by Derek Landy
Thrasher jumped between Skulduggery and Scapegrace. “Master, run! I’ll hold them off!”
“You couldn’t hold off a sneeze,” Scapegrace muttered.
“But I’ll die trying!”
Thrasher lunged at Skulduggery, who pushed him towards Valkyrie, who stepped sideways and tripped him as he passed.
“OK,” Scapegrace said nervously, “how about a deal?”
Skulduggery took out his gun. “What could you possibly offer us?”
“Information.”
“About what?”
“About things. Things on the street. Secret things. Dark things.”
“Such as?”
“Well, I… I don’t know any right now. I mean, we’d have to go undercover for you. We’d be your spies, going places you could never go.”
“I don’t really think you’d be very good at that,” said Skulduggery.
“OK, OK then, how about you making us your back-up? You could have a secret army of zombies—”
“There are only two of you.”
“You could have a secret zombie duo as your back-up, ready at any moment to respond to your call. We could be part of your team, saving the world, beating the bad guys…”
“I think you’d probably betray us. Or just be useless.”
“We wouldn’t be, I promise.” Scapegrace looked like he was going to start crying. “Please. You can’t kill me.”
Skulduggery raised the gun. “You’re already dead.”
“Not really. Not properly dead. I can still do things. I can still think.”
“You won’t even know what’s happened.”
“But… but I want to stay. I’m sorry, all right? I’m sorry for all the bad things I’ve done. Valkyrie, I’m sorry for trying to kill you all those times. Please, don’t let him… don’t let him do this.”
He looked at her with his dull eyes, his burnt face slack and rotting, and for a moment he reminded her of a dead dog by the side of the road. “Skulduggery,” she said, “we can’t kill him.”
Skulduggery’s gun-hand didn’t waver. “And why not?”
“Look at him. It would be different if he was attacking us, but… he’s not.”
Scapegrace held up his hands. “See? I’m not attacking anyone. And neither is Thrasher. Are you, Thrasher?”
Thrasher sat up. “I think I bit off a piece of my tongue.”
“We don’t want to hurt anyone,” Scapegrace said. “We just want to be normal again. I want to live. I want be alive.”
Skulduggery lowered the gun, but didn’t put it away. “Impossible.”
“No, not impossible. There’s a doctor who can help us. Kenspeckle Grouse.”
“And why do you think Kenspeckle can help you?”
“Dreylan Scarab talked about him. He said he was the best in the world. If anyone can help us, he can. Do you know him? Do you think he would help us? Could you set up an appointment?”
“You really want to change?”
“Yes. God, yes. I hate being like this. I just want another chance.”
“Please,” Thrasher said. “It’s Christmas.”
“He has a point,” said Valkyrie.
Skulduggery looked at her. “‘It’s Christmas’ is not an argument. It’s not a reason. It’s just a statement of the obvious.”
“But this is the season of forgiveness.”
Skulduggery holstered his gun. “Fine. You want us to take these two to Professor Grouse, we’ll take them. If he can’t do anything for them, we destroy their brains. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“I’m not sure I like that,” Scapegrace murmured.
Valkyrie smiled. “I don’t care.”
* * *
Thrasher yelped in anguish as a piece of his ear was cut off. Kenspeckle muttered something, probably telling him not to be a baby, as he carefully laid the piece of ear on a Petri dish. Valkyrie stood outside, looking in through the transparent door.
Kenspeckle turned to Scapegrace. “Sit up on the bed,” he ordered, his voice coming through the speaker on the corridor wall. Scapegrace did what he was told, but as the scalpel moved towards his left ear, the ear fell off. Scapegrace looked embarrassed. Kenspeckle examined the ear.
“Is this glue?”
Scapegrace nodded, a little sheepishly.
“And these small holes here – piercings?”
“Staples.”
Kenspeckle sighed, put the ear on a second Petri dish, and left the room. The door slid shut behind him. He joined Valkyrie.
