but she wasn’t too keen on them either, so she stayed away from the corners.
Skulduggery had no such qualms. He examined the walls, scanning their surface as he moved sideways along them. Now and then he’d tap the wall, mutter to himself and move on.
“Is this the same as the way into the Sanctuary?” Stephanie asked. “Are you looking for a secret passageway?”
“You watch too many haunted-house movies,” he said.
“But are you looking for a secret passageway?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “But that’s just a coincidence.”
She pulled up the sleeve of her coat, revealing an ugly bruise on her arm, and covered it up again before Skulduggery glanced over.
“Did Gordon build the passage?” she asked.
“No, it was included in the original designs. A few hundred years ago, this was a sorcerer’s house.”
“And he built a secret passageway to the caves? I thought you said the caves were a death trap for sorcerers.”
“I did say that, yes.”
“So why did he build himself a short cut? Was he a stupid sorcerer?”
“No, he just wasn’t a very nice one. He used to drag his enemies down there and leave them to whatever creatures were hungriest.”
“What a charming history. I can see why my uncle bought the place.”
“Aha.”
Stephanie moved closer. Skulduggery’s hand was flat against the wall. He moved it and she could see a slight indentation, almost invisible to the naked eye.
“That’s the lock?”
“Yes, this is one of those good old-fashioned key-required locks – the kind a spell won’t open. Damn it.”
“Can you break it?”
“I could break it, but then it wouldn’t work and we couldn’t get the door open.”
“I meant break through it.”
“That would work if the door was in the same place as the lock, but things are rarely that straightforward.”
“So we need the key.”
“We need the key.”
“I don’t suppose we’ll find it on one of Gordon’s keyrings.”
“Indeed. This is not a regular key we’re looking for.”
“We don’t have to solve a puzzle to get to it, do we?”
“We may.”
Stephanie groaned. “How come nothing’s ever simple?”
“Every solution to every problem is simple. It’s the distance between the two wherein the mystery lies.”
They turned off the light and climbed the stairs out of the dank mustiness of the cellar. They walked into the living room and a man in a suit, a suit that looked almost Victorian in design, turned to them.
He had black hair and thin lips and his right hand, which was skinless, glistened with blood and wet muscle, and before Stephanie could even register surprise Skulduggery was pulling the gun from his jacket. The man moved as gunshots filled the room, stepping to one side and waving his right hand.
She didn’t know what he did but it worked, and no bullets hit him.
“Run!” Skulduggery said, pushing her out of the room.
She stumbled and something moved beside her and she turned as another man came at her. There was something wrong with him – something wrong with his skin, with his features – they didn’t look real: they looked almost papery. She tried to hit it, but it was like hitting a bag of air. A fist swung at her, but unlike its body the fist was heavy and solid, and it snapped her head back. She staggered and it reached for her, but then Skulduggery was there, hurling it away.
Three more of them came through the front door. Stephanie ran to the stairs, Skulduggery covering her escape. Halfway up she looked back as the man in the suit strolled into the hall. She shouted a warning and Skulduggery turned to face him but it was too late. Purple vapour gathered in the man’s left palm and he released it in a stream that flowed into Skulduggery and arced out behind him and above, flowing back into the man’s other hand, forming a circle. Skulduggery dropped to his knees, tried to raise the gun but couldn’t hold it, and it fell to the floor.
“Take him,” the man said, cutting off the purple stream. Skulduggery sagged and three of the paper men grabbed him, started dragging him out of the house. The man motioned to the fourth. “You, kill the girl.”
And he walked out.
Stephanie sprinted to the landing, the papery thing clumping up the stairs behind her. She ran to Gordon’s dark study, slammed the door and pushed over one of the bookcases. It toppled and crashed and books spilled across the floor.
The door opened a fraction and hit the bookcase. Heavy fists started to pound on it from the other side.
She went to the window, opened it and looked down. Even if she made the drop without breaking her legs, she’d land right in front of the man with the red hand. She backed off, looked around for a weapon.
The bookcase slowly scraped across the floor. The door opened wider. Stephanie turned, moved behind the desk and hid. The pounding continued. She peered out. She could see a papery arm now, reaching around. Then a shoulder, and a head. She ducked back into hiding.
One last heave and the door was open wide enough for the thing to step over the fallen bookcase. Stephanie stopped breathing. She peeked out. It crossed to the window and leaned out, hands on the sill.
Stephanie rose and launched herself forward. It heard her and tried to turn but she slammed into it. Its heavy hands slipped off the window sill and dragged it through, and Stephanie reached down, grabbed its lower leg and hauled. The thing tried to reach back through the window but it was too late, and out it went with a faint rustle of paper.
It landed in a heap and she saw the man in the suit glare up at her. He waved his arm and she threw herself away from the window as the air turned purple and the window exploded. Glass shards rained down on her back, but they didn’t tear through the coat.
She lay where she was, hands over her head, until she heard a car start up. Then she got up, glass and splinters of wood falling from her, and reached the window just in time to see the silver car leave the estate. They’d left her, obviously deciding it wasn’t worth the effort to make sure she was dead.
Stephanie pulled the crumpled business card from her pocket, got out her phone and dialled the number. The call was picked up almost immediately. She spoke urgently.
“I need help. They’ve taken Skulduggery.”
“Tell
