Last Stand of Dead Men

“What was it all used for?”

“Never did find out. But for ages I thought every house had another house underneath it, because there were just too many people here, you know? Too many people passing through, and I couldn’t see how they’d all fit. That’s how I got the idea to convert the cellar.”

“There are tunnels connecting this building to the Sanctuary,” Skulduggery said. “There might be more. Buildings under buildings, as you said. Streets under streets.”

“Maybe,” Scapegrace said, and shrugged. “I went looking one day, though. Couldn’t find anything. Although that could have just been because I’m rubbish and nobody likes me for who I am.”

“I like you, Master,” Thrasher said.

“You don’t count,” said Scapegrace.

Skulduggery pressed onwards before the conversation derailed. “All of this was happening after the Torment arrived?”

“No, a lot of it was going on before I ever met him. I convinced him to stay here because, you know, I thought it’d make the other mages respect me if I had someone like the Torment as a friend. But he hated me. He talked to other people. Never me.”

“What other people? Who did he associate with?”

“I don’t know. Everyone. He had meetings. I used to call them secret meetings, but they probably weren’t secret. They were just secret from me. People always wanted to talk to him, but I don’t think he was interested, I think he just wanted to retire. But that didn’t stop them. I remember the first time I saw Madame Mist come into town. At first I really wanted to find out what she looked like behind that veil, but then she creeped me out so much that I started to hide until she was gone.”

“Ever hear him mention the Warlocks?”

“Not that I can remember. Whenever Madame Mist was around, I didn’t go near the three of them.”

“Three?”

“Sorry?”

“You said the three of them.”

“Yes. The Torment and Madame Mist and the other guy.”

“What other guy?”

“I don’t know who he was.”

“Do you remember what he looked like?”

“Sure. He was … well, he was regular height. Might have been taller. Or maybe below average. But anyway, his hair was … there. I think. He had a … face …”

“Do you remember anything specific about him?”

Scapegrace furrowed his brow. “It’s like … it’s on the tip of my tongue, but …”

“Don’t worry,” Valkyrie said. “We’ve been hearing a lot of that lately.”

“Would you be willing to sit down with a Sensitive?” Skulduggery asked. “They can enter your mind and might be able to lift that block.”

“My mind?” said Scapegrace. “No. God, no. That’s the only original part of me I have left.”

“We need to know who that man is.”

“Ask Madame Mist. They were always together. But no psychic is going rooting around in my brainspace, you got that? I have a secret identity to protect.”

Valkyrie frowned. “What secret identity?”

Scapegrace went pale. “None. No secret identity.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about?”

Thrasher grabbed something from behind the bar and hurried over. “Um, Valkyrie, I don’t want to distract you or anything but, uh, this came for you …”

He handed Valkyrie an envelope addressed to the pub, but with her name on top. She opened it, unfolded the letter halfway and read.

“It’s from Cassandra Pharos,” she told Skulduggery. “She’s had a new vision. She wants us to go over there tonight. There’s no date, but … when did this arrive?”

“Yesterday,” said Thrasher.

Valkyrie frowned. “So are we late?”

“We’re dealing with a Sensitive who can see into the future,” Skulduggery said. “She knew when you’d read that. She means tonight.”

Valkyrie opened the letter fully. Her frown deepened. “She says say hello to the vampire for her. What does that mean?”

“Oh, yes,” Skulduggery said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you …”

hey didn’t talk about vampires.

That was a rule Valkyrie introduced right after Caelan had tried to kill her. It wasn’t possible to obey it at all times, of course – there were occasions when talking about vampires was sadly necessary – but for the most part they avoided the subject whenever possible. It wasn’t that Valkyrie had developed a phobia about them, either. She wasn’t scared. The fact of the matter was that she’d fallen into the arms of a gorgeous, brooding vampire, and he’d revealed himself to be a possessive, obsessive psycho.

The reason she didn’t talk about vampires wasn’t simply because of the sheer embarrassment of it all.

And now here she was, accompanying Skulduggery to Faircourt Flats, where vampires were all anybody ever talked about.

