptre is based on half-forgotten myths. Those books, and whatever else is in Ghastly’s collection, will hold a far more detailed description of the legends, about what the Sceptre does and, in theory, how one would go about defending oneself against it.”

They parked and got out. The neighbourhood was dirty and run down, and people hurried by without even glancing at the battered car in their midst. A little old lady shuffled past, nodding to Skulduggery as she went.

“Is this one of those secret communities you were telling me about?” Stephanie asked.

“Indeed it is. We try to keep the streets as uninviting as possible so no casual passer-by will stop and have a look around.”

“Well, you’ve succeeded.”

“You should be realising by now that looks are, more often than not, deceiving. A neighbourhood like this, with its graffiti and litter and squalor, is the safest neighbourhood you could possibly visit. Open the door to any one of these houses around us and you walk into a veritable palace. Surface is nothing, Stephanie.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” she said as she followed him to a little shop perched on the corner. She looked around for a sign. “Is this the tailor’s?”

“Bespoke tailor’s, yes.”

“But there’s no sign. There aren’t any clothes in the window. How would anyone know it’s even open?”

“Ghastly doesn’t need to advertise. He has a very specific clientele, and he can’t really afford to let ordinary people wander in when he’s measuring out a new suit for an eight-armed octopus-man.”

“Are you serious? There’s an eight-armed octopus-man?”

“There’s a whole colony of octopus people,” Skulduggery said as they approached the door.

“Really?”

“Good God, Stephanie, of course not. That would be far too silly.”

He walked on before she could even try to hit him. The shop door was unlocked and he led the way in. Stephanie was surprised by how clean and bright and ordinary-looking it was. She didn’t know what she was expecting – mannequins that came alive and tried to eat you, perhaps. There was a nice smell in here too. Comforting.

Ghastly Bespoke walked out from the backroom and when he saw them he smiled. He shook Skulduggery’s hand warmly. He was broad-shouldered and his scars covered his whole head. When Skulduggery turned to introduce Stephanie, and he saw the way she was staring at Ghastly, he shrugged.

“Don’t mind her,” he said. “She stares. That’s what she does when she meets new people.”

“I’m quite used to it,” Ghastly said, still smiling. “Do you want to shake hands, Miss, or start off with something easy, like waving?”

Stephanie felt herself blush and she stuck out her hand quickly. His hand was normal, no scars, but tough and strong.

“Do you have a name?” he asked.

“Not yet,” she admitted.

“Better make sure that you really want one before you think any more about it. This life isn’t for everyone.”

She nodded slowly, not sure what he was getting at. He took a moment, looking her up and down.

“There’s been some trouble?”

“Some,” answered Skulduggery.

“Then the proper attire is probably called for.” Ghastly took out a small pad, started jotting down notes. “Do you have a favourite colour?” he asked her.

“I’m sorry?”

“To wear. Any preference?”

“I’m not sure I understand…”

“Not all of the clothes I make are merely examples of exquisite tailoring. Sometimes, if the situation arises, special requirements are catered for.”

“Such as keeping you safe until this whole thing is over,” Skulduggery said. “Ghastly can make you a suit, nothing too formal, which could very possibly save your life.”

“Fashion,” said Ghastly with a shrug. “It’s life or death.” His pen was at the ready. “So, once more, do you have a favourite colour to wear?”

“I… I’m not sure I could afford it…”

Ghastly shrugged. “I’ll put it on Skulduggery’s tab. Go nuts.”

Stephanie blinked. To go from her mother buying most of her clothes to this was a step she hadn’t been expecting. “I don’t know, I’m not sure… Black?”

Ghastly nodded and scribbled in his notebook. “Can’t go wrong with black.” He looked up at Skulduggery. “Just let me lock up,” he said, “then we can talk properly.”

While they waited for him to do so, Skulduggery and Stephanie wandered into the back of the shop. Material and fabrics of all types and textures were arranged very neatly in massive shelves that lined the walls. There was a single workplace in the centre of the room and another doorway leading further back.

“He’s going to make me clothes?” Stephanie whispered.

“Yes, he is.”

“Doesn’t he need to take measurements or something?”

“One glance, that’s all he needs.”

They passed through into a small living room, and moments later Ghastly joined them. Stephanie and Skulduggery sat on the narrow sofa and Ghastly sat in the armchair opposite, both feet flat on the ground and fingers steepled.

