Last Stand of Dead Men Read online

  “I don’t get it,” said Patrick Slattery, scratching his beard in that way he did. “You’re saying that all of these guys are Skulduggery Pleasant? How does he manage that?”

  Kenny Dunne collapsed into his tattered old armchair. “I don’t know, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  Slattery looked sceptical. It had become his default look over these past few months. “Really? The only thing that makes sense is that all of these men we’ve been photographing are the same person? That makes sense to you? They look nothing alike.”

  “They’re all tall, thin and have the same taste in well-tailored clothes. And look at their faces. The skin and hair might be different, but the bone structure’s the same.”

  “He wears disguises, then,” said Slattery. “For no reason, every day he wears a different disguise.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Who knows with these people?”

  Slattery shook his head, more to himself than to Kenny. “So why is he called the Skeleton Detective?”

  “For the last time, I don’t know, all right? Probably because he’s so thin. I don’t have all the answers.”

  “You don’t have any of the answers.”

  Kenny didn’t have a violent bone in his body, but there was nothing he would have liked to do more at that moment than jump up and smack Slattery right in the face. “I’m making educated guesses. It’s the only thing we can do with the information we have.”

  Slattery hesitated, then turned from the wall and looked straight at Kenny. “We need to have a talk.”

  “We’re talking now.”

  “We need to have a serious talk about what we’re doing here.”

  Kenny’s hand fluttered an invitation. “Go right ahead.”

  Slattery sat in the tattered old couch that had come with the tattered old armchair. “It might be time to rethink things,” he said. “When you came to me with this, I thought you’d cracked. I honestly thought you’d gone mad. Magic people and possession and super-powers. I thought to myself, Kenny’s gone round the bend. He’s lost it. All those years chasing stories have led him into the nuthouse. I thought you’d want me and my camera down the bottom of some garden, ready to photograph fairies or something.”

  Kenny nodded. “Happy to know you had so much faith in me as a journalist.”

  “But then when you showed me what you had and, when I saw it for myself, I thought, holy cow, we’re going to change the world. Politics, religion, society – it’s all going to be turned on its head. And we’re the ones who are going to do it.”

  “Nothing’s changed since then.”

  “Well, that’s it exactly,” said Slattery. “Nothing has changed. We had a few good months of following Valkyrie around, a few good months of collecting information and names and linking stuff up … and then it all slowed down to a crawl.”

  “A crawl? Have you been reading the papers? Something’s going on. Unexplained destruction of property, unexplained disappearances, sightings of—”

  “Kenny,” Slattery said, “please. Come on. How does this help us? If we had a team, fair enough. But there’s only two of us. By the time we get to the scene, it’s like nothing ever happened.”

  “We just have to be patient.”

  “You need to go back to work.”

  “I am working.”

  “You need to work on a story that will get you paid. You’re living on scraps, for God’s sake. I need to get paid, too.”

  Kenny frowned. “That’s what this is about? You want money?”

  “I don’t want money, I need money. I have bills to pay.”

  “When we release what we have, we’ll be rich beyond our—”

  “Release what?” Slattery said, barking a laugh. “We have photographs of people and coloured thread on a wall.”

  “You seem to be forgetting the recorded footage we have of Valkyrie Cain and Fletcher Renn fighting a monster.”

  “Could I be blamed for forgetting that? It’s not like we’ve done anything with it. We haven’t released it or sold it. We’ve hung on to it.”

  “You know why. We need more than that. We need something so concrete that no one will even try to tell us it’s faked. We’re dealing with sorcerers who can make you believe whatever they tell you. We can’t afford to go public until we have overwhelming evidence.”

  “And how are we going to get it?”

  Kenny sat back.

  “You need the evidence to write that book you’re always on about,” said Slattery. “You need the evidence to make that documentary that I’m apparently going to film. Where’s that evidence, Kenny? Where do we find it?”

  “We stick to Valkyrie.”

  “Here we go again.”