To the best of her knowledge, the situation here was unique. The ordinary tenants of the flats provided a constant supply of blood for Moloch and his pack, and in return the vampires kept the area clean from drugs and crime. Moloch’s apartment was on the thirteenth floor, and it was barely furnished. Deep grooves carved the walls. Moloch himself sat in the throne that was his couch, wearing tracksuit bottoms and a silver chain around his scrawny neck. His face was pockmarked but his skin was healthy. He must have fed recently. His eyes never left Valkyrie from the moment she stepped in the door.

“You killed Caelan,” he said.

“He died because of me,” Valkyrie clarified. “So what? You would have killed him yourself if it wasn’t for the vampire code.”

“Maybe,” Moloch said, “but I didn’t kill him, did I? You did. And so you’ve officially joined the ranks of the Fearless Vampire Killers, up there with Blade and Buffy and other anti-vampire propaganda. You must be so proud.”

“I didn’t want him to die.”

“I’m sure you did everything in your power to save him,” said Moloch, and looked at Skulduggery. “Is that why you brought her? To send a message or something? Is this your version of a sneaky little threat?”

Skulduggery shook his head. “Sneaky little threats are not my thing. I threatened someone once, but I was too subtle about it, so when it came time to throw him off the cliff, he looked awfully surprised. These days when I threaten someone I do it loud and blatant, just to make sure my point has been taken. It could be argued that Valkyrie is responsible for the death of a vampire, but how many have I killed over the years? Vampires die, Moloch, and it’s usually people like Valkyrie and me who are around to make sure it happens. May I sit?”

“The armchair’s for friends.”

“Do your friends ever wash? That cushion looks like someone congealed into it. I’ve changed my mind – I’ll stand. Thanks for the offer, though.”

“I didn’t offer.”

“But it’s the thought that counts and that’s the important thing. Moloch, you must know why I’m here.”

Moloch chewed on something. Valkyrie didn’t want to guess what it could be. “This war thing.”

“This war thing, exactly. We have a lot of trouble headed our way.”

“What’s this we business, pale-face?”

“We’re all in this together, I’m afraid.”

Moloch laughed. “We don’t have anything to do with you sorcerers. We keep to ourselves, we don’t bother no one, and no one bothers us.”

“And what if the Supreme Council takes over?” Skulduggery asked. “Do you think you’ll be able to continue with your peaceful co-existence? You know who’s one of the driving forces behind the Supreme Council? Grand Mage Wahrheit. And you know how much he loves you bloodsucking types.”

Moloch scratched himself. “Looks like I’ll just have to cross my fingers and hope you wand-waving types save the day at the last minute, then.”

Skulduggery shrugged. “And if we fail?”

“We’re all screwed.”

“You could help make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Moloch laughed again. “This is rich, this is. You people hate us. You despise us. Most of you don’t even rate us as anything above animal.”

“How about we change that? I’ve come to you with a proposition.”

“This’ll be good.”

“We’ll help you with your serum supplies. I know how hard it is these days to find exactly what you need in large enough quantities. We can even manufacture the serum at a consistently safe level.”

“That so? Serum, eh?”

“A lifetime’s supply,” said Skulduggery. “In exchange for your help against the Supreme Council.”

“So we put ourselves in the firing line – and I assume you’d be using us as a first wave of attack kind of thing, not much more than cannon fodder – and as a reward we get all the serum we need to stay human when the sun goes down.” Moloch sat forward, resting his bony elbows on his bony knees. “Do you know how much I hate being human? Do you know how uncomfortable it is at night, being unable to split my skin and emerge? It’s like I have ants crawling inside my flesh. And my skin, it gets so tight it gives me headaches. My gums hurt. They bleed. My teeth want to grow, but they can’t. My fingernails want to lengthen, but they’re held back. All I want to do is lose myself, but my thoughts jingle and jangle inside my head. And you want to give us more serum? No thanks.” Moloch settled back into his couch. “We want more territory.”

Skulduggery tilted his head. “I’m sorry?”