“So what’s all this about?” he asked.

“We’re investigating Gordon Edgley’s murder,” Skulduggery said.

“Murder?” Ghastly said after a short pause.

“Indeed.”

“Who would want to kill Gordon?”

“We think Serpine did it. We think he was looking for something.”

“Skul,” Ghastly said, frowning, “usually when you want my help you just call and we go off and you get me into a fight. You’ve never explained what’s going on before, so why are you doing it now?”

“This is a different type of help I need.”

“So you don’t need me to hit anyone?”

“We’d just like your help in finding out what Serpine is after.”

“I see,” Ghastly said, nodding his head.

“You don’t see, do you?”

“No,” Ghastly said immediately. “I really don’t know what you want me to do.”

“We think Serpine is after the Sceptre of the Ancients,” Stephanie said and she felt Skulduggery sink lower into the cushion beside her.

“The what?” Ghastly said, his smile reappearing. “You’re not serious, are you? Listen, I don’t know what my dear friend here has been saying, but the Sceptre isn’t real.”

“Serpine thinks it’s real. We think that has something to do with my uncle’s death.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Ghastly said, “I really am. I respected Gordon. He knew there was magic in the world and he wasn’t seduced by it. He just wanted to observe and to write about it. That takes a strength that I hope has been passed on to you.”

Stephanie didn’t answer. Skulduggery didn’t look at her.

“But,” Ghastly continued, “to say that his death has something to do with a legend that has been passed down from generation to generation, and that has changed with each telling, is just nonsense. He had a heart attack. He was mortal. He died. That’s what mortals do. Let him have his death.”

“I think my uncle knew where the Sceptre is, or he had it and Serpine killed him, and now Serpine knows where it is and that’s why he wants the key.”

“What key?”

“The key to get the Sceptre maybe. We’re not sure. What we do know is that he tried to kill me twice to get it.”

Ghastly shook his head. “This isn’t your world.”

“I’m a part of it now.”

“You’ve just stepped into it. You’ve seen magic and sorcerers and a living skeleton and I bet you’re having great fun – but you haven’t the slightest idea what’s at stake.”

Skulduggery didn’t say anything. Stephanie got to her feet.

“You know what?” she said. “For me, this is an adventure. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? Well, you’re right. I do look at all this as a big adventure, and I’m fascinated and excited and thrilled by it all. I’ve seen amazing people do amazing things, and I’ve been amazed.” Her eyes hardened. “But don’t you dare, for one second, think that this is just a game to me. My uncle left me a fortune: he left me everything I could ever want. He did all that for me, but he’s dead now. So now I’m going to do something for him. I’m going to find out who killed him, and I’m going to do what I can to make sure they don’t just walk away from it. He’s got to have someone on his side.”

“This is insane!” Ghastly said, leaning forward in his chair. “The Sceptre’s a fairy tale!”

“I believe it exists.”

“Of course you believe it exists! You’ve been dragged into a world where you think anything can happen, but that’s not how it works. Your uncle involved himself in this and if what you say is true, he got killed for it. Are you so eager to do the same? You’re playing with fire.”

“Everyone plays with fire around here.”

“This hasn’t gone the way I was expecting,” Skulduggery said.

“There are rules for things like this,” Ghastly said, ignoring her and speaking to Skulduggery. “There’s a reason we don’t tell everyone we’re out there. She is a prime example of why.”

Stephanie’s anger flared and she knew she couldn’t talk now without her voice cracking and betraying her, so she dashed past Ghastly. She walked through the shop, unlocked the door and walked out on to the street. She could feel the anger twisting in her insides, making her fingers curl. She hated not being treated as an equal, she hated being talked down to and she hated the feeling of being protected. She didn’t much like to be ignored either.

Skulduggery emerged from the shop a few minutes later, hat back on. He walked up to her as she leaned against the Bentley, arms crossed and staring at a crack in the pavement.

“So that went well,” he said eventually. When she didn’t answer, he nodded and said, “Did I tell you how I first met Ghastly?”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Ah. All right then.” Silence drifted down like smog. “It’s not very interesting anyway. But it has pirates in it.”

“I couldn’t care less,” Stephanie said. “Is he going to help us or not?”