  “We stick to Valkyrie Cain and she will take us to the evidence eventually.”

  “She’s a teenage girl and you want us to follow her around again? We’ve spied on her enough, don’t you think? We tailed her for months, and she led us to people and places that are up on that wall, and that’s it. That’s all we’ve been able to get.”

  “Then we have to dig deeper.”

  “With what resources?”

  “Well, what do you suggest? That we give up on the single most important story in the history of the world? I’m not exaggerating here, and you know I’m not.”

  “I never said you were. I’m just saying we can’t do it alone.”

  “We have to keep this between ourselves.”

  “We can trust—”

  “We can’t trust anyone. A careless word here and there and somehow it gets back to Geoffrey Scrutinous or Finbar Wrong or Valkyrie or Skulduggery, and they’ll come for us. They’ll take all this, all our work and research, and they’ll wipe our minds and do a better job of it than they did with me last time.”

  “It’s risky. I know it is. But we don’t have a choice. We need support, we need money, we need help.”

  Kenny shook his head. “We do this alone.”

  “You know your problem? You don’t want to share the glory.”

  “This isn’t about who gets the by-line.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “What are you going to do?” Kenny asked. “If I say no, if I say we don’t need anyone, what are you going to do?”

  “You mean if you refuse to see sense? I don’t know yet. I might just have to take what I know and go somewhere else.”

  “I brought you in on this. This is my story.”

  “See? It is about the by-line.”

  Kenny sighed. “Just give it a little time, OK? All this crazy stuff that’s been happening, it’s been leading to something, I know it has. We just have to wait. Just a little longer.”

  Slattery stood up. “You have till October.”

  “You can’t expect—”

  “Two months, Kenny. Then either we get some help, or I leave with what I have.”

  he news came through the normal channels, but it came quietly, buried in among everything else, like it was trying to sneak by without anyone noticing. An Irish sorcerer, arrested but not charged with any crime, killed in an American cell. Ghastly had never met the man – Caius Caviler, his name was – and to the best of his knowledge he had never had any particular involvement with the Sanctuary, past or present. As far as he could tell, Caviler’s death was the tragic result of casual brutality. It was awful. It was criminal. It was the one piece of good news they’d had in weeks.

  There was a knock on his door and Ravel stepped in. He looked tired. “Mind if I sit?” he asked.

  Ghastly motioned to the chair, and Ravel sank into it. “I just spoke with Bisahalani,” he said. “He assures me that a thorough investigation is under way to determine what exactly happened to Caviler. He said the operative responsible for the ‘accident’ has been suspended pending further inquiry. He apologises for the unfortunate timing.”

  “He apologises for the timing?” said Ghastly. “What about the death?”

  “He stopped short of apologising fo
r that. He said a formal apology could be forthcoming once it has been determined that Caviler was not sent to America as a spy.”

  “Caviler has nothing to do with us,” Ghastly said. “He’s not an operative and never was. That’s a matter of public record.”

  “Grand Mage Bisahalani likes to be sure.”

  Ghastly narrowed his eyes. “He’s bluffing. Remember Prussia, right after Hopeless died? Shudder and I fell in with Bisahalani and his group of American mages. The area was completely overrun by Mevolent’s forces. They were hunting us down. Relentless. They finally had us surrounded in this old farmhouse. We were exhausted, starving, injured … it wouldn’t have taken much to finish us off. Bisahalani walked out, he actually walked out the front door, walked across the yard to where Mevolent’s soldiers were crouched behind cover. No one fired at him because they were all too stunned at what was happening. He went up to whoever was in charge and he stood there and informed him that he was to take his squad of killers and madmen and scurry away before the people in that farmhouse grew irritated.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Astonishingly, yes. He was so convincing, he was so bull-headed and strong-willed, that Mevolent’s soldiers decided to cut their losses and leave. That’s what he does. When he’s backed into a corner, Bisahalani will talk big and talk tough and all the time he’ll be crossing his fingers and hoping that you don’t stand your ground. They murdered an innocent man in their custody. The core elements of the Supreme Council will stick together, but what of everyone else? We know the Scottish Sanctuary is already asking questions. The Estonians, too. Tipstaff just told me that Grand Mage Kribu is calling for all Irish prisoners to be released in the wake of what happened.”

