by Derek Landy
“We have this,” said Stephanie, taking the Sceptre from her backpack.
Signate’s eyes widened. “Oh, my … That’s the Sceptre of the Ancients, isn’t it? That’s a piece of history. It’s … magnificent.”
“It’s not ours,” Stephanie said. “Our Sceptre was destroyed. This one belongs in the other dimension. We kind of liberated it.”
“Can I … Can I touch it?” Signate asked. “It won’t go off, will it?”
“It’s Deadlocked,” she told him. “It’s bonded to me, so I’m the only one it’ll work for. Can you get a reading from it?”
With slightly trembling hands, Signate reached out, fingertips brushing the Sceptre. He closed his eyes and bit his lip. His fingertips tapped lightly. Then he withdrew his hands, and looked up. “That is tremendously helpful. It would have taken me months to find the proper frequency – now it will only take weeks.”
“You have days,” said Skulduggery. “Do you think you can do it?”
Signate smiled for the first time. “I have always appreciated a challenge.”
Skulduggery stood. “You’ll be out in an hour. Report directly to Administrator Tipstaff. You’re working with us now, Creyfon. Do not disappoint me.”
They left him there and walked back. The silence was beginning to get to Stephanie. It was a peculiar sort of silence. It was sharp. It had angles. It jostled between them, its edges cutting into her. But she kept her mouth shut. Attempting to start a conversation, trying for small talk, would be a defeat. If Skulduggery didn’t want to talk to her, then she didn’t want to talk to Skulduggery.
Even though she did. Badly.
10
GIRLS’ NIGHT OUT
eep within the mountain, Cleavers came and Cleavers died, their bodies crumpling while their energies burst free of their earthly bonds and soared upwards into the heavens. It was a beautiful thing to behold, amid the spray of blood and the mangled limbs, and Darquesse found she could appreciate it on a whole new, artistic level. The squalor and the splendour of existence, displayed before her like a grand diorama.
Tanith wasn’t appreciating it, unfortunately. She leaped and dodged and fought and killed in the shadow of the giant Receptacle that housed all of her fellow Remnants, and she did so with the same look of intense focus on her face that she always had. She wasn’t even smiling. She rarely smiled any more, now that Darquesse thought about it. Curious.
Darquesse wondered what Tanith was making of the grand diorama of existence she was seeing. She had become so pragmatic lately that she would probably dismiss it. That almost made Darquesse sad. If only everyone could see things the way she did. She reckoned people would be a lot happier. She grinned as she stepped between two Cleavers, dodging every move they made. “Did you know that Cleavers fight naked?” she asked as she ducked a scythe blade.
Tanith beheaded a downed opponent. “I did.”
Darquesse nodded, leaned away from a kick, and immediately spun to avoid a grab. “Deep within every training area in every Sanctuary, they have a Combat Circle. They step in there, strip off every item of clothing, and fight.”
The Cleavers kept attacking – not slowing up, and yet not allowing their frustration to show. Impressive. “It’s a huge honour to step into the circle, apparently. It is a challenge that cannot be refused. That’s where they prove themselves, without armour or protection.”
“I know all this,” said Tanith. “I was the one who told you. Years ago.”
Darquesse happily ignored her. “These guys would all have fought naked, at some point. Wouldn’t that have been something to see?”
She suddenly lunged, driving her hand through the chest of the Cleaver nearest to her. The last two closed in, but their scythe blades exploded into rust before they got close. Darquesse flicked her wrists and their necks snapped.
“That was fun,” she said.
“Was it?”
She turned to Tanith. “You didn’t think so?”
“You could have killed them all with a wave of your hand,” Tanith said. “We didn’t have to fight.”
“But you like fighting.”
“Fighting without a reason to fight is stupid. And having someone like you around just takes the fun out of it.”
“Oh,” said Darquesse. “I didn’t know that.”
