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 sometime.”
With quite a bit of effort, Stephanie pulled open the car door. She wiped the broken glass from her seat, got in, and buckled the seat belt. 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. 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 neighbors 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 instinct 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 okay; if you don’t want to teach me, that’s okay. 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.”
“Okay then.”
“Okay. 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 door frame.
“Good morning,” her mother said as Stephanie got into the car. “Everything okay?”
Stephanie nodded. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”
“You’re looking a little bedraggled.”
“Oh, thanks, Mum.”
Her mother laughed as they drove back toward the gate. “Sorry. So tell me, how was your night?”
Stephanie hesitated, then shrugged. “Uneventful.”
Seven
SERPINE
NEFARIAN 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 rumor 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 he 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 apologize 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 cooperation,” 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 as if 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.
Eight
GHASTLY
STEPHANIE 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 into 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 tied her shoes and went out, the sunshine warm on her face. At the end of her road, she passed the old pier and started toward Main Street. Normality. Kids playing football, riding bikes, and laughing; dogs running about, tails wagging; neighbors talking to neighbors 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 being a target for water-soluble weirdos and a partner with 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 the case of such an item, the owner must be dead before anyone else can take advantage of its powers.
Her attacker and whoever had sent him—they 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 windshield was cracked. Three of the windows were without glass, and the hood 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,” she 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 gossipmongers. 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, realized she wasn’t beside him anymore, and turned on his heel. She crossed her arms. “If you don’t think I can handle it—”
“No, you’ve certainly proven 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 to keep his favorite niece out of harm’s way.”
“Well, I’m in harm’s way, so it’s not your decision anymore.”
“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.”
“Okay.”
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 realized there was no way she could tell. “Why would anyone call themselves Ghastly?”
“A
ll 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. Honorable. 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 choose to live in the world without magic. That way, he could have gone to school and gotten 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, glamors, 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 then 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 Scepter 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 Scepter is and, in theory, how one would go about defending oneself against it.”