  “We have the advantage,” Ravel said. “We have them over a barrel for the first time since all this began.”

  “If we play this right,” said Ghastly, “support for the Supreme Council will crumble, and the Supreme Council itself could even dissolve.”

  “We have to be careful. They’re going to try to shift focus away from their mistake on to one of ours.”

  “Then we’ve got to be sure we don’t make any mistakes.”

  Ravel frowned. “Where’s Skulduggery?”

  “Skulduggery and Valkyrie have gone to talk to Moloch like we asked, and then they’re off to see Cassandra Pharos. Hopefully, that’ll keep them out of trouble.”

  “OK, good.” Ravel tapped his chin. “The Supreme Council arrests our people and they treat them so badly they kill one of them. We need to show that, when we arrest their people, they’re treated well. We can arrange a Global Link broadcast to every Sanctuary around the world.”

  Ghastly stood. “I’ll get Sult ready for his close-up.”

  “No hitting him.”

  “Any assault will be to his ego, I swear.”

  They left Ghastly’s office. Ravel went one way, escorted by his Cleaver bodyguards, and Ghastly went the other, heading for the cells.

  The guard on duty was snoring in his chair. Ghastly strode forward, sending a blast of air to wake him. The young man’s hair ruffled and he was almost pitched sideways to the ground, but he didn’t wake. What was his name?

  “Weeper,” Ghastly said, remembering. “Staven Weeper. Wake the hell up.”

  When Weeper continued to snore, Ghastly gripped his shoulder and shook him. As he was released, Weeper slumped over and collapsed slowly to the ground. Ghastly’s eyes widened.

  He ran to the first cell, opened the viewing hatch, saw Adrasdos reading a book on her bunk. He went to the next cell, and the next, and the next, all of which were occupied. Then he opened the hatch on the cell that should have been occupied by Bernard Sult.

  He ran back to Weeper’s corner, pressed the communication sigil on the desk. “Lock the Sanctuary down,” he snarled. “We have an escaped prisoner.”

  The conference room was humming with activity by the time Ghastly reached it. Huge screens had been set up, showing CCTV footage of the corridor leading to the cellblock. Mages chattered on phones and hurried in and out of the doors, and Ravel stood in the middle of it all with a frown etched on his brow.

  He turned to Ghastly. “Anything?”

  Ghastly shook his head. “I sent the Cleavers into the lower levels, but I doubt Sult would have headed down there. He’ll want to get out of Roarhaven as soon as possible. If he’s in the area, we’ll find him. Any luck with the cameras?”

  Ravel swivelled his head, like he was catching the question and passing it on to the mage at the huge screens.

  “We’re watching the footage now,” said Susurrus. “So far, we’ve seen no movement at … wait a second …”

  The screen flickered, flickered again, went fuzzy, and then the picture was replaced by static.

  “Mr Susurrus,” said Ravel, “what happened to our picture?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” said Susurrus, furiously tapping the keyboard. “It looks like someone jammed the signal.”

  “Those cameras are protected, are they not?” Ravel asked, his hands curled into fists. “When we installed them, I was told they were unjammable, was I not? So will someone please tell me how this happened?”

  The chatter in the conference room died for a moment while sorcerers looked away and looked at their feet and looked at each other, no one daring to posit an answer. After a moment, the silence went away, and once more the room was plunged into a chattering mess of barked orders and ringing phones.

  Ravel looked over at Ghastly, gave him an exasperated shrug, and Ghastly turned as Doctor Synecdoche approached.

  “Staven Weeper has just regained consciousness,” she said. “He claims to have no memory of anything unusual. One moment he was doing his duty with his customary alertness, his words, and the next he’s waking up with Doctor Nye staring down at him.”