Tanith put away her sword. She looked up at the Receptacle, a globe 100 metres in diameter, set into a cradle of metal with thick wooden struts. Within the globe, blackness swirled. “You’re really going to let them all out, then?”
“I am,” said Darquesse. She trailed her fingers along the side. “All these thousands of Remnants, your brothers and sisters … They’ve been cooped up in this thing, deprived of even a change of scenery. You remember what it was like to be trapped in that room in the Midnight Hotel, don’t you?”
“Yes I do,” said Tanith. “And I didn’t like it one little bit.”
Darquesse gave her a wicked smile. “You want to be the one to let them out?”
Tanith hesitated. “I don’t know. The longer the Remnant is inside me, the longer I’m me, the less I care about other Remnants. I want to free them, but I don’t … need to. It’s something I wanted to do, once upon a time. But now …”
“Personally,” said Darquesse, “I think it’s important to hang on to things like that. That’s why I’m so determined to keep punishing Ravel. It’s what I wanted to do, once upon a time, and I remember that feeling of satisfaction when he first started to scream. I liked that feeling. I want to preserve it.”
“So you think I should let them out?”
Darquesse shrugged. “Only if you want to.”
“Well … freeing them would be advantageous. We could set them loose to distract Skulduggery and the others while you …”
“While I what?” Darquesse said. “What is it you think I’m doing?”
“I’ve seen the future. I’ve seen what you do to the world. You destroy everything.”
“And that’s what you want, is it? Even now? You want a world where everyone is dead? But then there’d be no people to possess, and no trouble to get into. And we both know how much Remnants love getting into trouble.”
“Darquesse, looking into the future, seeing what you do … it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”
“That was then. What about now?”
“I haven’t changed my mind, if that’s what you’re asking. If you doubt my loyalty—”
“This isn’t about loyalty, Tanith. You’re a different person to who you were.”
“Well, what about you? Only a few days ago you were insisting you had no intention of killing every living thing on the planet. But I notice you’ve stopped correcting me when I say it.”
Darquesse shrugged. “I’m still figuring this all out, and I reserve the right to change my mind. As you should.”
Tanith looked her dead in the eye. “You can count on me.”
Darquesse smiled. “Of course I can. I know that. Pick up our friend, would you? He’s regained consciousness but trying to hide it.”
One of the two last remaining sorcerers in the place heard her, but amusingly he stayed where he was, slumped in the corner where Tanith had knocked him out and shackled him. Now Tanith grabbed his hair, pulled him to his feet. He cried out in pain, and stumbled after her as she presented him to Darquesse.
“And what is your name?” Darquesse asked.
“Maksy,” the sorcerer said, tears in his eyes. “Please don’t kill me.”
“Like we’ve killed all these other sorcerers, you mean? And all these Cleavers? Like we’ve killed just about everyone who was assigned to guard the Receptacle?”
“Yes,” said Maksy. “Please don’t kill me.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” Darquesse said. “I have other plans for you.”
She pressed her hand against the Receptacle. The globe looked like glass but wasn’t – it was a solid energy field, a giant version of a Soul Catcher. She pushed h
er arm through, and the shadows on the other side stirred into a frenzy.
“Ooh,” she said. “Tickles.”
She pulled her arm out, a Remnant in her grip. It twisted and writhed, but couldn’t squirm free. Darquesse noticed Tanith’s lip curling in distaste. “Something wrong?” she asked.
“No,” Tanith said quickly. “Nothing.”
“Don’t make me ask twice.”
A hesitation. “I don’t know, I … I once thought that Remnants were slivers of pure evil. But they’re not, are they? They’re just nasty little unfinished things. The creature you’re holding is nothing but a bundle of sickness that needs a host to become whole. They’re not evil. They’re desperate and pathetic. I’ve seen evil. I know what evil looks like now, and that isn’t it.”
“So what does evil look like?” Darquesse asked.
Tanith glanced at her and said nothing.
Darquesse shrugged, and turned to Maksy. “Open wide.”
