to laugh along with them, but seemed unsettlingly happy to see Scapegrace when he walked in. He went up to him and stood to attention.
“Good evening, sir!” he said. Idiot. “We’re all here, sir!”
“Of course you’re all here,” Scapegrace responded, annoyed.
“Sir, one of the men was asking about food, sir.”
Scapegrace made a mental note not to refer to the zombies as an army again. Thrasher was letting it go to his head and it wasn’t very scary at all. Horde would be better. His zombie horde. Much better.
“What about food?” Scapegrace grumbled.
“He was wondering what it is we eat, sir.”
“We don’t eat anything,” Scapegrace answered. “We’re sustained by magic. We don’t need food.”
“I shall inform the men, sir!” Thrasher turned on his heel and faced the zombies. “May I have your attention!” he shouted.
A zombie from the back said, “Go to hell, Gerald.”
Thrasher looked like he was about to cry. Scapegrace was now seriously regretting his recruitment process.
“We don’t eat anything,” Thrasher said, trying to keep a brave face while his lower lip quivered. The zombie horde stopped talking among themselves and looked at Scapegrace.
“We don’t eat?” Slicer asked. “What, nothing?”
“Not even brains?” Zombie Eleven asked.
“Nothing!” Scapegrace told them. “Under no circumstances are you to eat! Not even one tiny little bite! Is that understood?”
They nodded sullenly and Scapegrace turned to the door. Before he’d even reached it, they started bickering among themselves about what would taste better, brains or flesh. These were not the slavering, mindless creatures of the undead he had hoped for. These were not fearsome in the slightest. His zombies bickered. Scapegrace left the room quickly, closing the door lest the sound of bickering drift to his Master’s ears. He hurried back the way he had come, trying his best not to panic.
He didn’t want to disappoint his Master. He had been so looking forward to presenting his zombie horde and getting the recognition he sought, the praise he longed for. Maybe even a hug. But it wasn’t going to happen. His Master would take one look at the horde and recognise instantly what a petty bunch of failures they were, and what a grotesque disappointment Scapegrace himself was.
Scapegrace reached the small room that served as his personal quarters, hearing the low gentle hum. He opened the rotten door and quickly stepped in, closing it behind him. One advantage of the new recruits was that their credit cards could still be used, and Scapegrace had ordered Thrasher to buy him a place to rest.
“Like a coffin?” Thrasher had asked, wide-eyed and stupid-looking. Scapegrace had hit him, told him not to ask insolent questions, to just do what he was told, and Thrasher had scurried off, nearly crying yet again. But now that Scapegrace thought of it, he quite liked the idea of having a coffin of sorts. He reckoned it was actually pretty nifty. He hadn’t told his Master about it, and he did feel terrible about that, but he needed this. He didn’t want his body to fall apart, and until he figured out a way to stop any decomposition, the giant freezer would just have to do.
Scapegrace opened the lid and climbed in. He had to curl up to fit, but apart from that it was pretty comfortable. He closed the lid and darkness consumed him. Comforted by the darkness and the hum of power, he lay there and thought about all the ways he could kill the girl.
“Well,” Valkyrie said, nodding slowly, “I’ll be sure to pass on the suggestion. But what if it’s a girl?”
“Skulduggery,” Skulduggery said.
“Boy or girl, the same name?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think my parents would go for the name Skulduggery, if I’m being honest. If it’s a girl, they might decide on Stephanie Number Two because they’ll probably never see me again.”
“You’re such a pessimist.”
“We’re about to walk into the Sanctuary, where they all want to arrest me.”
“You did break the law.”
“I was rescuing you.”
He shrugged. “I was happy where I was.”
“Don’t talk to me any more.”
“I still haven’t thanked you properly for rescuing me, have I?”
“Nope.”
“I will,” he said and nodded.
They parked at the rear of the Waxworks Museum and got out.
“They’re not going to arrest you,” Skulduggery said as they walked through the door. “They might glare at you and say angry words, but they won’t arrest you. Well, they might arrest you. There’s a good chance they will. But the important thing is that I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“For once.”
Skulduggery led the way through the darkness and Valkyrie frowned. Her Necromancer ring was cold. Skulduggery murmured something and took out his gun. The Sanctuary door was open and the Phil Lynott figure was lying motionless on the ground. It didn’t look up as they crept by. Skulduggery headed down the stairs first, Valkyrie right behind him. There was blood smeared on the wall.
They stepped out into the Foyer. Cleavers lay dead. Valkyrie couldn’t tell how many there were. They’d been torn to pieces.
Skulduggery motioned to the open door ahead and they moved to it quietly. A sorcerer was crumpled in the corridor beyond, a gaping hole in his chest. They went through, sticking to the walls, not making a sound. The Sanctuary was eerily, unnaturally quiet.
There was a dead vampire around the next corner. Its bone-white body had almost been cut in half by a Cleaver’s scythe. Valkyrie had never had the opportunity to study one of these animals close up before – not without fighting for her life at the same time. It was male, and bald, and its wide mouth was open, a red pointed tongue lolling out over its jagged teeth. Its black eyes stared sightlessly