“Well?” she asked. “Can you cure them?”
“I don’t know yet. Theoretically, yes. Zombies were an accident – much like champagne and penicillin, but much less welcome. Necromancers weren’t working on a way to turn people into shambling pieces of unintelligent rot—”
“Hey,” said Scapegrace from the other room.
“—they were trying to return the dead to full life. This is as far as they got. Not complete and utter failure, but look at them – they’re not exactly a roaring success either.”
“I resent that,” Scapegrace said.
“The question is, can I take what the Necromancers have done and go further? Can I complete the resurrection with my own brand of science-magic? That’s what intrigues me. Then there are all the variables. Can I reverse the decomposition? Can I return the body to its natural state? Can I reverse brain death?”
“My brain isn’t dead,” Scapegrace said angrily. “It’s sleeping.”
“All together, a fascinating proposition. Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Valkyrie.”
“My pleasure. I’d keep this door locked, though, if I were you.”
“I intend to.”
Scapegrace jumped off the bed, looking startled. “What? What was that? I’ve got to stay in the same room as him?”
Thrasher did his best not to look wounded.
“This will not do,” Scapegrace insisted. “We are not prisoners, we are guests. And as such, I demand separate rooms.”
“You are my patients,” Kenspeckle said, “and you will do what I tell you. Mr Scapegrace, how much time had passed from the moment you were brought back as a zombie to the moment you infected Gerald here?”
“His name is Thrasher.”
“I refuse to call him that. How long, Mr Scapegrace?”
“I don’t know,” Scapegrace scowled. “Two hours, maybe three.” He jabbed a finger at Thrasher. “And you – don’t get used to being called that ridiculous name.”
Thrasher hung his head.
“Three hours,” Kenspeckle murmured.
“Why is that important?” Valkyrie asked.
“It very possibly isn’t important in the slightest, but as usual I have my theories, and now seems to be an excellent time to test them.”
Scapegrace stalked up to the door. “Concentrate on curing me, OK? That’s the only reason we came to you. That’s your only purpose. Drop everything and focus on bringing me back to life.”
Valkyrie raised an eyebrow at him. “Before anything important falls off?”
Scapegrace glared, and Thrasher cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes.
“And what about you?” Kenspeckle asked, glancing at Valkyrie. “How are you going to spend the rest of the day, while I conduct tests on dead people? Are you going to be fighting? Running? Chasing?”
“Dancing,” she said with a smile. “I’m going to be dancing.”
29
HER GUARDIAN ANGEL
He could still her blood. He ran his tongue over his lips, liking the way it electrified his whole body. It was as if he had a pulse again, a working heart that beat in his chest. It was as if he was alive.
Caelan watched Valkyrie with her family, through the window of their kitchen. He watched her talk and smile and laugh. He was in love with that part of her, the part she didn’t allow him to see. When they were together, her guard was up, she was always careful around him, always wary. But here, at home
, she could relax. She could drop the act. She could be herself. He doubted even Skulduggery Pleasant got to see this side of Valkyrie Cain. He doubted even the great Skeleton Detective knew this part of her.
Caelan sat back against the wooden fence of the garden. Finding her had been easy. Now that he had tasted her blood, there was nowhere she could go that he couldn’t follow. There were many aspects to being a vampire that he hated, but even he had to admit, sometimes his predatory abilities came in useful. Because of them, Valkyrie would never again be alone during the day. While the sun was up, she would always be protected, always watched over.
She didn’t know it yet, but he was her new guardian angel. The only thing left for him to do was to find a way to be around her at night, when the monster within showed its face.
Even his love wasn’t strong enough to protect her from that. Since he had tasted her blood, in fact, the monster had got stronger, more ferocious. In a frenzy, it had torn apart his room in the Midnight Hotel, which was undoubtedly why Anton Shudder had abandoned him.