“Look at the good we’ve done for our local community. Crime is down. Vandalism is down. We protect the people and the people protect us. We’ve demonstrated what we can do and we’ve proved that we don’t need you sorcerers looking over our shoulders when we do it. We want more territory.”

“How much more?”

“Another housing estate.”

“Mortal housing estates are not ours to give.”

“We’re not asking you to give it to us. We just want you to not interfere when we make our move.”

“And how exactly would you be making your move? An army of vampires swarming—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Moloch said. “We’d do it slowly, winning over one person at a time. What, you think we haven’t been asked? People see what we’ve done for the residents here. They might not know the full extent of who we are, but they know a good deal when they see it. They want us to spread our influence in their direction. If you agree to that, the vampires will fight on your side.”

“I don’t have the authority to make that kind of deal.”

Moloch laughed. “Like hell you don’t. You might think we’re out of the loop over here, but I have my sources. You may not be an Elder, skeleton, but you run that Sanctuary as much as anyone. They’ll listen to you if you tell them to agree.”

“I’ll inform them of your proposal.”

“You do that.”

Valkyrie followed Skulduggery to the door.

“Oh, girl?” said Moloch, and she turned. He gave her a shark’s smile. “We remember those who have vampire blood on their hands. There’s a stink about them that never quite goes away.”

“Whoever said I wanted it to?” Valkyrie asked, and walked out.

exter Vex didn’t complain when he was shackled. He didn’t complain as he was loaded into the van, or even when he was hauled out. He didn’t complain about all the shoving and pushing and rough treatment as he was escorted into one of the American Sanctuary’s support posts in rural Connecticut. He didn’t complain about any of it. The same could not be said for his companion.

“I’m going to sue every last one of you,” Caius Caviler raged after his head smacked into the wall for a second time. “I’m going to introduce the mortal procedure of a lawsuit into the magical community and then I’m going to sue you and take everything you own.”

The man shoving him was big and broad and not in a very good mood. His name was Grim. He was an English sorcerer who’d been Quintin Strom’s bodyguard the day the Grand Mage had been assassinated. He’d been fired shortly afterwards, and now here he was in America, trying to restore his honour by being as big a jerk as possible.

Vex was in America. He felt it only right to use American insults.

The sorcerer behind Vex was a much calmer fellow. Swain, his name was. Vex had never met him before and, while he was blissfully unconcerned with Vex’s comfort, at least he wasn’t shoving him face first into walls.

“This is an illegal arrest!” Caviler went on. “You can’t put shackles on someone just because of their nationality! We have rights!”

Grim shoved him into another wall. Caviler rebounded, went quiet. He sucked at his bloody lip.

They reached two rows of cells with old-fashioned iron bars in place of walls, and each bar inscribed with a binding sigil.

“In here,” Swain said, nudging Vex towards the nearest one. Vex walked in and Swain locked the door. Grim pushed Caviler into the cell next to him, and Caviler stumbled to his knees beside the bunk.

“Enjoy your stay,” Grim said, and went to leave.

“Big man,” Caviler muttered.

Grim turned. “What was that?”

Caviler got to his feet and looked Grim dead in the eye. “You’re a big man when the other guy’s handcuffed, aren’t you? Big, tough man. I don’t think you’d be so tough if my hands were free.”

“Oh, you don’t, do you?”

“Caius,” Vex said, shaking his head.

“Maybe I should take the cuffs off, then,” said Grim.

Caviler smiled, showing bloody teeth. “By all means.”

Swain took hold of Grim’s arm, tried to pull him out. “Come on, we don’t have time for this.”

Grim shook himself free. “No, no, Mr Caviler here wants a fair go. It’s only right that I should give him the chance.” He took the key from his pocket and threw it at Caviler’s feet. “Well? Come on now. There’s the key.”

“And the moment I go to pick it up you kick me in the face?” Caviler said. “I don’t think so.”

Grim stepped out of the cell. “There. Now you have loads of room.”

Caviler chuckled. “You are smarter than you look. That’s not hard, I’ll grant you, but even so. Once that key is in my hand, you’ll be able to shoot me for attempting to escape. Unfortunately, Mr Grim, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

Grim shrugged, took his pistol from his holster and held it out to Swain.

