Skulduggery Pleasant: Mortal Cole (9 page)

“Ah,” said Ravel.

“Oh,” said Skulduggery.

“Sorry, fellas,” Corrival said, “but if I have to suffer through this ridiculousness, then so do you. Both of you are controversial figures, but I fought with your unit on the battlefield, and I’ve never known such bravery and honour. Erskine, you like spending money way too much, but you’ve been my trusted confidant for the last hundred years, and I don’t think there is anyone who is going to deny that you would make an excellent Elder. You’re wise when you need to be, and impulsive when you have to be.

“Skulduggery, my old friend, I daresay a lot of people are going to object to your nomination.”

“Myself included,” Skulduggery answered.

“You make more enemies than friends, which isn’t saying an
awful lot, but you also make the difficult decisions. You always have. That’s all I’m going to say on the matter. The rest is up to the voters. As duly elected Grand Mage, I now call a halt to proceedings, as I have a crossword to do and some cakes to eat.”

Without waiting for a response, Corrival turned and walked from the room.

“I was not expecting
that,
” Ravel said in a low voice.

“I’ll vote for you,” Skulduggery said, “so long as you promise
not
to vote for me.”

Ravel grinned. “And let you miss the fun? Not on your life, dead man.”

As they were walking for the Bentley, Valkyrie caught sight of a pretty blonde girl standing by a long, black car. “Back in a minute,” she said to Skulduggery, and jogged over to the girl, trying her best not to smile too broadly.

“Hi Melancholia,” she said brightly.

Melancholia scowled. She was four years older than Valkyrie, tall, and she wore black Necromancer robes. From the very start, Melancholia had never made a secret of the fact that she despised Valkyrie utterly. Valkyrie, for her part, thought this was astonishingly amusing, and revelled in the many opportunities she had to annoy the older girl.

“What you doing?” Valkyrie asked, smiling a friendly smile.

“I’m standing here,” Melancholia responded, not looking at her.

“And a fine job you’re doing of it, too. Do you know where Solomon is? He said he was going to come today, but I didn’t see him.”

“Cleric Wreath is on an assignment.”

“Cool. What kind?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it exciting?”

“I don’t know.”

“Right. So you’re just waiting here for the others, then? Waiting for ol’ Tenebrae?”

Melancholia stiffened. “You should show more respect for the High Priest. You should use his full title when referring to him.”

Valkyrie shrugged. “High Priest Tenebrae just takes so long to say, you know? I usually just call him Tenny. He likes that.”

“If you were truly one of us, you would be severely disciplined for such behaviour.”

Valkyrie frowned. “Do you really talk like that, or are you just putting it on?”

Melancholia finally looked at her. “You are mocking me?” she snarled.

“Is that a statement or a question?”

Melancholia was taller than Valkyrie, and she loomed over her. “I should punish you myself, on behalf of the High Priest.”

“I don’t think Tenny would like that very much.”

“You are
not
our saviour.”

“Solomon seems to think I am.”

“Cleric Wreath has spent too long out in this decadent world. He’s lost his objectivity. He looks at you and he sees the Death Bringer, whereas everyone else looks at you and sees a pathetic little
child.
”

Valkyrie grinned. Despite how sinister it sounded, the Death Bringer was a title that she was beginning to actually like. She found Necromancers creepy on a very fundamental level – Solomon Wreath aside – but even so, it was nice to be thought of as a possible saviour. Certainly, it was a change from having to think of herself as Darquesse. The chance, no matter how slim, that instead she might turn out to be the Death Bringer was a source of comfort to her. Two possible destinies – one where she saves the world, and one where she ends it. Her future couldn’t get any starker than that. “Maybe I
am
the Death Bringer,” she said.

“Don’t be absurd. You’ve been studying Necromancy for just over a year. I’ve been studying death magic since I was four years old. You’re nothing compared to me, or anyone like me.”

“And yet,” Valkyrie interrupted, “I’m the one they’re all making a fuss of.”

Melancholia scowled. “You’re nothing but an Elemental
playing
at being a Necromancer.”

“And you’re a Necromancer, through and through. You’ve wanted to be nothing else your entire life. And yet, I’ve been invited to all the important meetings and you get to stay out here and mind the car. I’ve been told things about your art and your religion that you won’t be told for another year or two.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Is it? When were you told about the Passage?”