He shook his head. He was pale, sweating. Terrified. “No. Please. I have a newborn son. Please. I need to be there for him.”
“Don’t be afraid,” Tanith said. “You can still be you, even when you have a Remnant inside. It won’t even be in there that long. We’ll just need you to carry it around for a day or two, and then it’ll be gone, and you won’t remember any of it.”
“My family—”
“We won’t let you near them,” said Tanith. “You won’t hurt anyone. I promise.”
Maksy tried to pull back as Darquesse approached, but Tanith dug her fingers into his arm, and he reluctantly opened his mouth. The Remnant reached for him, gained purchase, and Darquesse let go and it squirmed in. Maksy staggered and Tanith let him go. His throat bulged for an instant, and then he sagged. Ever so slowly, he rolled his head back, his lips darkening, black veins running under his skin.
He opened his eyes and smiled. “The first thing I see through human eyes in years, and it is two beautiful women. It’s almost worth the captivity, it really is.” He took a moment to breathe in, and then slowly out. “Physical form,” he muttered. “It’s so nice. It’s like coming home. Although this one … Before we release the others, can I go get another host? Someone better looking? Some Remnants go for hosts with power, but I’ve always found that power comes to good-looking people anyway, and … Here, which one of you gorgeous girls is going to help me out of these shackles?”
Tanith hit him and he dropped, unconscious, to the floor.
“You haven’t changed, eh?” Darquesse said, a small smile on her lips. “So, when you were nice to him just now, assuring him that everything will be all right, that was you … what? Being mean and uncaring?”
Tanith ignored the mocking tone. “I just remember what it was like to fear the Remnants,” she said. “There’s no harm in telling someone he’s not going to kill his family if we know he’s not going to kill his family, is there?”
“Harm?” said Darquesse. “No. No harm at all.”
Tanith shrugged. “Then what’s the big deal? We have another captive that we can put a Remnant into and take around with us, and then we can release the others and get out of here while they cause their usual amount of chaos and panic. Job done, right?”
“Job done,” said Darquesse. “I’m glad we got to do this, Tanith. We needed a girls’ night out, didn’t we? This was fun.”
“Yeah,” said Tanith. “This was a hoot.”
11
HONEY, I’M HOME
ife as a woman had its ups and downs.
Ups: people listened to him a lot more. When he had been a man, Vaurien Scapegrace had found it somewhat difficult to be taken seriously. But once his brain had been transferred into the red-haired woman’s statuesque body, everyone seemed to find a lot more time for him. This was good for pub business.
Downs: sometimes he felt as though people weren’t really listening to him. Sometimes he felt as though they’d laugh at any feeble joke he made, just so long as the joke emerged from his new, plump, incredibly soft lips. He also didn’t like the way all those eyes would follow him as he went to fetch a patron’s drinks. It was unnerving.
Walking down the street was unnerving, too. He felt far too self-conscious to be comfortable. He’d left Roarhaven and gone into Dublin the previous week, and that was even worse. All that time spent living apart from the mortal world had made him forget what mortals were like. They didn’t even try to hide their staring. A few of them – random people he passed on the street – had even made comments about his appearance.
And this was acceptable?
He’d seen a lot, had Scapegrace. In his time as the self-deluded Killer Supreme, he’d surrounded himself with murderers and low lifes and religious psychopaths. In his time as the self-deluded Zombie King, he’d surrounded himself with rot and evil and decay and corruption. He had seen a lot of bad things happen. He had encountered a lot of bad people. But these were, in a way, professionally bad people. They were insane or twisted or downright evil, but they carried that air of professionalism with them wherever they went. And they certainly didn’t make catcalls or wolf whistles whenever they saw a passing female whose form they appreciated.
When he’d got back to Roarhaven, he vowed to never again leave unless it was an absolute necessity, because at least in Roarhaven he had a sanctuary. And it wasn’t the huge palace in the middle of the city, either. It wasn’t the one surrounded by Cleavers and ruled by China Sorrows. Scapegrace’s sanctuary was a small house, tucked away in the corner of the south district, and it was here he returned to at the end of another long night in the pub.
