by Derek Landy
potent to ignore. Vengeous narrowed his eyes, controlling the armor through sheer force of will.
"They'd go to the Sanctuary," the man said.
"That ain't what we're lookin' for," Sanguine responded. "We got people keepin' an eye on the Sanctuary, and they ain 't turned up there. We 're lookin' for somethin' a little more specialist, y'know?"
The man frowned. "Then . . . then maybe they've gone to Grouse."
"Kenspeckle Grouse?" Vengeous said.
"Uh, yeah. He does work for the Sanctuary. They'd bring anything weird to him."
"Where?"
"An old cinema, closed down now, the Hibernian. Are you going to let me go now?"
Sanguine looked at Vengeous, and Vengeous looked at their captive.
"What did you do during the war?" Vengeous asked.
"Uh . .. well. . . not much."
"I know you, Argus."
"No. I mean, no sir, we 've never met. I did some work for Baron Vengeous, but ..."
"You supplied Baron Vengeous with the location of a safe house, when he needed somewhere to lie low for a few days."
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"I. . . yes . . . but how would you -- ?"
"Skulduggery Pleasant tracked him to that safe house, Argus. The information you supplied led directly to his capture."
"That's not my fault. That's . .. it wasn't my fault."
"The safe house was known to our enemies, but in your stupidity, you hadn 't realized that."
"Okay," Argus said quickly, "okay, I made a mistake, and Vengeous got arrested. But Lord Vile, what's it to do with you?"
"I am not Lord Vile," Vengeous said. He reached up and removed the helmet, and it melted into his gloves and flowed into the rest of the armor.
"Oh no," Argus whispered when he saw Vengeous's face. "Oh please no."
Vengeous glared, and Argus shook uncontrollably, and then it was as if his body forgot everything it had ever learned about how to stay in one piece. His torso exploded outward and his limbs were flung to the corners of the room, and his head popped open. His insides dripped from the walls.
Vengeous turned to Sanguine. "The Hibernian Cinema. We're leaving immediately."
The Texan brushed a piece of Argus's brain from his jacket. "And if we happen to encounter any dark-haired
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young girls along the way?"
"You have my permission to kill whomever you deem fit."
Billy-Ray Sanguine smiled. "Yes sir. Thank you, sir."
Chapter Twenty-five
A SMATTERING OF SLAUGHTERING
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NEW YORK. 7: 37 A.M . A man who wasn't there left the comfort of the shadows and strode after the three businessmen. He crossed Bleecker Street, followed them up Hudson, three steps behind them the whole way, and they never even sensed him. They were talking about Sanctuary business, slipping into code words whenever a civilian passed within earshot. They were sorcerers, these businessmen, and important ones at that.
The man who wasn't there followed them to the parking lot off West 13th Street, to their car,
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and when he judged the moment was right, he struck. The businessmen, the sorcerers, saw the air part and a figure blur, but it was too late to raise the alarm, and far too late to defend themselves.
Bologna. 10:51 a.m.
Five of them: young, powerful, and eager to prove themselves. They wore black clothes, leather coats, and sunglasses. Their hair was spiked and their skin was pierced. They liked to think of themselves as goth-punks. No one argued. No one argued and lived, anyway.
Italy in April. It was warm, and sunny. The goth-punks waited around the statue of Poseidon, fighting off boredom by scaring the occasional passerby.
One of them, a girl with no hair and wild eyes, spotted their target as he crossed the square. They moved toward him as a pack, grinning in anticipation.
He saw them and frowned, his step faltering. He started to back away. He worked with the Sanctuary in Venice-- they knew he wouldn't be willing to use his powers out here, in full view of the public.
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He started to run. They gave chase, the thrill of the hunt making them laugh.
Tokyo. 7: 18 P.M.
