at the word, and the guests laughed along with him. Gordon didn’t know what the hell he was talking about any more.
“But all that is still to be revealed,” said Fawkes. “For now, eat, drink, talk, laugh … be merry. And give me a hip hip hooray for horror. Hip hip …”
“Hooray!”
They did that three times in all, and Gordon could only blink at the sudden shift in tone.
Fawkes gave a wave, everyone clapped, and the lights came back on. A few moments later, Fawkes made his entrance into the ballroom and the string quartet started up again.
Skulduggery looked at Gordon. “The man’s an idiot.”
Gordon nodded. “He does seem to be idiotic.”
“I never liked his books. Maybe he’s improved with age, but his early work is derivative with definite signs of pretention. And look, he’s coming this way. This will be a wonderful opportunity for me to make like the character I’ve come as, and disappear.”
Skulduggery moved backwards into the crowd, and by the time Gordon shifted his position to look around, he was gone.
The mask was ridiculous. He seized it with both hands, squeezed and pulled, and only managed to shift the eyeholes around to his ear. Now he couldn’t see anything.
“Help,” he said. He reached out and heard a crash. Another tray of drinks bites the dust. He stepped back, bumped into someone, heard the unmistakable intake of breath that accompanies a well-dressed lady spilling wine down the front of her dress. “Terribly sorry,” Gordon said, spinning quickly, hitting someone else and getting a muffled curse in response.
Suddenly there was a steadying grip on his arms, and he heard Susan DeWick say, “Hold on there, Fishface. You’re leaving a trail of destruction in your wake.”
“My head’s on sideways,” he explained.
“I can see that. Want me to take it off?”
“If you wouldn’t mind,” said Gordon. “Thank you.”
He felt her hands take hold of the mask. She twisted and pulled and fiddled, and just when Gordon’s claustrophobia was closing in on him, she yanked the Creature’s head off. Air rushed in, cooling the sweat on his forehead, and he gasped, laughed and ignored the glares he was getting from the people around him.
“You’re a lifesaver,” he said, and Susan laughed and handed him back the mask.
“I couldn’t watch you flail about any longer,” she said. “It was funny, sure, but also kind of sad and pathetic.”
“Sad and pathetic are two of my most charming traits.”
Susan smiled, a wicked look in her eye, but her response was curtailed by the arrival of Sebastian Fawkes.
“Susan,” Fawkes said, kissing her hand, “it is so good to see you again. I’m sure it’s been said already tonight by men more charming than I, but you look simply ravishing. Tippi Hedren, yes?”
“Got it in one,” Susan replied. “Thank you so much for the invitation, by the way. I was just telling Gordon here how much of an honour it is to be at one of your Halloween parties.”
“Ah, yes, Gordon Edgley,” said Fawkes, shifting his gaze and holding out his hand. “Very good to meet you.”
“Likewise,” said Gordon, smiling broadly as he removed one of his gloves. The handshake that followed was unsatisfying and dry. “I’ve loved your books since I was old enough to read,” he said. “I don’t wish to embarrass you, but you’ve been a huge influence on my own work.”
“Have I?” Fawkes said. “I haven’t read your books so I wouldn’t know if I’m supposed to be flattered or insulted.” He laughed. Susan laughed, too, but it was hesitant and accompanied by a frown. “And how are your sales, Gordon? Robust, I hope?”
“I can’t complain.”
“Well, you could,” said Fawkes, “but who would listen, eh? Sales can always be better, can’t they? It still astonishes me, even to this day, the kind of tripe that sells. Are you one of these exponents of splatterpunk that I’ve been hearing about lately? Writers who value vulgar gore over genuine chills?”
“I wouldn’t count myself as such, no.”
“Dreadful stuff. No finesse to their writing. Violence and bloodshed in graphic detail. Where’s the character? Where’s the theme? Where’s the nuance? Cheap shocks, cheap thrills. Blood spills, cheap thrills, eh?” He chuckled at his rhyme. “I’m sure you’re successful enough, Gordon. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Oh? There’s a sales criterion, is there?”
“Oh, absolutely,” said Fawkes. “My associates go through the numbers, pick out the writers who are currently in vogue, like you, writers who sell enough books, and their names go on the list.”
“I feel so special.”
Fawkes’s smile faded a little. “I’m sorry, Gordon? I didn’t quite catch that.”
“I didn’t quite throw it.”
Now Fawkes’s smile was looking decidedly strained. He took a small spiral-bound notebook from his inside pocket, and flipped through it. “Edgley, Edgley … here we are. Gordon Edgley. Writer of, among others, Caterpillars. Oh, dear … was that the book about the killer caterpillars?”
Gordon reddened. “That’s it.”
“The killer caterpillars who eat people?”
“When they swarm, yes.”
“I’m interested – are caterpillars known to swarm?”
“I took … liberties with the science.”
“I can see that,” said Fawkes.
“They’re a mutant strain of caterpillar that feasts on human flesh.”
“Oh dear Lord.”
“I wrote it when I was nineteen,” said Gordon, a touch aggrieved. “It was my first published book.”
“You’re hugely fortunate it wasn’t your last, dear boy. Carnivorous caterpillars, eh? Have you written the sequel yet? Butterflies? Or the prequel? Larvae?”
Gordon ground his teeth. “They’re in the pipeline.”
Fawkes roared with laughter. “Oh, that is brilliant! That is wonderful!”
“Caterpillars is actually an excellent debut,” said Susan, “and it follows in a glorious tradition. You have Herbert’s The Rats, Hutson’s Slugs, Guy N. Smith’s Night of the Crabs, Halkin’s Blood Worm … Caterpillars stacks right up there with the best of them.”
“I’m sure it is esteemed company indeed. I apologise, Gordon,