“What the hell are you doing?” Swain asked. “We have to go. Put the gun away. I’m not taking your damn—”

Grim pointed the gun at Caviler and Swain snatched it off him.

“There,” Grim said to Caviler. “I’m unarmed.”

Swain tried pulling Grim back, but Grim turned, shoved him, his face suddenly red with anger.

“If you don’t walk away with me right this moment,” said Swain, “I’ll bring the Cleavers in here and they’ll drag you out.”

“If that’s what you feel you have to do,” said Grim.

Swain stared at him, then glanced at Caviler and then Vex, and walked away.

Grim stepped into the cell, closed the door, and smiled at Caviler. “Pick up the key.”

“Don’t,” said Vex.

“Go on. Free yourself. Be a man.”

“Caius, do not pick up that key.”

Caviler licked his lips. His hand reached downwards slowly. Grim didn’t move, not even when Caviler lifted the key off the ground and straightened up.

Grim stepped forward suddenly and Caviler flinched back, and Grim laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. Caviler’s eyes narrowed, and he worked the key until the cuffs fell.

“Put them back on,” Vex ordered. “Caius, put the handcuffs back on right now. Do it.”

“Caius doesn’t take orders from you,” said Grim. “Caius Caviler doesn’t take orders from anyone. Look at him. Look how strong he is. He’s going to teach me a lesson and no mistake. When the cuffs were on, I could hit because I knew he couldn’t hit me back, but now … now I’m scared. Look at how scared I am.” Grim’s smile broadened. “What was that you were saying, Caius? Big, tough man, wasn’t it? Well, your hands are free. Time to show me what a big, tough man really is.”

Grim took another step towards him. Caviler backed up.

“Teach me a lesson,” said Grim. “Come on.” He reached out, poked Caviler’s chest. “Let’s go.” He poked again, and again.

Caviler swung a punch that slapped uselessly off Grim’s jaw.

“Good boy,” whispered Grim, and replied with a punch to the ribs that lifted Caviler off his feet.

Caviler fell back, wheezing, and Grim struck him in the face so hard he cracked his skull off the iron bars. Caviler threw himself forward and Grim laughed, shot a knee into Caviler’s gut and tripped him as he staggered.

“That’s enough,” said Vex.

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” said Grim, and he clapped his hands as Caviler got up. “See this? Heart of a lion, this guy! You can hit him, you can kick him, but he keeps on tickin’!”

Caviler went to swing another punch, but Grim stepped in and headbutted him.

“My turn,” said Vex. “Come on, Grim. He’s had enough. You want to beat up someone, beat me up. You’re going to kill him.”

“He should’ve thought of that before he provoked me,” said Grim, twisting Caviler’s arm behind his back. “Say uncle. Come on, tough guy. Say uncle.”

“Uncle!” Caviler cried.

Grim cocked his head. “Sorry, what was that? Didn’t quite hear you.”

“Uncle!”

“Still not hearing right,” said Grim, and he wrenched Caviler’s arm back and Vex heard the snap of bone, and Caviler shrieked and thrashed, but Grim still wouldn’t let him go. “Next time you find yourself arrested,” he said, “keep your bloody mouth shut, you understand me? This here is you getting off lightly.”

Grim released him and Caviler swung blindly, his elbow crunching into Grim’s nose. Grim bellowed, grabbed Caviler again and wrapped his arm round his throat, hauled him back in a vicious sleeper hold.

“Let him go!” Vex shouted. “He didn’t mean it, Grim! Look at him! He’s beaten! Let him go!”

Caviler’s face was already turning purple. His ruined arm flapped uselessly by his side, while his legs kicked and his good hand scraped at Grim’s arm. Grim tightened the hold even more, walking backwards the whole time. Caviler’s legs stopped kicking. The heels of his feet dragged across the floor. Both arms hung limply.

“Let him go,” said Vex. “You’re killing him. Grim, let him go. Release him. Grim!”

Grim’s eyes widened, and he opened his arms and Caviler fell. The colour drained from Grim’s face.

