Armageddon Outta Here - The World of Skulduggery Pleasant. Derek Landy

startling streaks of silver, as was his goatee beard. Even his eyebrows, arched to perfection, each had a slash of silver. Apart from the Dracula costume he wore, he looked, Gordon realised, exactly like his author photo from twenty years ago. The crowd fell into a deep and respectful hush.

      “Horror,” Fawkes said, casting his gaze down upon the room. He had a deep, musical quality to his voice that made him sound like an English Vincent Price. “Fear. Dread. These are the commodities in which we trade. In return for the devotion of our readers, we conjure for them the stuff of nightmares.”

      He paused, allowing his words to permeate the air. A tad melodramatic, but Gordon didn’t mind melodrama every now and then – just as long as it didn’t get too pretentious.

      “We are the dark guardians of the soul,” Fawkes continued. “The new millennium is a mere twelve years away, and we stand between Scylla and Charybdis to hold back the tide of apathy and indifference that threatens, even now, to engulf us all. We offer glimpses into madness, we bring their hands close to the black fires of terror … and then we guide them, safely, back to the light. Ours is a noble calling.

      “Where once we would have sat round the campfire telling our stories, now we sit at our typewriters or our word processors. The world is our campfire now – but while you may think we have banished our demons with our modern technologies, with our VCRs and our CD players and our MTV, they still lurk, out there, in the dark. And we are their hunters.”

      He bowed his head and the ballroom erupted in applause. Gordon clapped his webbed hands along with everyone else, glad that he was wearing a fish-mask so no one could see him cringe.

      Fawkes motioned for silence. “And here we are, gathered together on this most special of nights. A lot of you have been here before. A lot of you already stand within the inner circle. You know the secrets. You have reaped the rewards.”

      A low murmur rippled through Fawkes’s audience. People were nodding and smiling softly.

      “But others are here tonight for the very first time,” Fawkes continued. “They stand on the cusp of enlightenment. They stand on the edge of wonder. We have seven uninitiated writers among us, writers who have proven their worth, who are ready to be welcomed into our … family.”

      Fawkes chuckled at the word, and the guests laughed along with him. Gordon didn’t know what the hell he was talking about any more.

      “But all that is still to be revealed,” said Fawkes. “For now, eat, drink, talk, laugh … be merry. And give me a hip hip hooray for horror. Hip hip …”

      “Hooray!”

      They did that three times in all, and Gordon could only blink at the sudden shift in tone.

      Fawkes gave a wave, everyone clapped, and the lights came back on. A few moments later, Fawkes made his entrance into the ballroom and the string quartet started up again.

      Skulduggery looked at Gordon. “The man’s an idiot.”

      Gordon nodded. “He does seem to be idiotic.”

      “I never liked his books. Maybe he’s improved with age, but his early work is derivative with definite signs of pretention. And look, he’s coming this way. This will be a wonderful opportunity for me to make like the character I’ve come as, and disappear.”

      Skulduggery moved backwards into the crowd, and by the time Gordon shifted his position to look around, he was gone.

      The mask was ridiculous. He seized it with both hands, squeezed and pulled, and only managed to shift the eyeholes around to his ear. Now he couldn’t see anything.

      “Help,” he said. He reached out and heard a crash. Another tray of drinks bites the dust. He stepped back, bumped into someone, heard the unmistakable intake of breath that accompanies a well-dressed lady spilling wine down the front of her dress. “Terribly sorry,” Gordon said, spinning quickly, hitting someone else and getting a muffled curse in response.

      Suddenly there was a steadying grip on his arms, and he heard Susan DeWick say, “Hold on there, Fishface. You’re leaving a trail of destruction in your wake.”

      “My head’s on sideways,” he explained.

      “I can see that. Want me to take it off?”

      “If you wouldn’t mind,” said Gordon. “Thank you.”

      He felt her hands take hold of the mask. She twisted and pulled and fiddled, and just when Gordon’s claustrophobia was closing in on him, she yanked the Creature’s head off. Air rushed in, cooling the sweat on his forehead, and he gasped, laughed and ignored the glares he was getting from the people around him.

      “You’re a lifesaver,” he said, and Susan laughed and handed him back the mask.

      “I couldn’t watch you flail about any longer,” she said. “It was funny, sure, but also kind of sad and pathetic.”

      “Sad and pathetic are two of my most charming traits.”

      Susan smiled, a wicked look in her eye, but her response was curtailed by the arrival of Sebastian Fawkes.

      “Susan,” Fawkes said, kissing her hand, “it is so good to see you again. I’m sure it’s been said already tonight by men more charming than I, but you look simply ravishing. Tippi Hedren, yes?”

      “Got it in one,” Susan replied. “Thank you so much for the invitation, by the way. I was just telling Gordon here how much of an honour it is to be at one of your Halloween parties.”

      “Ah, yes, Gordon Edgley,” said Fawkes, shifting his gaze and holding out his hand. “Very good to meet you.”

      “Likewise,” said Gordon, smiling broadly as he removed one of his gloves. The handshake that followed was unsatisfying and dry. “I’ve loved your books since I was old enough to read,” he said. “I don’t wish to embarrass you, but you’ve been a huge influence on my own work.”

      “Have I?” Fawkes said. “I haven’t read your books so I wouldn’t know if I’m supposed to be flattered or insulted.” He laughed. Susan laughed, too, but it was hesitant and accompanied by a frown. “And how are your sales, Gordon? Robust, I hope?”

      “I can’t complain.”

      “Well, you could,” said Fawkes, “but who would listen, eh? Sales can always be better, can’t they? It still astonishes me, even to this day, the kind of tripe that sells. Are you one of these exponents of splatterpunk that I’ve been hearing about lately? Writers who value vulgar gore over genuine chills?”

      “I wouldn’t count myself as such, no.”

      “Dreadful stuff. No finesse to their writing. Violence and bloodshed in graphic detail. Where’s the character? Where’s the theme? Where’s the nuance? Cheap shocks, cheap thrills. Blood spills, cheap thrills, eh?” He chuckled at his rhyme. “I’m sure you’re successful enough, Gordon. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

      “Oh? There’s a sales criterion, is there?”

      “Oh, absolutely,” said Fawkes. “My associates go through the numbers, pick out the writers who are currently in vogue, like you, writers who sell enough books, and their names go on the list.”

      “I feel so special.”

      Fawkes’s smile faded a little. “I’m sorry, Gordon? I didn’t quite catch that.”

      “I didn’t quite throw it.”

      Now Fawkes’s smile was looking decidedly strained. He took a small spiral-bound notebook from his inside pocket, and flipped through it. “Edgley, Edgley … here we are. Gordon Edgley. Writer of, among others, Caterpillars. Oh, dear … was that the book about the killer caterpillars?”

      Gordon reddened. “That’s it.”

      “The killer caterpillars who eat people?”

      “When