Mortal Coil. Derek Landy

I recognised him from his sheer size, and the fact that he wears a metal mask. I’ve never encountered him before. That’s probably a good thing. But let’s not dwell on the new enemy we might have made tonight. Let’s dwell instead on the old enemy we’ve got in the back seat. Hello, Davina. You’re under arrest for multiple counts of murder. You have the right to not much at all, really. Do you have anything to say in your defence?”

      Marr remained unconscious.

      “Splendid,” Skulduggery said happily.

      The Hibernian Cinema stood old and proud and slightly bewildered, like a senior citizen who’d wandered away from his tour group. It had no part in the Dublin that surrounded it. It hadn’t been refurbished or refitted, it didn’t have twenty screens on different floors and it didn’t have banks of concession stands. What it did have were old movie posters on its walls, frayed carpeting, a single stall for popcorn and drinks, and a certain mustiness that agitated long-dormant allergies. The one screen it did possess only ever showed one thing – the black and white image of a brick wall with a door to one side.

      But beyond that screen were corridors of clean white walls and bright lighting, rooms of scientific and mystical equipment, a morgue capable of dissecting a god and a Medical Bay that Valkyrie visited on a worryingly regular basis.

      Kenspeckle Grouse shambled in, dressed in a bathrobe and slippers, what remained of his grey hair sticking up at odd angles. He looked grumpy, but then he always looked grumpy.

      “What,” he said, “do you want?”

      “We have a patient for you,” said Skulduggery, nodding to Davina Marr on the bed beside him.

      Kenspeckle glared at the shackles around her wrists. “Don’t know her,” he said. “Take her to someone else. She’s your prisoner, isn’t she? Take her to one of those Sanctuary doctors, wake them up in the middle of the night.”

      “We can’t do that. This is Davina Marr. She’s the one who destroyed the Sanctuary.”

      Some of the grumpiness vanished from Kenspeckle’s eyes, replaced by a kind of disgusted curiosity. “This is her, then? You finally found her?” He walked closer. “She’s a bit the worse for wear, but I have to admit I’m surprised she’s still alive. Are you getting less ruthless as you get older, Detective?”

      “We didn’t do this to her,” Valkyrie said, not comfortable with where Kenspeckle’s questions were heading. “We saved her, actually. She’d be dead if it wasn’t for Skulduggery.”

      Kenspeckle pulled back one of Marr’s eyelids. “I put that down to your good influence, Valkyrie. But that still doesn’t explain why you haven’t taken her to the authorities. You are, after all, Sanctuary Detectives once again, are you not?”

      “We want to keep this quiet,” Skulduggery said. “Things are too volatile at the moment. If we hand her over to the Cleavers, I doubt she’ll even get a trial. They’ll execute her on the spot.”

      Kenspeckle traced his hands lightly around Marr’s head. “From what I remember, you’ve executed your fair share of guilty people in the past.”

      “I’m not here to argue with you, Professor. The fact is, I don’t believe she was working alone when she decided to destroy the Sanctuary, and I fear that her allies, or her bosses, will try to have her killed before she can name them. I’m fairly confident they’re the ones who hired the assassin.”

      “Ah,” Kenspeckle said, “so it’s not mercy that stays your hand – it’s a grander scale of ruthlessness.”

      Skulduggery cocked his head. “This woman is responsible for the deaths of fifty people, but there are others who also share that responsibility. They’re all going to pay.”

      “Well,” Kenspeckle said, “justice can wait, can it not? Your prisoner has a serious head injury. She’s staying with me until she’s out of danger. It should be a few hours. A day at the most.”

      “She’s going to need someone to stand guard over her.”

      “You think she poses a threat? She’ll be unconscious until I say otherwise.”

      “And what if the assassin comes looking for her?”

      “First he’d have to know who she’s with, then where to find me, and lastly he’d have to get past my defences, for which he’d need an army. Leave me now. I’ll get in touch when she’s strong enough to answer your questions.”

      With nothing left for them to do, they walked back to the Bentley. Valkyrie buckled her seatbelt as they pulled out on to the road. Skulduggery was using the façade again. Ghastly Bespoke’s façade gave him his own face every time, minus the scars, but Skulduggery hadn’t been able to decide on one look, so China made it so that his façade changed every time. Same cheekbones, same jaw, but all the rest was brand-new.

      “Could you drop me off at Gordon’s?” Valkyrie asked.

      Skulduggery raised an eyebrow – a newly acquired skill. “You don’t want to go home to Haggard?”

      “It’s not that, it’s just that I haven’t been to Gordon’s in a while, and it’s nearly Christmas. Around this time every year when I was a kid, we’d go up there, to his big house. I loved that part of Christmas, because, finally, someone would talk to me like I was a person, you know? A grown-up person, not a child. That’s what I loved about him the most.”

      “Ah, there it is,” Skulduggery said, and nodded.

      “Sorry?”

      “That, right there. That story you just told. That little excerpt from your life. That’s the most annoying thing about Christmas. Everyone has these little stories about what Christmas means to them. You don’t get that at any other time of the year. You don’t get people telling you what Easter means to them, or St Patrick’s Day. But everyone opens up at Christmas time.”

      “Wow,” Valkyrie said. “I never noticed before, but you’re a grouch.”

      “No, I’m not.”

      “You’re a Grinch.”

      “I am neither a Grinch nor a grouch. I like Christmas as much as the next person, so long as the next person is as unsentimental as I am.”

      “Sentimental’s nice.”

      “You hate sentimental.”

      “But not at Christmas. At Christmas, sentimental is a perfectly fine thing to be. It is allowed. In moderation, naturally. I don’t want anyone, you know, being sentimental around me, but in principle I have no problem with … uh …”

      “What? What’s wrong?”

      “Um, the façade …”

      Skulduggery tilted his head, and the left side of his face drooped down off his skull, looking like melted rubber.

      “I think something’s going a bit wonky,” said Valkyrie.

      Skulduggery felt his ear flapping against his lapel and took hold of his face with one hand and hoisted it back up again. He gathered a thick fold around his forehead, trying his best to manoeuvre an eye back into its socket. “This is a tad undignified,” he murmured. “Do please tell me if we’re about to crash into something.”

      “Maybe you should let me drive.”

      “I saw how you drove a few hours ago. I’m not letting you behind the wheel of this car ever again.” His voice was muffled because his lips were sliding down his jaw. “Do I look better now?”

      “Oh, much.”

      He did his best to keep his nose in one place.

      “So will I pick you up from Gordon’s once your lapse into sentimentality is over? We have that meeting to go to, in case you’ve forgotten.”

      “How