The woman in the pinstriped suit sat in the hotel lobby and read the newspaper. The suit was deep navy, the skirt stopped just past her knees, and beneath the jacket she wore an off-white blouse. Her shoes matched her suit. Her nail polish matched her lipstick. She was a very elegant, very precise woman.
Her phone, impossibly sleek and impossibly thin, beeped once, alerting her to the time. She folded the newspaper and placed it on the seat as she stood.
Two men, one old, one young, entered the hotel lobby. The woman appreciated punctuality.
She joined them at the elevator. The men didn't speak to each other. While they waited for the elevator to arrive, a foreign couple walked up, in Japan for a holiday, perhaps. The woman didn't mind. It didn't alter her plan one bit.
The elevator arrived, the doors slid open, and they all stepped in. The young couple pressed the button for the eighth floor. The old man pressed
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the button for the penthouse. The woman didn't press any button.
The doors closed, the elevator started moving, and the woman's nails grew long and her teeth grew sharp. She killed everyone and painted the elevator walls with their blood.
London. 9:56 a.m.
Springheeled Jack looked down at the man he was about to kill, and for the first time in his life he wondered, Why?
He wasn't suddenly struck by his own sins. He wasn't having an attack of the conscience or anything pedestrian like that. He wasn't having one of those epiphany things. It was just a voice, that was all, just a voice in the back of his mind, telling him to ask something. But ask what? He'd never had the urge to ask any of his victims anything before. He didn't know where to start. Did he just strike up a conversation?
"Hello," he said, as nicely as he could.
The man was a sorcerer, but not a very good fighter. He lay crumpled in the alleyway and had a scared look in his eyes.
Jack felt uncomfortable. This was a new situation,
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and he didn't like new situations. He liked to kill people. Taunt them, sure. Maybe make a witty remark. But not. . . not talk to them. Not ask them something.
He blamed Billy-Ray Sanguine. Sanguine had taken Jack out of his cell, taken him through the wall, through the ground, and out, into fresh air. He had talked a little, mentioned a hospital in Ireland called Clearwater, something like that, and then he had looked like maybe he'd said too much, so he'd shut up.
Jack hadn't cared, at the time. He'd been freed, after all, and all he had to do in return was kill someone. But the thought was nagging at him: Why? Why had Sanguine wanted this bloke dead?
Jack tried to sound casual. "If someone wanted you dead, hypothetically, what do you think their reasons would be?"
"Please don't kill me," the man whispered.
"I'm not gonna kill you," Jack lied, and gave a reassuring laugh. "Why would you think I was gonna kill you?"
"You attacked me," the man said. "And you dragged me into this alley. And-- and you told me you were going to kill me."
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Jack cursed under his breath. This guy had a good memory.
"Forget about all that," he said. "Someone wants you dead. I'm curious as to why that may be. Who are you?"
"My name is-- "
"I know your bloody name, pally. What do you do? Why are you so important?"
"I'm not important, not at all. I work for the Council of Elders, here in London. I'm just, I help coordinate things."
"Like what? What are you coordinating now, for example?"
"We're . . . sending help to Ireland. Baron Vengeous has escaped from-- "
"Damn it!"
The man shrieked and recoiled, but Jack was too busy being angry to bother attacking him. So Sanguine was working with that n
utter Vengeous again, carrying out his orders as usual. Only this time he'd tried to get Jack to do some of the dirty work.
"I been hoodwinked," he said. He looked down at the man. "If Vengeous is involved, that means all this is about the Faceless Ones, right?"
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"Y-yes."
"I been hoodwinked. That's . . . unprofessional, that is."
"So are you going to let me go? You don't want to help the Faceless Ones, right? So are you going to let me go?"
Jack hunkered down. "I'd love to, pally. I really would. But see, I was sprung from jail, an' I always repay my debts."
"But . . . but by killing me, you'll be helping them!"
"I'll just have to find some other way to get back at 'em, then. No hard feelings."
The conversation came to its natural conclusion with a bit more begging, and then Jack killed the guy, so that stopped too.
