“Elsewhere,” said the voice, distorted over the tinny old speaker that hung in the corner. “They are all elsewhere.”
The walls were cold stone. There was one door, no window and a mirror. Sanguine was fairly certain there was a camera behind the mirror, watching him.
“So who are you?” he asked.
“I’m nobody,” the voice said.
Sanguine smiled. “You’re Batu, ain’t you? You’re the one they keep talkin’ about.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah, you are. You’re the big boss. So how come you ain’t here in person? I been workin’ for you for over a year now. Ain’t it time we met, face to face?”
“I value my privacy.”
Sanguine shrugged. “I get that.”
“You failed me, Mr Sanguine. I paid you to do a job and you failed me.”
“You said nothin’ about the skeleton detective and the girl gettin’ involved. That’s what we call extenuatin’ circumstances. If I’d have known they’d be there, I could have prepared. Or at least charged double.”
“You will have a chance to redeem yourself.”
“Yippee,” Sanguine said, without enthusiasm.
“I’m going to need you to steal something for me, as soon as Gruesome Krav returns. There is a very good chance you will encounter opposition.”
“So you’ll double my rate?”
“Naturally.”
“Yippee,” Sanguine said and this time he smiled.
The darkness was replaced by the bright lights of the corridors that snaked between the laboratories, and the smell of disinfectant replaced the mustiness. Clarabelle, one of Professor Kenspeckle Grouse’s new assistants, drifted by them dreamily, humming to herself. She wasn’t, in Valkyrie’s opinion, all there.
They walked into a circular room with a high ceiling. There were spotlights on the wall, casting a hazy glow on to a statue of a man on his knees, one hand touching the ground. His bald head was ridged with scars and the expression on his face was one of resignation.
Ghastly Bespoke had used the final Elemental power – the earth power – to save himself while he held off the White Cleaver. Valkyrie still had dreams about that moment, looking back in time to see the concrete of the floor latch on to Ghastly’s body and spread, even as the White Cleaver swung his scythe. Tanith Low had thrown her into the back of the Bentley and they had escaped, but Ghastly had been left as a statue, and no one knew how long the effect would last.
Professor Kenspeckle Grouse stood behind the statue, hands glowing as he passed them over its surface. His eyes were closed, his white eyebrows furrowed in concentration. For two years now, Kenspeckle had worked to return Ghastly to a flesh and blood state. He had used all kinds of science-magic, brought in every sort of expert, tried everything he could think of and then went even further, with no success.
“Who’s the old guy?” Fletcher asked loudly. Kenspeckle scowled and looked up.
Valkyrie smiled and waved. Kenspeckle left the statue and came over.
“Valkyrie. You’re injured again.”
“A few little cuts; nothing to worry about.”
“I’m the medical genius, Valkyrie. I think I’ll make up my own mind about that.” He examined the cut on her face and then her hands. “Who’s the annoying boy?”
“I’m not—” Fletcher began.
“This is Fletcher Renn,” Skulduggery interrupted. “I was hoping he could stay here for a few days.”
“And why would you imagine that I would agree to that?” Kenspeckle growled.
“He needs to be kept somewhere safe, with someone responsible.”
“You want me to stay here?” Fletcher asked, clearly appalled.
“Shut up,” Kenspeckle said, his eyes never leaving Valkyrie’s cut. “Are you trying to bring trouble to my door, Detective?”
“No, I am not, Professor.”
“Because the last time you brought trouble to my door, people died.”
He looked at Skulduggery and Skulduggery looked at him.
“It’s not safe for him out there. He’s untrained, doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s basically an idiot. I need to know he’s somewhere safe. I need him kept out of harm’s way. You’re the only one I can trust to do that.”
“And this has to do with the Teleporter murders that everyone is talking about?”
“Yes.”
Kenspeckle turned back to Valkyrie. “Come with me to the Infirmary.”
He walked out without glancing at Skulduggery and she followed. When they got to the Infirmary, he told Valkyrie to hop up on the bed, then dabbed at her hands and cheek with a sweet-smelling cloth.
“It seems like every second day you come here,” he said, “mortally wounded, bones broken, bleeding to death, hanging on by a thread, and you expect me to perform some amazingly astounding miracle cure.”
“These are mortal wounds?” she asked sceptically.
“Don’t be cheeky.”
“Sorry.”
He shrugged, then shuffled off to the small table beside the bed. The medical department in Kenspeckle’s science-magic facility was small, but perfectly formed, and usually quiet – except for the times when one of Kenspeckle’s experiments went impressively wrong, or when old gods awoke in the Morgue. But nothing like that had happened in months.
“Do
