because you lied to us, wasted our time, made us rethink some of our plans, we decided to put your death to good use. We killed you and brought you back. Do you know what you are?”
“Very lucky?”
“You’re a zombie.”
Scapegrace laughed. “No, Master. Not me.”
Scarab took a knife from his pocket and stabbed it through Scapegrace’s arm. Scapegrace stared.
“You feel no pain,” Scarab continued.
“Oh.”
“Your corpse is being sustained by magic.”
“I’m a…I’m a zombie.”
“Yes.”
“Am…am I like that White Cleaver person?”
“I’ve been in prison for 200 years. I have no idea what you’re talking about. You are, to be blunt, a fairly basic zombie. You’re not one of those fully reanimated, self-healing zombies. You’re a lower class. Best I could do with the stuff I know.”
“Oh, I do appreciate it, Master.”
“Shut up. Do you know anything about zombies?”
“Not really…”
“You have no magic. The magic you did have is being used to keep your body moving and your brain thinking – I wouldn’t imagine much magic is required for that particular feat.”
“I wouldn’t say so, sir.”
“The advantage of being such a basic zombie, however, is that you can pass on your condition with simply a bite. See, I want you to go out there and recruit.”
“Recruit?”
“One bite’ll do it. These people you recruit do not need to be sorcerers – in fact, it would be best if they weren’t. The thing is, you’re the only one who can bite, you get me? None of the others, and I mean none, can even taste human flesh.”
“Why can’t they?”
“Because I’m telling you they can’t. You are the only one who’ll be immune to its effects. They’ll be sustained by trace amounts of magic, though they’ll decompose faster than you will. The thing is they’ll want human flesh. They’ll need human flesh. You’ve got to make sure they don’t get any.”
“You can count on me, Master!”
Scarab sighed then looked at him. “You’re going to be killing folk, Mr Scapegrace. You’re finally going to be the killer you always dreamed of being. Do not mess this up.”
“Have you heard anything about Sanguine?”
Skulduggery asked. “Has he been spotted at all since I’ve been away?”
“He vanished,” Valkyrie said. “We didn’t know if he was dead or alive. I got him pretty good with Tanith’s sword, right across the belly. I suppose a bit of me actually thought I’d killed him.”
“Well, you didn’t.”
“I don’t know whether to be disappointed or glad.”
“Pick glad. You’ve got plenty of time to regret the things you haven’t done yet.”
“I’m…not sure what that means.”
“Take it home with you and think about it.”
“I will, thanks. So, anyway, we have no way of knowing when Sanguine stole the Soul Catcher.”
“That is annoying,” Skulduggery murmured. “Still, it’s not our concern.”
She frowned. “What?”
“It’s not our case. Why should we worry about what someone like Sanguine does? I’m bored with all of them. I need something new. I need a new mystery, with new people.”
“And so where are we going?”
“That snivelling boy said the Sanctuary Detectives are worried about a vision one of their Sensitives had. That sounds intriguing, doesn’t it?”
“Does it?”
“It does. It sounds new and exciting. I wonder if they’ve seen the end of the world. I love end-of-the-world visions. They’re always so graphic.”
“I don’t like visions at all.”
“Really?”
“I don’t like things being inevitable.”
“Ah, but visions of the future are not inevitable. The very fact that someone sees a vision of what will happen automatically changes what will happen. Granted, sometimes these changes are too infinitesimal to notice, but they are still changes. I find the whole thing quite fascinating to be honest. After all, you’re working against the natural course of events. You are working against your own destiny every time.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“That’s my way of looking at it,” Skulduggery said happily. “Give me a few minutes and that way will change.”
Even at this time in the morning the tattoo parlour was open. The low buzz of the tattooist’s needle greeted them the moment they stepped through the door. They climbed the narrow steps, passing all the photos of tattooed body parts.
The parlour’s only customer was a fat man lying face down on a tilted table. The skinny tattooist with the shaved head and the Dublin football jersey looked up from his work and a grin broke across his face.
“Skul-man!” he exclaimed as he rushed forward to shake his hand. “How is this possible? Last I heard you were trapped on a dead world overrun by evil trans-dimensional superfiends!”
Skulduggery nodded. “Just got back.”
“That’s awesome, man. That’s really great. So did you get me anything?”
“Like…a souvenir?” Skulduggery asked doubtfully.
“Doesn’t have to be anything big. A rock, maybe, or a twig. Just something from an alternate universe, you know? It’d be something to show the kid when he’s older, tell him it was an early birthday present from his Uncle Skulduggery.”
“I’m sorry, Finbar, I don’t have anything.”
“That’s OK, that’s OK. I suppose I could just give him any old rock, couldn’t I? He’d never know that it wasn’t from an alternate universe. He’d be so happy. I can just see him, bringing the rock into school, showing his little friends, carrying it around with him everywhere. I used to have a pet rock when I was a kid, but it ran away. At least, my mother said it ran away, but I think my dad just picked it up one afternoon and threw it out the window. I went looking for it, but…” Finbar’s voice cracked. “They all looked the same, you know? They all looked the same…” He narrowed his eyes. “Hey, Skul-man – you wearing a new head?”
“Yes, actually,” Skulduggery said, sounding very pleased. “What do you think?”
“Oh, man,