Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 1 - 12. Derek Landy

in brown paper and tied with string. Beside that was a black bag.

      “Is that the gear for breaking into the Vault?” she asked. “Is that where we’re going?”

      “Well, to answer your first question first, yes. That bag contains all the equipment needed for a beautifully executed break-in. To answer your second question, no, that is not where we’re going. Before I get to introduce you to a life of crime, I get to introduce you to the Elder Mages.”

      “Crime sounds more fun.”

      “As indeed it is, though I would never condone crime in any of its forms. Except when I do it, naturally.”

      “Naturally. So why are we delaying the fun? What do these Elder Mages want?”

      “They’ve heard that I’ve been dragging a perfectly nice young lady into all manner of trouble and they want to admonish me for it.”

      “Tell them it’s none of their business.”

      “Well, while I do admire your moxie…”

      “What’s moxie?”

      “… I’m afraid that won’t work too well with these fellows. One thing you have to remember about the Elder Mages is that they’re—”

      “Really old sorcerers?”

      “Well, yes.”

      “Worked that out all by myself.”

      “You must be so proud.”

      “Why do you have to report to them? Do you work for them?”

      “In a way. The Elders pass the laws, and they have people who enforce the laws, but there are only a few of us who actually investigate the breaking of those laws – murders, robberies, a couple of kidnappings, the usual. And while I may be freelance, most of my work, and my money, comes from the Elders.”

      “So if they want to wag their fingers at you…”

      “I have to stand there and be wagged at.”

      “So why do they want me to be there? Aren’t I the innocent young girl being led astray?”

      “See, I don’t really want them to view you as the innocent young girl. I want them to view you as the rebellious, insubordinate, troublesome tearaway who has made herself my partner. Then maybe they’ll take pity on me.”

      “Wait, do they even know I’m coming with you?”

      “No. But they like surprises. Almost always.”

      “Maybe I should wait in the car.”

      “In this car?”

      “Ah, good point.”

      “Stephanie, we both know something serious is going on, but as yet the Elders have refused to consider that their precious Truce might be in jeopardy.”

      “And why would they believe me and not you?”

      “Because I go to them loaded with baggage. I have a history and, some might say, an agenda. Besides, tales of horror are always more effective coming from a lady.”

      “I’m no lady.”

      He shrugged. “You’re the closest I’ve got.”

      Skulduggery had another surprise for her as they drove. He pulled into a fast-food place and nodded to the parcel in the back seat.

      “What’s that?” she asked.

      “What do you think it is?”

      “It looks like a parcel.”

      “Then that’s what it is.”

      “But what’s inside it?”

      “If I tell you, I deprive the parcel of its whole reason to be.”

      She sighed. “And what is its reason to be?”

      “To be opened, of course, and to reveal what it’s holding.”

      “You are so annoying,” Stephanie muttered, reaching back and taking the parcel. It was soft to the touch. She looked at Skulduggery. “The clothes?”

      “I’m saying nothing.”

      “Ghastly made the clothes already? I didn’t think he was going to make them at all, not after, you know… the argument.”

      Skulduggery shrugged and started humming. Stephanie sighed, then took the parcel. She got out of the yellow car and walked into the fast food restaurant, making her way to the toilets at the back. Once secured inside a cubicle, she pulled open the string and the parcel unfolded before her. It was the clothes. They were the deepest black, made of a material she had never seen before.

      She got changed quickly, noting how perfectly everything fitted, and stepped out of the cubicle to admire herself in the mirror. The trousers and the tunic, a sleeveless garment with silver clasps, were pretty good by themselves, and the boots fitted as though she’d been wearing them for years. But it was the coat that completed the picture. Three-quarter length, shaped especially for her, made of a material so black it nearly shimmered. She resisted the temptation to leave her other clothes in the toilet, and instead wrapped them in the brown paper and left the restaurant.

      “Surprise!” Skulduggery said when she was back in the Canary Car. “It’s the clothes!”

      She looked at him. “You are so weird.”

      Twenty minutes later they were walking into the Waxworks Museum. The building was old, in dire need of repair, and the street wasn’t much better. Stephanie didn’t say a word as they paid and went wandering through the dark corridors, surrounded on both sides by imitation celebrities and fictional characters. She had been here two or three times as part of school trips when she was younger, but couldn’t see the point of visiting now. They hung back from a small group of tourists until they were certain they were alone, and only then did Stephanie say anything.

      “What are we doing here?”

      “We’re here to visit the Elders’ Sanctuary,” Skulduggery replied.

      “And are the Elders made of wax?”

      “I like coming here,” he said, taking off his sunglasses and ignoring her question. “It’s very liberating.”

      He took off his hat and wig and pulled the scarf from his neck. Stephanie looked around nervously.

      “Aren’t you afraid someone might see?”

      “Not in the slightest.”

      “Well, maybe we should go and talk to the Elders then.”

      “Good idea.”

      Skulduggery moved to one side of the corridor and traced his hand over the wall. “Where is it?” he muttered. “Bloody idiots keep changing it…”

      The tourists came back around the corner and Stephanie went to drag Skulduggery out of sight but it was too late – they had already seen him. A small American boy left his parents’ side and walked right up to him. Skulduggery was frozen to the spot.

      “Who’s that meant to be?” the boy asked, frowning slightly.

      Stephanie hesitated. Now the entire tour was looking at her, including the tour guide. “This is,” Stephanie said, racking her brains for a likely-sounding explanation, “this is Sammy Skeleton, the world’s worst detective.”

      “Never heard of him,” the boy said, giving Skulduggery’s arm a poke. He shrugged and lost interest, and Stephanie watched the tourists carry on. When they were out of sight, Skulduggery swivelled his head to her.

      ‘“World’s worst detective’?” he asked.

      She