Skulduggery Pleasant: Last Stand of Dead Men (24 page)

A car pulled up beside them.

Thrasher froze. “What do we do?”

Scapegrace’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t think of anything.

A man got out, a tall man with dark hair, receding. He had a long face and a long nose. Everything about him was long.

“Evening,” he said.

Thrasher stood there looking guilty.

“Hello,” said Scapegrace.

The man leaned against his car with his arms folded. He carried with him the unmistakable air of authority. “And where are you off to, may I ask?”

Scapegrace tried to think of a smart answer. “Nowhere,” he said instead.

The man with the long face seemed amused. “You’re going nowhere, are you? Isn’t that a tad pessimistic?”

Scapegrace had no idea what the man was talking about. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but who are you?”

“Name’s Dacanay. I’m the sheriff.”

“Roarhaven doesn’t have a sheriff,” Thrasher pointed out.

“It does now,” said Dacanay. “And I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to your girlfriend here.”

Scapegrace bristled. “I am
not
his girlfriend.”

“We’re just friends,” Thrasher muttered.

“We’re not
even
friends.”

“I see,” Dacanay said, starting to smile. “So you’re single, then.”

Scapegrace frowned. “What does that have to do with anything? I’m sorry, Sheriff whatever-your-name-is …”

“Dacanay.”

“Sheriff Dacanay, myself and my … associate were merely out for a late-night stroll. I didn’t know that was illegal.”

“Strolling’s not illegal. Mugging people is.”

Scapegrace tried to look surprised and offended and amused, all at once. He reckoned he just about pulled it off. “Mugging? You think we’re muggers? Muggers are the
last
thing we are!”

“We’re the
opposite
of muggers,” Thrasher said.

Dacanay frowned up at him. “What the hell does that mean? What’s the opposite of a mugger? Do you jump out at people and
give
them money and valuables? What are you talking about? How stupid are you? Tell you what, why don’t you concentrate on flexing your muscles, and me and your not-quite-friend and definitely-not-a-girlfriend here will do the talking.” Dacanay turned back to Scapegrace, and smiled. “And it’s not that I doubt the word of someone so beautiful, but I’ve had a report of an attempted mugging near here.”

“That’s awful,” Scapegrace said.

“It is, isn’t it? The muggers were described as a dark-haired woman and a large muscular man.”

Scapegrace swallowed thickly. “I hope you catch them.”

“I think I already have.”

A strained smile. “Congratulations. We’ll let you get back to it, then.”

Scapegrace went to move past him, but Dacanay stepped in his way. “What’s your name, miss? You and your friend’s?”

“Our names? Why would you want to know our names?”

“I spent the last thirty years working as a detective for the Russian Sanctuary. This is my first trip home in all that time. I need to get to know the locals again. So … your name?”

“Yes. OK. That makes sense. Our names. That’s what you want. Well, my associate here … he can tell you his own name. Associate?”

Thrasher went pale. “My name is … Bond.”

Dacanay peered at him. “Bond?”

“Yes. Harrison … Bond.”

Dacanay grunted, and his eyes returned to Scapegrace. “And you?”

“My name,” Scapegrace said, “is quite simple. It’s easy to remember. You’ll have no trouble remembering this.”

“So?” Dacanay asked. “What is it?”

Scapegrace nodded. “Guess.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Guess what my name is.”

“Miss, I’m not going to do that. You either tell me what your name is or I’ll—”

Scapegrace laughed. “I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you! My name is …” He tried to force his brain to think of a name. The last time something like this had happened he had blurted out “Adolf”. Not this time. This time he needed to think of actors, not historical figures. No, not actors. Actresses. All he needed to do was think of two actresses and combine a first name with a last name. He needed to think of someone classic, like Katharine Hepburn, and combine it with someone else like … like Audrey Hepburn.

“Katharine,” he said triumphantly, “Hepburn.”

“Katharine Hepburn,” Dacanay said, his eyes narrowing. “Like the actress?”

Scapegrace smiled, started to shake his head, and froze. Dammit.

“Katharine Hepburn Scapegrace,” Thrasher said quickly. “That’s her full name. It’s only Katharine Hepburn to strangers.”

“Well, Miss Scapegrace,” Dacanay said, “I hope after tonight I will no longer be a stranger. You’d better get home now. But keep an eye out for those muggers, you hear?”

“Yes, Sheriff,” Scapegrace said. “Thanks for your concern.”

Dacanay got back in his car and drove off. Immediately, Scapegrace whirled to Thrasher.

“You told him my name!”

“I had to! I’m sorry, Master, but he knew something was up!”

“You told him my name!”

“I’m so sorry!”

“We have secret identities and you told him my name!”