Melancholia hesitated. “I learned about the Passage when I was ready, when I had completed my studies on over three dozen—”

“It was pretty recently, wasn’t it?”

Melancholia gritted her teeth. “Yes.”

“See, I was told about it ages ago. Now, I’m not saying I’m an expert. In fact, I have loads of questions about the whole thing. You must have noticed that some of it just doesn’t seem to make any sense. Your religion is based on the idea that when
you die, your energy passes from this world to another one, right?”

“It’s not an
idea,”
Melancholia said tersely. “It’s a scientific
fact.
”

“It’s little more than a theory,” Valkyrie countered. “But I’m OK with that. So you guys are waiting for the Death Bringer to come and collapse the wall between the two worlds, so the living and the dead can exist in the same place, at the same time, meaning that there will be no more strife, no more war, and everyone will live, or at least exist, happily ever after.”

“Yes,” Melancholia said.

“And yet, no one has told me how this is possible.”

“You can hardly expect to understand the advanced stages of our teachings, if you do not have the patience or the skill to master the basics.”

“Do
you
know how it’s possible?”

“I will. Soon. Once I experience the Surge, once I am locked into Necromancy for the rest of my life, all of its secrets will be laid open for me.”

“Oh, that’ll be nice. I still don’t know if it’s for me, though. I really don’t want to draw my power from death, and that’s basically what Necromancy is. I’d rather not have to rely on other people’s pain to use magic.”

“I hardly think it will be up to you. The sooner the Clerics realise what a mistake they’re making, wasting their time on you, the better. Then you can run along with your skeleton friend and have lots of fun together, and you can leave the important stuff to us.”

“Sometimes I get the feeling that you don’t like me.”

“Trust your feelings.”

“So we’re not going to be friends?”

“I’d rather gouge my own eyes out.”

Valkyrie shook her head sadly, and started to walk back to the Bentley. “Your leaders are looking to me to be their saviour, Melancholia. You might have to learn to love me.”

Melancholia’s voice was laced with venom. “You are
not
our saviour.”

Valkyrie looked at her over her shoulder, shot her a smile. “Better start praying to me, just in case.”

B
ack when Vaurien Scapegrace was alive, he had briefly owned a pub in Roarhaven that catered, almost exclusively, for sorcerers. That had been before he’d found his true calling as a Killer Supreme and, later, as the Zombie King, but he’d enjoyed it nevertheless. He knew there were pubs and clubs and bars around the country, around the world, whose clientele were magical, but he liked to think that his pub offered something a little different. A home away from home perhaps. A refuge from the pressures and stresses of modern living.

But now that some time had passed, now that he was viewing it all with a more objective eye, he realised what it was that his pub had really offered. It had offered dim lighting, bad drinks, grumpy bar staff and a toilet that smelled of wet cabbage. There was absolutely nothing to take pride in. Nothing to feel good about. But that, of course, was the whole point. Sorcerer pubs were bad pubs by necessity. If they were good pubs,
everyone
would be going to them.

Sitting in this particular sorcerer pub in Dublin, Scapegrace reflected on the trials and tribulations he had gone through as a living man, and hoped that by the time this night was done, he would be a step closer to being a living man once again.

Thrasher came through the sombre crowd, spilling someone’s drink and apologising profusely before arriving at Scapegrace’s table. “Some men are here,” he said urgently. “They say they know you.”

Scapegrace leaned back in his chair. “Let’s see them.”

Thrasher nodded, turned, but the crowd was already parting for the six newcomers. Scapegrace did indeed know them. Lightning Dave sidled up on Scapegrace’s right, playing with a bright stream of electricity that crackled between his fingertips. His hair stood on end, and his features had settled into a permanent smirk.

Beside him was Hokum Pete. Hokum Pete had been born in Kerry, but harboured a well-known and widely ridiculed desire to be seen as a Wild West outlaw. He liked to wear cowboy boots and long duster coats, and today he had a six-gun holstered low on his right leg. His hand flashed and the gun cleared the holster. He started to spin it around on his finger, like that was going to impress anyone.

