Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 1 - 12. Derek Landy

over a year. I’ve been studying death magic since I was four years old. You’re nothing compared to me, or anyone like me.”

      “And yet,” Valkyrie interrupted, “I’m the one they’re all making a fuss of.”

      Melancholia scowled. “You’re nothing but an Elemental playing at being a Necromancer.”

      “And you’re a Necromancer, through and through. You’ve wanted to be nothing else your entire life. And yet, I’ve been invited to all the important meetings and you get to stay out here and mind the car. I’ve been told things about your art and your religion that you won’t be told for another year or two.”

      “Ridiculous.”

      “Is it? When were you told about the Passage?”

      Melancholia hesitated. “I learned about the Passage when I was ready, when I had completed my studies on over three dozen—”

      “It was pretty recently, wasn’t it?”

      Melancholia gritted her teeth. “Yes.”

      “See, I was told about it ages ago. Now, I’m not saying I’m an expert. In fact, I have loads of questions about the whole thing. You must have noticed that some of it just doesn’t seem to make any sense. Your religion is based on the idea that when you die, your energy passes from this world to another one, right?”

      “It’s not an idea,” Melancholia said tersely. “It’s a scientific fact.”

      “It’s little more than a theory,” Valkyrie countered. “But I’m OK with that. So you guys are waiting for the Death Bringer to come and collapse the wall between the two worlds, so the living and the dead can exist in the same place, at the same time, meaning that there will be no more strife, no more war, and everyone will live, or at least exist, happily ever after.”

      “Yes,” Melancholia said.

      “And yet, no one has told me how this is possible.”

      “You can hardly expect to understand the advanced stages of our teachings, if you do not have the patience or the skill to master the basics.”

      “Do you know how it’s possible?”

      “I will. Soon. Once I experience the Surge, once I am locked into Necromancy for the rest of my life, all of its secrets will be laid open for me.”

      “Oh, that’ll be nice. I still don’t know if it’s for me, though. I really don’t want to draw my power from death, and that’s basically what Necromancy is. I’d rather not have to rely on other people’s pain to use magic.”

      “I hardly think it will be up to you. The sooner the Clerics realise what a mistake they’re making, wasting their time on you, the better. Then you can run along with your skeleton friend and have lots of fun together, and you can leave the important stuff to us.”

      “Sometimes I get the feeling that you don’t like me.”

      “Trust your feelings.”

      “So we’re not going to be friends?”

      “I’d rather gouge my own eyes out.”

      Valkyrie shook her head sadly, and started to walk back to the Bentley. “Your leaders are looking to me to be their saviour, Melancholia. You might have to learn to love me.”

      Melancholia’s voice was laced with venom. “You are not our saviour.”

      Valkyrie looked at her over her shoulder, shot her a smile. “Better start praying to me, just in case.”

      

      ack when Vaurien Scapegrace was alive, he had briefly owned a pub in Roarhaven that catered, almost exclusively, for sorcerers. That had been before he’d found his true calling as a Killer Supreme and, later, as the Zombie King, but he’d enjoyed it nevertheless. He knew there were pubs and clubs and bars around the country, around the world, whose clientele were magical, but he liked to think that his pub offered something a little different. A home away from home perhaps. A refuge from the pressures and stresses of modern living.

      But now that some time had passed, now that he was viewing it all with a more objective eye, he realised what it was that his pub had really offered. It had offered dim lighting, bad drinks, grumpy bar staff and a toilet that smelled of wet cabbage. There was absolutely nothing to take pride in. Nothing to feel good about. But that, of course, was the whole point. Sorcerer pubs were bad pubs by necessity. If they were good pubs, everyone would be going to them.

      Sitting in this particular sorcerer pub in Dublin, Scapegrace reflected on the trials and tribulations he had gone through as a living man, and hoped that by the time this night was done, he would be a step closer to being a living man once again.

      Thrasher came through the sombre crowd, spilling someone’s drink and apologising profusely before arriving at Scapegrace’s table. “Some men are here,” he said urgently. “They say they know you.”

      Scapegrace leaned back in his chair. “Let’s see them.”

      Thrasher nodded, turned, but the crowd was already parting for the six newcomers. Scapegrace did indeed know them. Lightning Dave sidled up on Scapegrace’s right, playing with a bright stream of electricity that crackled between his fingertips. His hair stood on end, and his features had settled into a permanent smirk.

      Beside him was Hokum Pete. Hokum Pete had been born in Kerry, but harboured a well-known and widely ridiculed desire to be seen as a Wild West outlaw. He liked to wear cowboy boots and long duster coats, and today he had a six-gun holstered low on his right leg. His hand flashed and the gun cleared the holster. He started to spin it around on his finger, like that was going to impress anyone.

      Thrasher gave a delighted “Oooh”, and Scapegrace fought the urge to hit him.

      To Scapegrace’s left was a pair of sorcerers who had never managed to garner much of a reputation for themselves. They weren’t powerful and they weren’t smart, and Scapegrace could never remember their names.

      Brobding the giant, bringing up the rear, had to hunch over to even fit in here, and the man who stood right in front of Scapegrace was Hieronymus Deadfall. Deadfall had been a mercenary, had fought in a few wars, both magical and mortal, before returning to Ireland and settling down in Roarhaven, where he had stolen Scapegrace’s pub from under him. Not that Scapegrace held a grudge or anything.

      “Hello, moron,” said Scapegrace.

      “My God,” Deadfall responded. “It’s true. Everything they said is true. You’re a shambling pile of decomposition.”

      Hokum Pete sniggered, and Scapegrace sat up a little straighter. “I am the living dead, if that’s what you mean, yes. What can I do for you, Hieronymus? I assume you’ve heard about the auction.”

      “We heard,” Deadfall nodded. “So you know where the Skeleton Detective lives?”

      “Yes, I do. You want revenge, for the time he smacked you around your own pub? This is how you do it. Catch him unawares. Or you can sell the information to someone else. His little partner will probably be there too.”

      “Cain,” snarled one of the sorcerers whose name Scapegrace couldn’t remember.

      “This information is worth a lot,” Scapegrace continued, “but all I’m looking for is information in exchange. Kenspeckle Grouse. I want to know where to find him.”

      It was all going so perfectly, and Scapegrace had to resist grinning in case any more teeth