“Well, he doesn’t think it’s a great idea to have, you know, to have you with me on this one.”

“Oh, really?” Stephanie responded bitterly.

“He seems to think I’m being irresponsible.”

“And what do you think?”

“I have been known to be irresponsible in the past. It’s entirely plausible that it’s happening again.”

“Do you think I’m in danger?”

“Oh, yes. Serpine still believes you are in possession of whatever key he’s looking for. The moment he learns who you are or where you are, he’ll send someone else. You’re in – and I don’t think I’m exaggerating here – especially grave danger.”

“Then let’s be absolutely clear on this, OK? I can’t leave this. I can’t go back to my dull, boring, ordinary life, even if I wanted to. I’ve seen too much. I’m involved here. It’s my uncle who was murdered, it’s my life that was in danger and I am not about to just walk away. That’s all there is to it.”

“Well, I’m convinced.”

“So why are we standing around?”

“My question exactly,” Skulduggery said, unlocking the Bentley. They got in and the Bentley rattled to life at the turn of the key. Skulduggery checked the rear-view, then the wing mirrors, then remembered that he didn’t have any wing mirrors any more, and pulled out on to the road.

“So we don’t get to look at his family’s collection?” Stephanie asked as they drove.

“Ghastly is a good man, and a good friend, and precisely the kind of person you want on your side, but he is also one of the most stubborn people I know. In four days, once he has had time to think, he will change his mind, and he will quite happily let us see what we need to see, but until then we don’t have a hope.”

“Wouldn’t the books be in China’s library too?”

Skulduggery made a noise halfway between a laugh and a grunt. “China has been after those books for years, but they’re locked away where even she can’t reach them.”

“You know where they are?”

“In the Vault.”

“In a vault? So what?”

“Not a vault, the Vault. It’s a series of chambers housed beneath the Dublin Municipal Art Gallery, very well protected, where they don’t take kindly to trespassers.”

Stephanie took a moment then spoke. “Ghastly will change his mind in four days?”

“That’s how long it usually takes, yes.”

“But we don’t have four days, do we?”

“No, we don’t.”

“So you know what we have to do, right?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“We need to look at that collection.”

Skulduggery looked at her. “I knew you’d be good at this. The moment I saw you, I knew you had an instinct for this job.”

“So we break into the Vault?”

He nodded reluctantly. “We break into the Vault.”

The Dublin Municipal Art Gallery was situated in one of the more affluent parts of the city. A gleaming triumph of steel and glass, it stood alone and proud, its lush gardens keeping the other buildings at a respectable distance.

Stephanie and Skulduggery parked across the road as part of what Skulduggery was calling a preliminary stake-out. They weren’t going to break into the Vault yet, he assured her; they were just here to get some idea of what they were up against. They had just seen the gallery staff and a half-dozen security guards leave the building, their shift over for the day. Two people, a man and a woman, dressed in blue overalls, passed them on the steps and entered the gallery, locking the doors behind them.

“Ah,” Skulduggery said from beneath his scarf. “We may have a problem.”

“What problem?” Stephanie asked. “Them? Who are they?”

“The night shift.”

“Two people? That’s all?”

“They’re not exactly people.”

“So who are they?”

“It’s not so much who as what.”

“I swear, Skulduggery, you either give me a straight answer or I’m finding the biggest dog you’ve ever seen and I’m going to make him dig a hole and bury you in it.”

“Oh that’s charming, that is,” Skulduggery said, then made a sound like he was clearing his throat, though there was nothing to clear and no actual throat to clear it from. “Did you notice the way they moved?”

“Very, I don’t know… gracefully. What about it? Are they dancers? The Vault has ballerina security guards?”

“They’re vampires,” Skulduggery said. “The Vault has vampire security guards.”

Stephanie made a show of poking her head out of the window and looking up at the sky. “The sun’s still out, Skulduggery. It’s still bright.”

“Doesn’t matter to them.”

She frowned. “Doesn’t sunlight kill them? Doesn’t it turn them to dust, or make them burst into flames or something?”

“Nope. Vampires tan, just like you and me. Well, just like you. I tend to bleach.”

“So sunlight has no effect on them?”

“It binds them. It dampens their powers. During the day, they are for all intents and purposes mortal, but when the sun goes down, their powers flare up.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“And the Vault employs two of them as their nightshift. The ultimate guard dogs.”