Thrasher gave a delighted “
Oooh,
” and Scapegrace fought the urge to hit him.

To Scapegrace’s left was a pair of sorcerers who had never managed to garner much of a reputation for themselves. They weren’t powerful and they weren’t smart, and Scapegrace could never remember their names.

Brobding the giant, bringing up the rear, had to hunch over to even fit in here, and the man who stood right in front of Scapegrace was Hieronymus Deadfall. Deadfall had been a mercenary, had fought in a few wars, both magical and mortal, before returning to Ireland and settling down in Roarhaven, where he had stolen Scapegrace’s pub from under him. Not that Scapegrace held a grudge or anything.

“Hello, moron,” said Scapegrace.

“My God,” Deadfall responded. “It’s true. Everything they said is true. You’re a shambling pile of decomposition.”

Hokum Pete sniggered, and Scapegrace sat up a little straighter. “I am the living dead, if that’s what you mean, yes. What can I do for you, Hieronymus? I assume you’ve heard about the auction.”

“We heard,” Deadfall nodded. “So you know where the Skeleton Detective lives?”

“Yes, I do. You want revenge, for the time he smacked you around your own pub? This is how you do it. Catch him unawares. Or you can sell the information to someone else. His little partner will probably be there too.”

“Cain,” snarled one of the sorcerers whose name Scapegrace couldn’t remember.

“This information is worth a lot,” Scapegrace continued, “but all I’m looking for is information in exchange. Kenspeckle Grouse. I want to know where to find him.”

It was all going so perfectly, and Scapegrace had to resist grinning in case any more teeth fell out. He’d give up the Skeleton Detective’s location, and in return he’d find Kenspeckle Grouse and get himself fixed. It was, he had to admit, one of his more brilliant plans.

“Grouse…” Deadfall said. “The scientist? How the hell would I know that?”

“If you don’t know it, you’re of no use to me. Next! Anyone know where Kenspeckle Grouse is?”

Deadfall smiled. “Tell me, Vaurien, what’s to stop us from just pulling you apart, limb from limb, until you tell us the skeleton’s address?”

Scapegrace didn’t really have an answer for that one.

There were mumblings and mutterings in the crowd as a large man in a long coat passed Deadfall and approached the table. He had his hood up, and beneath it Scapegrace could see metal, like a mask.

“I need to know where Skulduggery Pleasant lives,” the big man said with an accent. Eastern European maybe, or Russian. Scapegrace decided on Russian. It was, like many sorcerer’s accents, one that came from a lot of places over the years.

“Do you have what I need in exchange?” Scapegrace asked, ignoring Deadfall’s scowl.

The head beneath the hood shook. “I have heard of this Grouse person, but I do not know where he lives.”

“Then why are you wasting my time?”

The Russian didn’t answer for a bit. Then he placed both hands on the table, and leaned in. “Because I’m giving you a chance to avoid bloodshed. Tell me where the Skeleton Detective lives and we can all walk out of here. You are a dead man, but there are ways to kill even dead men.”

The conversation had tilted wildly out of Scapegrace’s control in a remarkably short amount of time, with an astonishingly small amount of words.

It was the tone the big Russian was using, a tone that implied that violence was a mere afterthought. Scapegrace didn’t like that one bit. Anyone who did not give violence its careful and rightful due was someone to whom violence was an old pair of shoes – slip on, slip off, think nothing more about it. That wasn’t Scapegrace’s style at all.

“Maybe,” he said, “we can reach a compromise.”

“No way,” Deadfall said to the mysterious Russian. “Listen, pal, a funny accent and a funny mask don’t scare me. We were here first, so you, take a hike.”

The big man turned to him slowly. “You do not want to make trouble with me.”

Deadfall actually chuckled in disbelief. “Scapegrace, take note. After we deal with the funny man here, you’re next.”

Hokum Pete was still showing off with his six-gun. His finger in the trigger guard, he spun it until it blurred, then flipped it, reversed it, slid it into the holster. It barely had time to settle before it flashed out again. He tossed it into the air and caught it as it spun, tossed it to his other hand, still spinning. He threw it over his shoulder and caught it, reversed the
motion and that was when the Russian reached back, snatched it from the air, and shot him point-blank.