Jack straightened his top hat on his head and walked away. He still had a few friends, friends who could transport him where he wanted to go.
And it was such a long time since he'd been to Ireland.
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Chapter Twenty-six
MURDER IN THE NEW MORGUE
STENTOR AND CIVET struggled to move the Grotesquery off the gurney and onto the operating table. The Grotesquery was big, and heavy, and awkward, but most of all it was big and heavy. They had just managed to drag the top half over when the gurney squeaked and moved, and the Grotesquery started to fall. Civet tried to grab it but he went under, and the Grotesquery dropped, very slowly, on top of him. "Help," Civet cried.
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Professor Grouse stormed in. "What on earth are you playing at?"
"It-- it fell," Stentor said, standing to attention.
"I can see that!" Grouse barked. "That specimen is a rare opportunity to study a hybrid form, you imbecile. I don't want it damaged."
"Yes, Professor. Sorry."
"Why were you trying to move it by yourself? Where's Civet?"
Civet managed to raise a hand. "Here I am, Professor."
"What on earth are you doing down there, Civet?"
"Trying to breathe, sir."
"Well, get up!"
"I would, sir, but it's very heavy. If you could maybe grab an arm, or something. ..."
"I'm an old man, you fool. You expect me to lift that monstrosity off you?"
"Not by yourself, no. But maybe if Stentor were to help, then I could wriggle out. It really is getting difficult to breathe under here. I think my lung is collapsing."
Grouse gestured. "Stentor, help me lift."
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"Yes, Professor."
Together, they pulled the Grotesquery back far enough to enable Civet to squirm out.
"I've never dropped a specimen," Grouse said as they grunted and heaved. "I was never pinned by a corpse either, Civet, you remember that."
"Yes sir," Civet said, as he finally managed to extricate himself.
Grouse hunkered down beside the Grotesquery, then took a pair of scissors and carefully snipped a few bandages away, revealing the scarred flesh beneath. "Astonishing," he murmured. "So many parts from different creatures, all merged into the one being. A being born of impossible horrors ..."
Stentor nodded. "It'd be even more impressive if it worked, though."
"Less talking," Grouse snapped, "more lifting. Lift it onto the table. And no more damage to it, you hear? I swear, you're lucky I'm so easygoing. Stentor, bend your knees when you lift, you idiot."
"Sorry, sir."
They strained and lifted, and suddenly Civet let go and jumped back. Stentor clung on, holding the Grotesquery half on, half off the table.
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"What's wrong now?" Grouse demanded.
"Professor," Civet said nervously, "are you sure this thing is dead?"
"It's not a thing, it's a specimen."
"Sorry, sir. Are you sure this specimen is dead? I ... I think it moved."
"Of course it moved. You moved it."
"No sir, I mean, I think it moved on its own."
"Well, I don't see how that could be. The ritual to bring it to life was interrupted-- only a small portion of Valkyrie Cain's blood was transfused."
Civet hesitated, then grabbed a massive arm and helped Stentor slide it farther onto the table.
He leaped away. "Okay!" he said loudly. "Okay, that time I definitely felt it move!"
"A lot of energy was passed into it," Grouse said, frowning. "It may just be a residual spasm. The muscles may simply be reacting to stimuli."
"It wasn't a spasm," Civet said. "I swear."
Grouse looked at the bandage-wrapped body. It was big, and cold, and unmoving. "Very well," he said. "How many Cleavers are stationed here?"
"Three."
"Okay then. Boys, I want you both to go upstairs, tell the Cleavers to come down here, tell
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them we may have a-- "
And then the Grotesquery sat up and Civet yelled and jumped back, but Stentor was too slow and it grabbed his head in its big hand and crushed it like a freshly laid egg.
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Chapter Twenty-seven
RISE OF THE GROTESQUERY
VALKYRIE OPENED HER eyes. Was that a scream?