He walked through his front door, hung his coat on a hook and went through to the kitchen. He sagged. It had been Clarabelle’s turn to clean, but Clarabelle had a unique way of doing things that made sense only to her. Her way of cleaning, for example, entailed taking everything that was messy and moving it to another side of the room. It took as much time as cleaning would actually take, but the end result was far less useful.
Light footsteps came down the stairs. Clad in a fluffy pink bathrobe and wearing fluffy pink slippers, on which swayed twin ping-pong balls painted like eyes, Clarabelle’s hair was a furious shade of green. “Hello,” she said.
She didn’t launch into a full-blown babble, which was unusual. Very unusual.
“What did you do?” Scapegrace asked.
A series of expressions flitted across Clarabelle’s face. First, there was indignation, then there was resignation, followed by hope, chased by confusion, and finally knocked down and sat upon by innocence. “Nothing.”
“Did you set fire to something again?”
She shook her head.
“Are you sure?”
She frowned, then nodded.
“Where were you just now?”
“Up in my room,” she said. “I was sorting through my favourite socks. I have seven. Snow White had seven dwarves, did you know that? I have seven socks. In a way, I’m kind of like Snow White.”
“Snow White cleaned the kitchen every once in a while.”
“She had little birds and squirrels to help her. All I could find was a hedgehog, but he was useless. I had to do everything myself.”
“Moving things is not cleaning them.”
“Do you want to know what I did wrong?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
Clarabelle scrunched up her mouth, like she did when she was figuring out the best way to say something. Before she could confess, the front door opened and Thrasher walked in.
“I’m home!” he called, even though he could see them both standing in the kitchen.
“Gerald!” Clarabelle said, bounding over to him. Thrasher hugged Clarabelle, wrapping her in his massive, muscular arms. “Did you have a good day? Did anything fun happen?”
“Every day is a fun day when you’re doing what you love,” Thrasher said, and flashed an eager smile at Scapegrace. Scapegrace ignored him, walked to the fridge and left them to their chit-chat. He poured
himself a glass of milk, leaned his hip against the cooker and drank.
It was sad how quickly he’d got used to normal things again. Life as the Zombie King, as self-deluded as he’d been, meant that magic had sustained him and his steadily-rotting body. But after Doctor Nye had placed his brain into its new home, he’d had to deal with the gradual reawakening of natural bodily functions. Normal things like eating and drinking had become astonishing adventures in sensation. A glass of milk was a delight. But now? Now it was a glass of milk again. How quickly it had lost its thrill.
Thrasher and Clarabelle came into the kitchen, still talking. He ignored them. He did that a lot lately. He just couldn’t summon the anger he used to direct Thrasher’s way. It was … gone. It had slowly evaporated these past few weeks. Thrasher had noticed, of course. Thrasher always noticed things like that. But where he had assumed that it was as a result of living a normal life, maybe even of a softening of attitudes and a growing fondness, Scapegrace knew better. The anger was gone because the anger was beaten. There was no point to it any more. It had lost.
Scapegrace was living in the suburbs of a city full of sorcerers. He was no longer deluded enough to call himself the Killer Supreme. No longer dead enough to call himself the Zombie King. He was just another citizen, just a regular guy who’d had his brain transplanted into the body of a beautiful woman. He was normal. He was average. And this was his life.
“Master?” Thrasher said.
Scapegrace brushed his luxurious hair from his face and looked up. “Hmm? What?”
Thrasher and Clarabelle looked at him with real concern in their eyes. The old Scapegrace would have heaped scorn upon them. The new Scapegrace didn’t see the point.
“I was saying that I washed the floor in the pub, just like you asked,” Thrasher continued.
“And I was saying you shouldn’t get Gerald to do that every time,” said Clarabelle. “He’s not your slave.”
