by Derek Landy
"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."
Chapter 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? Of 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.
Chapter 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 stil
l, 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?"
"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. 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."
They parked and got out. The neighborhood 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 passerby will stop and have a look around."
"Well, you've succeeded."
"You should be realizing by now that looks are, more often than not, deceiving. A neighborhood like this, with its graffiti and litter and squalor, is the safest neighborhood 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 Tailors, 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," he 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 back room and smiled when he saw them. 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 favorite color?" he asked her.
"I'm sorry?"
"To wear. Any preference?"
"I'm not sure I understand. ..."
"Not all the clothes I make are merely examples of exquisite tailoring. Sometimes, if the situation arises, special requirements are catered to."
"Such as keeping you safe until this whole thing is over," Skulduggery said. "Ghastly can make you a suit, nothing too formal, that 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 favorite color to wear?"