  “You believe him?”

  “We’ve found traces of a toxin in his blood. We should be able to identify it within minutes.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Ghastly said, nodding for the next sorcerer to approach.

  “We’ve set up a perimeter around Roarhaven,” said Petrichor, a fresh-faced mage of ninety-three. “We’ve also been viewing any outside CCTV footage that might yield results. So far, nothing. We don’t even know how he got out without being seen.”

  “There are dozens of secret tunnels beneath this place that we don’t know about,” Ghastly said.

  “Um,” said Susurrus.

  Ghastly looked round. “What is it?”

  Susurrus frowned. “The Sanctuary Global Link, sir.”

  Ravel came forward. “What about it, for God’s sake?”

  “Uh … it just activated.”

  Ravel glared down at him. “Do you really think we’re in the mood to watch Supreme Council propaganda right now?”

  “Well, that’s just it, Grand Mage. They didn’t activate the link. We did.”

  The screen pulsed, showing Bernard Sult on his knees. His mouth was gagged and his hands were cuffed behind his back.

  Ravel’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Elder Bespoke,” Doctor Synecdoche said, hurrying back to Ghastly’s side. “We’ve identified the toxin in Weeper’s blood. It’s venom, sir.”

  “What?”

  “Spider venom.”

  The doors opened behind him and Madame Mist glided in, in perfect synchronicity with Syc and Portia’s arrival onscreen.

  Ravel looked at Mist. “What are they doing?”

  “I have nothing to do with this,” Mist said, after a moment. “Whatever their plan is, it is theirs alone.”

  Ravel turned to Susurrus. “Trace the signal. Find out where they are.”

  Syc kept one hand on Sult’s shoulder, keeping him on his knees, while Portia turned to the camera. “The actions of the Supreme Council have led to this. Their repeated breaches of the accepted Rules of Law and Sanctuary Conduct have resulted in the death of an Irish sorcerer while in their custody. This cannot
go unpunished.”

  Syc took hold of Sult’s hair and pulled his head back. Sult’s eyes were wide and wet with fear. In Syc’s other hand, he held a knife.

  “They can’t,” Synecdoche whispered.

  Ghastly seized Mist’s arm. “Tell them to stop. Make them stop!”

  With a rare show of anger, Mist pulled free. “I don’t know where they are, Elder Bespoke. I assure you, they do not have my authorisation.”

  “Well, do they have phones? Call them, damn it!”

  “I have been trying, sir,” Tipstaff said from another desk. “Their phones are turned off, and hidden from all scans.”

  “You,” Mist said, looking at Susurrus, “disable the link.”

  “I can’t,” Susurrus said. “Not from here.”

  “So every Sanctuary around the world is watching this?”

  “I—I’m sorry, but yes.”

  Back onscreen, Portia was talking again. “No doubt our own Sanctuary will publicly condemn us for what we are about to do, even though they will understand why it is necessary. For too long, Grand Mage Ravel has entertained the Supreme Council’s excessive demands. For too long, he has indulged their whims and forgiven their sins. This latest sin cannot be forgiven. And so we offer a life for a life.”

  “Don’t do it,” said Ravel, but the words had barely left his mouth when Syc drew the knife across Bernard Sult’s throat.

  Ghastly stiffened and there was no sound in the room except for the sound of Sult dying onscreen.

  “Let it be known,” said Portia, “that if one of ours is harmed, one of yours will die.”

  The screen went blank.

  “Turn it off,” said Ravel, his voice low, his jaw clenched. “Tipstaff. Activate the shield.”

  “The shield is up, sir.”

  “Out. Everyone out.” The room emptied quickly, until there were only the Elders left. “We’ll go to war over this,” he said. “This is everything they needed. This is the excuse they were looking for. A public execution of one of their people. Any sympathy we may have had, any, was washed away the moment that blade touched his skin.” Ravel turned to Mist. “Those two don’t do anything without your permission.”