The day before, he had returned to find that the hotel had already moved on without him. He didn’t blame Shudder. The only part which surprised him was the fact that it had taken so long. Caelan had barely made it to his emergency cage by nightfall, and he’d shackled himself up just as he felt the monster emerging. Just in time.
He didn’t like to think what would have happened if he’d been too slow. His mind, robbed of its reason and superficial humanity, would have focused on Valkyrie, and Valkyrie alone. Caelan knew he would never forgive himself if he harmed her in any way.
It was getting late. The sun would be down soon, and night would swoop in. His insides tearing, he forced himself to his feet. He took one last look at Valkyrie through the window, and jumped the fence.
30
MEET THE PARENTS
Valkyrie smudged her mascara and stormed away from the mirror, cursing. She hated make-up. She hated the fact that she had to wear make-up. Her dress was fantastic, her hair was glossy, her shoes had actual heels. So why did she need make-up? She was going for the bare minimum, but she had still managed to almost poke herself in the eye three times already. Growling, she returned to the mirror to finish the job.
Finally, she was done. Her phone rang.
“Hey,” said Fletcher. “You ready?”
Valkyrie looked at herself in the mirror. Presentable. “Yes,” she said.
“Cool, I’ll be there now.”
“Don’t teleport.”
He paused. “What?”
“Fletch, you can’t teleport into my room. This is a date. You knock on the front door. You meet my parents.”
“You were serious about that?”
“Oh yes. I’ve told them about you. You are my boyfriend, we’ve been going out for three weeks, you used to go to my school, where you were two years ahead of me. You’ve just started college. You’re studying economics.”
“Economics? Val, I know nothing about economics.”
“Neither do my parents. It’ll be fine. Your folks are separated and you live with your dad, somewhere not too close to here. You’re taking me to an under-eighteens’ disco. Say no more about it than that.”
“I really don’t know about this. Val, parents don’t like me when they first meet me.”
“Fletch, nobody likes you when they first meet you. You’re incredibly annoying, remember?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Knock on the front door in a few minutes.”
“How many minutes?”
Valkyrie sighed. “I don’t know. Surprise me.”
She hung up, put her phone in her purse, hung the purse off her shoulder, and went downstairs. Her parents were in the living room, watching TV. The Christmas tree was all lit up, the fire was roaring, and the mantelpiece was filled with cards. Her dad frowned at what she was wearing.
“It’s a little black dress,” she told him.
“It’s a little too little,” he frowned back. “And where’s the rest of it? I can see your knees.”
“Don’t be a prude,” his wife said from where she was sitting. She was far too comfortable, and pregnant, to get up. “Steph, you look lovely. Tell her she looks lovely, Des.”
“Stephanie, you look lovely. I do think the knees are a bit much though.”
“Dad.”
“Des.”
“I’m just expressing an opinion, that’s all. Personally, I think knees should be kept for the eighth or ninth date, or the wedding day. As a nice surprise, you know? ‘Oh, my darling, you have knees! I never would have thought!’”
The doorbell rang, and Valkyrie’s dad barred the way out of the room.
“Sorry, Stephanie,” he said, hiking up his trousers, “but it is a father’s duty to open the door to the first boyfriend. You stay here with your mother and talk about knitting patterns. If I approve of him, and like the cut of his jib, we may even adjourn to my study for brandy and cigars.”
“You don’t have a study.”
“I mean, obviously, the downstairs toilet.”
“And do you even know what a jib is?”
“Of course I do,” he said defensively. “It’s a hairstyle of some description.”
“No, it’s one of the sails on a ship.”
“And how do you know that?”
Valkyrie shrugged. “It’s just one of the things I know.”
“Well, just for that piece of showing off, young lady, you get to wait here while I interrogate your gentleman caller.”
And he was gone. Valkyrie looked back at her mum, who smiled and shrugged. “Let him have his fun,” she said.
Valkyrie strained to hear what was being said out in the hall, but all she could pick up were mumbles. She had a terrifying image of her father and Fletcher, standing there mumbling and looking down at their shoes. But then she heard the front door close, and footsteps approached. Her father led the way in.