“If sunlight doesn’t hurt them, I don’t suppose crosses will scare them off?”

“The best way to stop a vampire is with a whole lot of bullets, and since we don’t want to hurt anyone, this is that problem I was telling you about.”

“There must be a way to get by them. We could disguise ourselves as cleaning staff or something.”

“No one works when vampires are around – vampires don’t make a distinction between allies and prey. They can’t resist the bloodlust any more than a moth can resist a big bright light. They’re killers: the most efficient, deadly killers on the face of the planet.”

“Scary.”

“Yes, well, vampires aren’t known for being cute.”

“Well then, we’re going to have to come up with something really really clever.”

Skulduggery paused then shrugged. “I suppose I am good at that.”

9

THE TROLL BENEATH WESTMINSTER BRIDGE

kulduggery took Stephanie home, and as she was lying in bed that night, finally drifting off to sleep, a young woman in London was hunkering down and peering into the darkness.

“Hello?” she said. “Anyone down there?”

The Thames was dark and rushing beneath her, but no one answered. She glanced at her watch then looked around. It was seven minutes to midnight and Westminster Bridge was empty except for her. Perfect.

“Hello?” she said again. “I need to talk to you.”

A voice answered: “There’s no one down here.”

“I think there is,” she said.

“No,” came the voice. “No one.”

“I think there’s a troll down there,” the young woman said. “And I need to talk to him.”

A face rose up out of the shadows, small and wrinkled, with large ears and a shock of spiky black hair. Huge eyes blinked at her.

“What do you want?” the troll asked.

“I want to talk to you,” the young woman answered. “I’m Tanith Low. What’s your name?”

The troll shook his head. “No no, not telling. Not telling that.”

“Oh yes,” Tanith said, “trolls only have one name, isn’t that right?”

“Yes yes, one name. No telling.”

“But I can guess, isn’t that how it goes? If I guess your name correctly, what happens then?”

The troll grinned, showing lots of sharp yellow teeth. “You get to live,” he said.

“And if I get it wrong?”

The troll giggled. “You get eaten!”

“That sounds like a fun game,” Tanith said with a smile. “What time do you usually play?”

“Midnight, stroke of midnight, yes yes yes. When I’m strong.”

“And you pop out from under there at whoever’s passing, don’t you?”

“Three chances,” the troll said, nodding. “Three chances is what they get. Guess the name, don’t get eaten; get it wrong, come along.”

“Do you want to play it with me?”

The grin faded on the troll’s face. “Not strong yet. Need to wait, yes yes. Stroke of midnight.”

“We don’t have to wait, do we?” Tanith said with a pout. “I want to play now. I bet I can guess your name.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Bet I can.”

“No, you can’t!” the troll said, giggling again.

“Come on up out of there, we’ll see.”

“Yes yes, play the game.”

Tanith glanced at her watch and stepped back as the troll scampered up. Two minutes to midnight. He was small, up to her waist, with thin arms and legs and a bloated belly. His fingernails were hardened and pointed and he was grinning in anticipation, though keeping his distance.

She let her coat fall open a little and smiled at him. “You’re a handsome little fellow, aren’t you? Are you the only troll in London?”

“Only one,” he said proudly. “Now we play! Guess the name, don’t get eaten; get it wrong, come along. Guess guess guess.”

“Let’s see,” she said, taking a step closer. The troll narrowed its eyes and stepped back, towards the edge of the bridge. She stopped moving. “Is your name Bollohollow?”

The troll roared with laughter. “No no, not Bollohollow! Two guesses left, only two!”

“This is harder than I thought,” said Tanith. “You’re really good at this, aren’t you?”

“Best! Very best!”

“Not many people have guessed your name, huh?”

“No one,” the troll cackled. “Guess guess!”

“Is it… Ferninabop Caprookie?”

The troll whooped and hollered and danced, and Tanith moved a little closer.

“Not Ferninabop!” he laughed. “Not Caprookie!”

“Wow,” Tanith said, looking worried. “I’m not doing too well here, am I?”

“Gonna get eaten!”

“You eat a lot of passers-by?”

“Yes yes, yum yum.”

