Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 1 - 12. Derek Landy
machine, added the powder and turned it on. It was only after she’d had something to eat that she allowed herself to think about the previous night.
Well, she said to herself, so that happened.
She pulled on her shoes and went out, the sunshine warm on her face. At the end of her road, she passed the old pier and started towards Main Street. Normality. Kids playing football, riding bikes and laughing, dogs running about, tails wagging, neighbours talking to neighbours and the world being as she’d always thought it was. No living skeletons. No magic. No men trying to kill her.
A crazy laugh escaped her lips when she reflected on how much her life had changed in the space of a day. She had gone from being a perfectly ordinary girl in a perfectly ordinary world to becoming a target for water-soluble weirdos and a partner for a skeleton detective out to solve her uncle’s murder.
Stephanie faltered. Her uncle’s murder? Where had she got that from? Gordon had died of natural causes: the doctors had said so. She frowned. But these were doctors who lived in a world without walking, talking skeletons. But still, why assume he’d been murdered? What on earth had made her think that?
“There are items that cannot be taken,” China had said, “possessions that cannot be stolen. In such a case, the owner must be dead before anyone else can take advantage of its powers.”
Her attacker, and whoever had sent him, wanted something. They wanted something badly enough to kill her to get it. And if they wanted it that badly, would they really have waited for her uncle to die of natural causes before they went looking for it?
Stephanie felt cold. Gordon had been murdered. Someone had killed him and no one was doing anything about it. No one was asking the questions, no one was trying to figure out who did it.
Except for Skulduggery.
She narrowed her eyes. He must have known Gordon was murdered. If he hadn’t already suspected it when they first met, he must have worked it out in the library. China probably knew as well, but neither of them had told her. They didn’t think she could handle it, maybe. Or maybe they didn’t think it was any of her business. It had to do with their world after all, not hers. But Gordon was still her uncle.
A car pulled up behind her. People stared. She looked back and saw the Bentley.
The driver’s side was still badly buckled from where the car had rammed it, and the windscreen was cracked. Three of the windows were without glass and the bonnet had a series of ugly dents running up its left side. The usual purr of the engine was replaced by a worrying rattle that cut out abruptly when the engine turned off. Skulduggery – in hat, scarf and sunglasses – went to get out, but the door wouldn’t open.
“Oh, boy,” Stephanie muttered.
She watched him lean away from the door and raise his knee, and then he kicked it open and got out, adjusting his coat as he walked over.
“Good afternoon,” he said brightly. “Wonderful weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
“People are staring,” Stephanie whispered as he neared.
“Are they really? Oh, so they are. Good for them. So, are we ready to go?”
“That depends,” she answered, speaking softly and keeping a smile on her face. “When were you going to tell me that my uncle was murdered?”
There was a slight hesitation. “Ah. You worked that out, then?”
Stephanie turned down a narrow lane between two buildings, moving away from the prying eyes of Haggard’s gossip mongers. Skulduggery hesitated a moment, then caught up to her, walking fast.
“I had a very good reason for not telling you.”
“I don’t care.” Now that no one could see her, she dropped the smile. “Gordon was murdered, Skulduggery. How could you not have told me?”
“This is a dangerous business. It’s a dangerous world that I’m part of.”
She stopped suddenly. Skulduggery kept walking, realised she wasn’t beside him any more and turned on his heel. She crossed her arms. “If you don’t think I can handle it—”
“No, you’ve certainly proved yourself capable.” She heard the tone of his voice change slightly. “I knew from the moment I met you that you’re just the type of person who would never walk away from danger, simply out of stubbornness. I wanted to keep you out of it as much as I could. You’ve got to understand – Gordon was my friend. I thought I owed it to him to try and keep his favourite niece out of harm’s way.”
“Well, I’m in harm’s way, so it’s not your decision any more.”
“No, apparently it isn’t.”
“So you won’t keep anything from me again?”
He put his hand to his chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“OK.”
He nodded and led the way back to the Bentley.
“Though you don’t actually have a heart,” she said.
“I know.”
“And technically, you’ve already died.”
“I know that too.”
“Just so we’re clear.”
“What’s he like?” Stephanie asked as they drove.
“What’s who like?”
“This guy we’re going to see. What’s his name?”
“Ghastly Bespoke.”
She looked at Skulduggery to make sure he wasn’t joking, then realised there was no way she could tell. “Why would anyone call themselves Ghastly?”
“All manner of names suit all manner of people. Ghastly is my tailor and also happens to be one of my closest friends. He first taught me how to box.”
“So what’s he like?”
“Decent. Honourable. Honest. But more fun than I’m making him sound, I swear. Also, he’s not magic’s biggest fan…”
“He doesn’t like magic? How could he not like magic?”
“He just doesn’t find it interesting. He prefers the world he reads about in books and sees on TV, the world with cops and robbers and dramas and sports. If he had to choose, I expect he’d live in the world without magic. That way, he could have gone to school and got a job and been… normal. Of course, he’s never been given the choice. I suppose, for him, there could never really be a choice. Not really.”
“Why not?”
Skulduggery hesitated for only a moment, as if he was choosing how best to say it, then told her that Ghastly was born ugly.
“Not just unattractive,” he said, “not merely unappealing, but really, honestly ugly. His mother was jinxed when she was pregnant with him and now his face is ridged with scars. They tried everything to fix it – spells, potions, charms, glamours, various and sundry creams, but nothing worked.”
He explained that, as a child, Ghastly had always told his friends that he got his love of boxing from his father and his love of sewing from his mother. The truth was, his father was the one who was constantly making alterations to hemlines and such, and his mother was a bare-knuckle boxing champ, who boasted twenty-two consecutive wins. Skulduggery had seen her fight once. She had a right hook that could take a head clean off. And according to legend, it had once too.
Regardless, Ghastly was brought up in these two separate disciplines and, figuring he was ugly enough already, decided to try a career as a tailor, rather than a boxer.
“And I for one am glad he did,” Skulduggery said.