Footsteps approached and Swain walked back in, two Cleavers in tow. When he saw Caviler, he ran forward, yanked open the cell door and dropped to his side, checked for a pulse.

“Get a doctor,” he told one of the Cleavers, and then he stared up at Grim, disbelief etched into his face. “What the hell have you done?”

photograph of Valkyrie Cain was pinned to the exact centre of the wall. Radiating outwards and linked by different coloured thread were names, locations, dates and more photographs. Along the blue thread were pictures of Valkyrie’s family, including a publicity shot of the late horror writer Gordon Edgley. Red threads meant public incidents, and these threads linked newspaper reports and Internet printouts. The green thread led straight to a series of pictures of tall men in good suits, all under the banner of Skulduggery Pleasant. There were shots of a heavily scarred man, a black Bentley, and various other individuals. Some of these pictures were too blurry to make out, but most were of relatively high quality. The system for cross-referencing had started out as simple, but, as more information was collected, it had got decidedly complex.

“I don’t get it,” said Patrick Slattery, scratching his beard in that way he did. “You’re saying that all of these guys are Skulduggery Pleasant? How does he manage that?”

Kenny Dunne collapsed into his tattered old armchair. “I don’t know, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Slattery looked sceptical. It had become his default look over these past few months. “Really? The only thing that makes sense is that all of these men we’ve been photographing are the same person? That makes sense to you? They look nothing alike.”

“They’re all tall, thin and have the same taste in well-tailored clothes. And look at their faces. The skin and hair might be different, but the bone structure’s the same.”

“He wears disguises, then,” said Slattery. “For no reason, every day he wears a different disguise.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Who knows with these people?”

Slattery shook his head, more to himself than to Kenny. “So why is he called the Skeleton Detective?”

“For the last time, I don’t know, all right? Probably because he’s so thin. I don’t have all the answers.”

“You don’t have any of the answers.”

Kenny didn’t have a violent bone in his body, but there was nothing he would have liked to do more at that moment than jump up and smack Slattery right in the face. “I’m making educated guesses. It’s the only thing we can do with the information we have.”

Slattery hesitated, then turned from the wall and looked straight at Kenny. “We need to have a talk.”

“We’re talking now.”

“We need to have a serious talk about what we’re doing here.”

Kenny’s hand fluttered an invitation. “Go right ahead.”

Slattery sat in the tattered old couch that had come with the tattered old armchair. “It might be time to rethink things,” he said. “When you came to me with this, I thought you’d cracked. I honestly thought you’d gone mad. Magic people and possession and super-powers. I thought to myself, Kenny’s gone round the bend. He’s lost it. All those years chasing stories have led him into the nuthouse. I thought you’d want me and my camera down the bottom of some garden, ready to photograph fairies or something.”

Kenny nodded. “Happy to know you had so much faith in me as a journalist.”

“But then when you showed me what you had and, when I saw it for myself, I thought, holy cow, we’re going to change the world. Politics, religion, society – it’s all going to be turned on its head. And we’re the ones who are going to do it.”

“Nothing’s changed since then.”

“Well, that’s it exactly,” said Slattery. “Nothing has changed. We had a few good months of following Valkyrie around, a few good months of collecting information and names and linking stuff up … and then it all slowed down to a crawl.”

“A crawl? Have you been reading the papers? Something’s going on. Unexplained destruction of property, unexplained disappearances, sightings of—”

“Kenny,” Slattery said, “please. Come on. How does this help us? If we had a team, fair enough. But there’s only two of us. By the time we get to the scene, it’s like nothing ever happened.”

“We just have to be patient.”

“You need to go back to work.”

“I am working.”

“You need to work on a story that will get you paid. You’re living on scraps, for God’s sake. I need to get paid, too.”

Kenny frowned. “That’s what this is about? You want money?”

“I don’t want money, I need money. I have bills to pay.”

“When we release what we have, we’ll be rich beyond our—”

“Release what?” Slattery said, barking a laugh. “We have photographs of people and coloured thread on a wall.”

“You seem to be forgetting the recorded footage we have of Valkyrie Cain and Fletcher Renn fighting a monster.”