“You gobble them all up, don’t you? They scream and cry and run away—”

“But I catch them!” the troll giggled. “Stroke of midnight, I’m big and strong and fast, gobble them up, gobble them all up! They struggle and wriggle and tickle inside me!”

“I’d better get my last guess right then, eh?” said Tanith. “Is it… Rumplestilskin?”

The troll laughed so hard he fell on to his back. “No no!” he managed to say between gales of laughter. “They always say that! Always get it wrong!”

Tanith took one more step, and dropped her smile. The sword flashed from her coat but the troll saw it just in time and squealed and rolled.

Tanith cursed and swiped again, but the troll dodged beneath her and she spun and kicked out, sending him sprawling. He scrambled to his feet, hissing and spitting at her as she advanced, and then, in the warm London night, the sound of Big Ben. Midnight.

Tanith lunged but it was too late. The troll skipped back as his shoulders hunched and he snarled and started to grow.

“Nuts,” Tanith whispered to herself.

Muscles bulged in his arms and legs, stretching the skin so tight it looked like it might split. She moved forward again but he flipped back through the air, and when he landed he was as tall as she was. His chest broadened and his neck thickened and still he grew, and still he snarled. His bones popped and he finished growing. He was now almost twice her size.

Facing down a fully-grown troll was not what she had planned. She held the sword down by her leg and circled the creature.

“You cheated,” the troll said, his voice deep and guttural now.

“You’ve been a very naughty boy,” she said.

“Gobble you up. Gobble you all up, yes yes.”

Tanith shot him a smile. “Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough…”

The troll roared and lunged, moving fast despite his size, but Tanith was ready. She slipped to the side and then past him, her sword opening up his thigh. He hissed in pain and swung a massive fist that slammed into her back. She hit the ground hard. He went to stamp on her but she rolled, coming up on one knee and bringing the sword from her side to her shoulder and the blade found his arm.

The troll stumbled back and she got to her feet.

“Gonna bite you,” the troll growled, “gonna bite you into little pieces, yes yes.”

“The game’s not so much fun when you’re playing with someone who can fight back, is it?”

“My bridge,” he snarled. “My game.”

She smiled at him. “My rules.”

Another roar and he dived straight at her and she stood her ground. One swipe of the sword took the fingers on his left hand and he howled in pain and staggered back and she jumped. She planted her feet on his chest and swung, the blade flashing in the bridge’s lights as it took his head. The troll’s body stumbled back and she jumped off. The body hit the barrier and tipped backwards into the river.

Tanith stooped to pick up the head and moved to the barrier. She turned as a man walked up. She had never met him before but she knew who he was. He was tall and bald, and his face was lined and his eyes were a startling blue, the palest eyes she had ever seen. His name was Mr Bliss.

Mr Bliss nodded to the head in her hand. “Risky.”

“I’ve fought trolls before,” she said respectfully.

“I meant the risk you took with being seen.”

“It had to be done. This troll has killed many innocent people.”

“But that’s what trolls do. You can’t blame him for doing what nature intended.” She didn’t know how to respond. Mr Bliss smiled.

“I’m not berating you,” he said. “You’ve done a noble and selfless thing. That is to be admired.”

“Thank you.”

“You puzzle me, however. I have been keeping an eye on your progress over the last few years. It is unusual to find a mage, even an Adept like you, focusing as heavily on physical conflict as you have done. Yet you don’t seek power.”

“I just want to help people.”

“And that is what puzzles me.”

“My mother used to tell me stories about the war,” she said. “I think you may be forgetting some selfless acts of your own.”

Mr Bliss smiled softly. “There is no heroism in war – there are simply things that need to be done. The heroes come later. But I am not here to discuss philosophies.”

He looked at her with his startling blue eyes. “A storm is brewing, Miss Low. Coming events will threaten to turn the tide of power in this world, and so I have left my place of solitude and come here, searching for you. I have a need for someone of your ability and your outlook.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“The sorcerer Serpine is about to break the Truce. If I fail in my endeavours, we will once again slip into war. I need you on our side.”

“It would be an honour,” Tanith said.

“We have much to learn from each other,” Mr Bliss responded, bowing. “Make your way to Ireland,” he said, “and I will be in touch with you soon.”

She nodded and he walked away. Tanith threw the troll’s head into the Thames and, hiding her sword under her coat, walked off in the other direction.

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