“His hair is huge!” he exclaimed.
Fletcher followed him in, looking sheepish but cute in dark jeans and a black shirt.
“Look!” her dad continued, pointing. “It’s just sticking up at odd angles! Like a demented porcupine!”
“Stop teasing,” Valkyrie’s mum said, clambering to her feet. She shook Fletcher’s hand. “Your hair looks wonderful, Fletcher. I’m Melissa, and this is Desmond.”
Her dad glared. “I told him he should call me Mr Edgley.”
“Don’t mind him, Fletcher. You can call him Des.”
“Stop undermining my authority.”
“Sorry, dear. You say something now.”
“Thank you.” Her father peered at Fletcher through narrowed eyes. “What are your intentions towards my daughter then? I hope you don’t think you’re going to be holding her hand or anything. Just because her knees are visible does not mean she is the kind of girl to hold the hand of a strange-haired boy on their first date.”
“No, sir,” Fletcher said, “not at all.”
“Where are you planning to take her?”
“A dance, sir.”
“And yet you brought no flowers, no heart-shaped box of chocolates. It’s been a few years since I was on a date, Fletcher, as you can see by my wife…”
“Oi.”
“…but I still remember the rules. A bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates. Every girl loves them.”
“I don’t like bouquets of flowers,” Valkyrie said.
“Every girl apart from my daughter, naturally.”
“I wouldn’t have minded the chocolates, though.”
“Hear that, Fletcher?”
“Des,” Valkyrie’s mother sighed, “would you please leave the poor boy alone? Fletcher, Stephanie tells us you’re in college. How’s that going?”
“Really well,” Fletcher said, trying to smile. “I’m doing economics. That’s the study of the economy. I love it.”
“Which college?”
“Hmm?”
“Which college do you g
o to?”
Fletcher nodded. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Oh,” Fletcher said, and laughed.
Valkyrie’s parents looked at Fletcher in near bewilderment. Fletcher looked back at them in total bewilderment. Valkyrie shook her head.
“He’s not good with first impressions,” she said sadly. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying. We should go, before he starts to dribble. Fletcher, I expect you have the taxi waiting outside?”
“Um. Yes?”
“Perfect. Mother. Father. He’s not a total idiot. Please believe that. Fletcher, let’s go.”
She led the way out and Fletcher followed.
“You’re going to need a jacket!” her dad called after them.
“I’ll be fine!” she called back, and then stepped outside and gasped at the cold, but kept walking. Fletcher hurried to keep up.
“That went well,” he said.
“The moment we’re out of sight,” said Valkyrie, “teleport.”
A gust of freezing wind tore in across the sea and Valkyrie fought to keep her dress from flying up around her waist. She wasn’t used to dresses.
She stepped out of the queue to see how much further they had to go, and groaned. There were a lot of people waiting to get into Shenanigans, the number one nightspot in Haggard’s neighbouring coastal town. Valkyrie wasn’t sure, but she had a suspicion it was also the only nightspot in Haggard’s neighbouring coastal town, which wasn’t much to brag about.
According to her mother, it had once been an amusement arcade, out here on the tip of the peninsula, practically on the stony beach itself, back before the advent of home computers and games consoles. It had closed down, been extensively remodelled, and reopened as a pub, then a nightclub, then both. Now, finally, it was a nightclub again – a two-storey den of loud music, smoke machines and flashing lights. The place had changed owners more times than it had changed names.
Valkyrie’s parents used to take her here as a child. She played on the rocks, with the smell of the fishing boats coming in with their haul. Tonight, however, the tide was in and the fishing boats bobbed on the waves, and all she could smell was the sea.
She glanced at Fletcher, saw him visibly straining against his own irritation. He hated queues. Getting where he wanted to be instantly was as much a part of his life these days as breathing, and he really resented having to wait in line with other people.