Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 1 - 12. Derek Landy
is,” Skulduggery said, then made a sound like he was clearing his throat, though there was nothing to clear and no actual throat to clear it from. “Did you notice the way they moved?”
“Very, I don’t know… gracefully. What about it? Are they dancers? The Vault has ballerina security guards?”
“They’re vampires,” Skulduggery said. “The Vault has vampire security guards.”
Stephanie made a show of poking her head out of the window and looking up at the sky. “The sun’s still out, Skulduggery. It’s still bright.”
“Doesn’t matter to them.”
She frowned. “Doesn’t sunlight kill them? Doesn’t it turn them to dust, or make them burst into flames or something?”
“Nope. Vampires tan, just like you and me. Well, just like you. I tend to bleach.”
“So sunlight has no effect on them?”
“It binds them. It dampens their powers. During the day, they are for all intents and purposes mortal, but when the sun goes down, their powers flare up.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“And the Vault employs two of them as their nightshift. The ultimate guard dogs.”
“If sunlight doesn’t hurt them, I don’t suppose crosses will scare them off?”
“The best way to stop a vampire is with a whole lot of bullets, and since we don’t want to hurt anyone, this is that problem I was telling you about.”
“There must be a way to get by them. We could disguise ourselves as cleaning staff or something.”
“No one works when vampires are around – vampires don’t make a distinction between allies and prey. They can’t resist the bloodlust any more than a moth can resist a big bright light. They’re killers: the most efficient, deadly killers on the face of the planet.”
“Scary.”
“Yes, well, vampires aren’t known for being cute.”
“Well then, we’re going to have to come up with something really really clever.”
Skulduggery paused then shrugged. “I suppose I am good at that.”
THE TROLL BENEATH WESTMINSTER BRIDGE
“Hello?” she said. “Anyone down there?”
The Thames was dark and rushing beneath her, but no one answered. She glanced at her watch then looked around. It was seven minutes to midnight and Westminster Bridge was empty except for her. Perfect.
“Hello?” she said again. “I need to talk to you.”
A voice answered: “There’s no one down here.”
“I think there is,” she said.
“No,” came the voice. “No one.”
“I think there’s a troll down there,” the young woman said. “And I need to talk to him.”
A face rose up out of the shadows, small and wrinkled, with large ears and a shock of spiky black hair. Huge eyes blinked at her.
“What do you want?” the troll asked.
“I want to talk to you,” the young woman answered. “I’m Tanith Low. What’s your name?”
The troll shook his head. “No no, not telling. Not telling that.”
“Oh yes,” Tanith said, “trolls only have one name, isn’t that right?”
“Yes yes, one name. No telling.”
“But I can guess, isn’t that how it goes? If I guess your name correctly, what happens then?”
The troll grinned, showing lots of sharp yellow teeth. “You get to live,” he said.
“And if I get it wrong?”
The troll giggled. “You get eaten!”
“That sounds like a fun game,” Tanith said with a smile. “What time do you usually play?”
“Midnight, stroke of midnight, yes yes yes. When I’m strong.”
“And you pop out from under there at whoever’s passing, don’t you?”
“Three chances,” the troll said, nodding. “Three chances is what they get. Guess the name, don’t get eaten; get it wrong, come along.”
“Do you want to play it with me?”
The grin faded on the troll’s face. “Not strong yet. Need to wait, yes yes. Stroke of midnight.”
“We don’t have to wait, do we?” Tanith said with a pout. “I want to play now. I bet I can guess your name.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Bet I can.”
“No, you can’t!” the troll said, giggling again.
“Come on up out of there, we’ll see.”
“Yes yes, play the game.”
Tanith glanced at her watch and stepped back as the troll scampered up. Two minutes to midnight. He was small, up to her waist, with thin arms and legs and a bloated belly. His fingernails were hardened and pointed and he was grinning in anticipation, though keeping his distance.
She let her coat fall open a little and smiled at him. “You’re a handsome little fellow, aren’t you? Are you the only troll in London?”
“Only one,” he said proudly. “Now we play! Guess the name, don’t get eaten; get it wrong, come along. Guess guess guess.”
“Let’s see,” she said, taking a step closer. The troll narrowed its eyes and stepped back, towards the edge of the bridge. She stopped moving. “Is your name Bollohollow?”
The troll roared with laughter. “No no, not Bollohollow! Two guesses left, only two!”
“This is harder than I thought,” said Tanith. “You’re really good at this, aren’t you?”
“Best! Very best!”
“Not many people have guessed your name, huh?”
“No one,” the troll cackled. “Guess guess!”
“Is it… Ferninabop Caprookie?”
The troll whooped and hollered and danced, and Tanith moved a little closer.
“Not Ferninabop!” he laughed. “Not Caprookie!”
“Wow,” Tanith said, looking worried. “I’m not doing too well here, am I?”
“Gonna get eaten!”
“You eat a lot of passers-by?”
“Yes yes, yum yum.”
“You gobble them all up, don’t you? They scream and cry and run away—”
“But I catch them!” the troll giggled. “Stroke of midnight, I’m big and strong and fast, gobble them up, gobble them all up! They struggle and wriggle and tickle inside