“I thought the secret identities were only for when we had the masks on.”

“That’s not the point! Listen to the words! Secret! Identities! If you take away the secret, then they’re just identities!”

“I’m sorry.”

Scapegrace started walking. Thrasher hurried to keep up.

“Sheriff Dacanay would lock us up in an instant if he knew who we really were,” Scapegrace said. “Don’t you understand? We’re living beyond the law. We’re doing the job he can’t. We are vigilantes.”

“Yes,” said Thrasher. “Only …”

“Only what?”

“Only we haven’t done anything vigilante-ish. We go out on patrol and you climb up on roofs and I go off and get a ladder and then we go home.”

“Are you questioning the mission?”

“No, sir, no I am not. I love the mission. This is where I want to be. By your side. As your partner.”

“Sidekick.”

“Sidekick, yes, sorry. It’s just … we haven’t really stopped any crime or found any clues that would lead us to Silas Nadir.”

“What about those people tonight? They were talking about something. Something suspicious.”

“What did they say?”

Scapegrace shrugged. “I don’t know, I wasn’t really listening. But it’s a start. We just have to find them again, follow them, and maybe they’ll lead us to Nadir. Then he will taste the justice of the Dark and Stormy Knight.”

“And Muscle Man.”

Scapegrace glared. “What?”

“My codename,” said Thrasher. “I was thinking … I was thinking maybe I’d be Muscle Man?”

“No. It can’t be the Dark and Stormy Knight and Muscle Man. That sounds like we’re equals. I’ve got the perfect codename for you. It came to me just then. You can be the Village Idiot.”

Thrasher’s face fell. “Sir, no, please!”

“I’ve decided. It’s the Dark and Stormy Knight and the Village Idiot. That’s who we are.”

“But Master—”

“No arguments.”

Thrasher sagged. “Yes, sir.”

e found Madame Mist by the black lake, the morning breeze playing with the veil over her face.

“And off they go to war,” she said without turning her head towards him. “I wonder how many of them will die. I wonder how many they will kill.”

“Sacrifices must be made,” said the man with the golden eyes.

Now she did look at him. “Yes,” she said. “They must. And our turn is coming up. How can we expect our followers to make the leap if we ourselves do not?”

“I’m well aware of what I must do.”

“I am glad. These are trying times for us all. Has there been any word on the Warlocks?”

“Another one of Charivari’s envoys has been spotted meeting with the Maidens,” the man with the golden eyes said. “I doubt they’ll want to join his crusade, though. They are relatively peace-loving, for witches, and they bear the mortals no particular ill will.”

“We will need Charivari’s army to be strong, but not too strong,” said Mist. “There is very little point in provoking him if we can’t be assured victory.”

“Don’t concern yourself with his strength,” the man with the golden eyes responded. “Charivari has yet to approach the Brides. They’ll side with him, and then his army will number three hundred. An entirely manageable threat, I think. They’ll attack the mortals, we’ll repel them, and the mortals will welcome us as heroes.”

Mist looked out across the stagnant lake. Nothing more needed to be said.

t was a nice dream. Probably. As Skulduggery shook her awake, it vanished back into the recesses of her mind. She had a feeling it had been a nice dream. She hoped it had.

“What’s wrong?” she mumbled.

“It’s Dexter,” Skulduggery said.

She sat up in the bed, horrified. “They killed him?”

“What? No. Tanith has him.”

“She killed him?”

“Stop thinking someone killed him. He’s alive, as far as we know. Tanith and Sanguine broke him out of whatever gaol he was in. They’re in a boat off Wexford Harbour. Ghastly’s waiting in the van, so get your boots on.”

It was almost 10am by the time they got to Wexford. They watched a small boat pull up to the quay. Valkyrie went to step forward, but Skulduggery put a hand out to stop her, and nodded at the low wall beside her. She peered around until she caught the faint glow of a sigil.

The boat docked, and Dexter Vex stepped out. Tall and strong, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans and scuffed boots. His hands were shackled behind his back, which made his triceps pop in his bare arms. His hair was darker than the first time she’d met him, no longer bleached by the sun on his many adventures across the globe. He hadn’t lost the chiselled look, though, and she allowed herself a moment to gaze in admiration before flicking the professional switch inside her head. Climbing out of the boat after him were a well-built blonde in brown leather, and a man in a suit and sunglasses. Tanith Low and Billy-Ray Sanguine. Both had their blades drawn.

Valkyrie glanced around. No one was paying them much attention. Yet.

Tanith and Sanguine escorted Vex right up to the low wall, but stopped just on the other side of the invisible shield.

“Dexter,” said Skulduggery in greeting. “Wink twice if you’re being held against your will.”