Last Stand of Dead Men. Derek Landy

fine,” Valkyrie said, straightening up.

      “If you hurt her …”

      “We didn’t.”

      Dubhóg’s face contorted in fury. “You will pay!”

      “I told you,” Valkyrie said, frowning, “we didn’t hurt—”

      But it was too late.

      Dubhóg flew into the air, the space around her crackling with an energy that made her long hair stand on end. She hovered there, looking like an electrocuted cartoon character, her face twisted in anger. Gracious leaped at her, and a stream of sizzling light caught him in the chest and sent him hurtling backwards. Donegan rushed in, his hands lighting up, but Dubhóg caught the energy stream he sent her way and responded with another one of her own. The air rushed in around Valkyrie and she shot towards Dubhóg, the shadows bunching round her fist. Dubhóg grabbed her by the throat, her grip strong, and Valkyrie clicked her fingers, summoning a ball of flame into her hand, and prepared to ram it into the witch’s face.

      “Granny,” Misery called. “Granny, stop that. Gran. NANA!”

      The battle froze, and Dubhóg looked round. “Misery? You’re OK?”

      “They didn’t hurt me, Nana,” Misery said, somewhat crossly. “Now put her down before you embarrass me even more.”

      Dubhóg drifted to the ground and let go of Valkyrie, who stepped back, rubbing her throat.

      “Terribly sorry,” Dubhóg said, her hair returning to normal, that ferocious power leaving her as quickly as it had arrived.

      “That’s quite all right,” Skulduggery said, walking forward. “We all make mistakes, isn’t that right? No harm done.”

      In the corner, Gracious moaned.

      “Tell them what they want to know,” Misery said, “then come upstairs. I’ll put the kettle on.”

      Misery turned, walked away, and Dubhóg cleared her throat and smiled at Skulduggery.

      “I’m a constant source of embarrassment to her,” she explained. “I can’t do anything right, really. All I want to do is protect her from the everyday cruelties of life, but I always do something wrong. I say the wrong thing, or I attack the wrong people …”

      “Kids,” Skulduggery said, sympathising.

      “She’ll miss me when I’m gone,” Dubhóg said.

      “So, the Warlock …”

      “Oh, yes, him. I don’t know what information the Necromancers gave him. He mentioned he’d been talking to one of them, a man with a ridiculous name.”

      “Bison Dragonclaw,” said Valkyrie.

      “Dragonclaw, yes,” said Dubhóg. “That was it.”

      “And why did he come to see you in the first place?” Skulduggery asked.

      “He thought I’d be able to convince my sisters to join with Charivari. But we Crones use magic differently from even other witches – it doesn’t keep us so young. We are old women, and so I told him no.”

      “Join Charivari to do what? What are the Warlocks planning?”

      “War,” said Dubhóg. “They’re planning on going to war.”

      

      hastly Bespoke returned to Roarhaven with a sense of overwhelming dread. It wasn’t danger he dreaded, or battle, or confrontation or arguments. It was meetings. It was endless, monotonous meetings.

      The last few days he’d spent at his old shop in Dublin, working on various items of clothing. Repairing, modifying, making from scratch. He had been content there. Happy. Alone with this thoughts, alone with the needle and thread, with the fabrics, his mind had been allowed to settle, and it had been wonderful.

      But his vacation was over, and here he was, being driven back into the squalid, bleak little town of Roarhaven and all that anxiety he’d left behind was quickly building up again inside his chest. They drove through Main Street, drawing a few cold glances from the townspeople. There was a single, sad little tree planted in a square of earth on the pavement. For as long as he’d been here, he had never seen it with leaves. Here they were in August and it was just as thin and skeletal as it had been in winter. It wasn’t dead, though. It was as if the town were keeping it alive purely to prolong its torture.

      They approached the dark, stagnant lake and the squat building that rested beside it, all grey and concrete and uninspiring. The Administrator, Tipstaff, was waiting for him as he thanked the driver and got out of the car.

      “Elder Bespoke, welcome back. The meeting is about to start.”

      Ghastly frowned at him. “It’s not scheduled till two. They arrived early?”

      “In their words, they are ‘eager to negotiate’.”

      Ghastly walked out of the warm sun into the chill Sanctuary, Tipstaff beside him. “Who’s here?”

      “Elder Illori Reticent of the English Sanctuary plus two associates, an Elemental and an Energy-Thrower.”

      “That’s all?”

      “We’ve been tracking them since they flew in this morning, and we’ve been keeping an eye on all known foreign sorcerers in the country. It would appear that these three are the only ones in the vicinity. Elder Bespoke?”

      Tipstaff held a door open and Ghastly grumbled, but went inside. In here, his robe was waiting. He pulled it on, checked himself in the mirror. His shirt, his waistcoat, his tie, his trousers, all those clothes he’d made himself, all of them were covered up by this robe. His physique, honed by countless hours of punching bags and punching people, was rendered irrelevant by this shapeless curtain he now wore. The only thing that wasn’t covered up was the one thing he’d spent his life trying to draw attention away from – the perfectly symmetrical scars that covered his entire head.

      Tipstaff brushed a speck of lint from Ghastly’s shoulder, and nodded approvingly. “This way, sir.”

      Ghastly could have walked to the conference room blindfolded, but he let Tipstaff take the lead. There was Ghastly’s way of doing things and there was the proper way of doing things, and if there was one thing Tipstaff liked, it was procedure.

      They reached a set of double doors guarded by two Cleavers. At Tipstaff’s nod, the warriors in grey banged their scythes on the floor in perfect unison and the doors opened. Tipstaff stood to one side as Ghastly walked in.

      Grand Mage Erskine Ravel sat at the round table and scratched at his neck. The robes could be particularly itchy against bare skin, which was why Ghastly had lined his with silk. He hadn’t offered to line Ravel’s, though. He found it quietly amusing to watch his friend suffer.

      Beside Ravel sat Madame Mist, her face covered by that black veil she always wore. He’d often wondered if her features were as unsightly as his own, but decided that no, the veil was probably some piece of tradition that the Children of the Spider had chosen to keep alive.

      Across from Ravel and Mist, Illori Reticent sat patiently. A pretty woman with a beautiful mind, Illori’s smile grew warm when she saw him.

      “Elder Bespoke,” she said, rising to meet him, “so good to see you again.”

      “Elder Reticent,” said Ghastly, shaking her hand. “Sorry I’m late.”

      “You’re not late, we’re early, which in some circumstances