She sat up and looked out into the corridor. The lights were flickering. She heard running footsteps. Then nothing. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
She got out of bed, her limbs protesting, her arm aching. Her bare feet touched the cold floor. She padded to the small wardrobe built into the wall, where she found her socks and boots. She pulled them on quickly in this darkened room, and she was just shrugging into her coat when she
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heard someone crying for help.
Then a thud, and the crying stopped.
Valkyrie poked her head out the door, looked up toward the morgue, and saw the figure moving through the dim corridor like some kind of puppet with half its strings cut. It moved in a jerky manner, stiff and uncoordinated, but even as she watched, it seemed to move a little smoother, like it was getting used to its own body.
It stepped into a pool of light.
The Grotesquery. It was alive.
She saw the bandages-- so old they might have turned to dust under her gaze-- that had been used to keep it in one piece. She saw flesh between the bandages, and scars, and stitching. Its rib cage looked like it had been cracked and pulled open, so that now each rib punctured through its torso.
It had something that looked like a massive boil growing on the top of its left wrist, and on the underside there was a thick ridge of flesh. Its right arm was huge, the muscles curling impossibly around one another, all the way down to its massive hand. Its fingers were thick, each tipped with a talon.
The bandages covered its face completely, not
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even a gap for the eyes. Here and there black blood had soaked through.
Why was there no alarm? The Grotesquery was alive, but there was no alarm. Valkyrie stepped back, grabbed the chair, and stood on it. She clicked her fingers but nothing happened. Her eyes narrowed. She focused, clicked her fingers again until she made a spark, cultivated it into a flame, and held it up to the smoke detectors. After a moment the sprinkler system activated and the alarm pierced the silence.
She hurried back to the door as three Cleavers ran by. It was only when they got close to it that she realized how big the Grotesquery truly was. It towered above the tallest of them. They were used to dealing with serious threats. They had never seen anything like this.
The Grotesquery batted away the swipe of a scythe and grabbed the first Cleaver by the throat. It lifted him high overhead as it swatted the second Cleaver into the wall. The third Cleaver swung his scythe, and the Grotesquery swung his colleague's body into him. Valkyrie heard bones break.
Three seconds. The Grotesquery had killed three Cleavers in three seconds.
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Valkyrie stepped back inside her room. T
he sprinklers were drenching her. She could run for it. Step out of the doorway, turn right, sprint the length of the corridor to the research area, then get to the stairs. She'd pass through the screen and be running from the cinema before the Grotesquery even saw her. It was still slow; it wouldn't even be able to catch her if it did see her. She could do it. So why wasn't she running?
Valkyrie backed away. She could see the shadow on the wall outside her open door, getting closer. Her legs were unsteady and her arm still hurt. Fear coiled and thrashed in her belly. She felt the wall behind her and pressed herself to it. The darkness of the room didn't seem dark enough. It would see her. No, it didn't need to see her. It had no eyes.
And then it was too late to run, because the Grotesquery was passing the doorway, water running down its body. She could smell it now-- it smelled of formaldehyde and mold. She held her breath and didn't move.
The Grotesquery stopped. Valkyrie readied herself. If it turned to her, she'd launch herself forward, hit it with everything she had, hurl enough
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fireballs to send those bandages up in flames. Like that would be enough to stop it. Like that would be enough to save her.
Its head turned slightly, but not in her direction, as if the Grotesquery was listening for something, beyond the alarm. She suddenly thought of a radar that it could use to sense her-- but a radar that had been unused for so long, it wasn't as sharp as it could be.
She felt her muscles weaken, and a coldness swept into her mind. Terror was robbing her of her strength. The thought that she'd be unable to move seeped in, grew, and festered. The things she had learned meant nothing. The skills, the powers, the magic-- to the Grotesquery she'd be even more ineffectual than the Cleavers it had just killed. Something less than a threat. Something less than an insect.
