you need to put in your books. You will learn the different types of pain, the particular strain of anguish that is most effective. You will be shown how to get your readers to care about your characters so much that when those characters die the readers are traumatised far past the point of tears. You will be instructed on the best way to bombard your readers with emotions, with feelings.”
Susan stepped forward. “So you make your readers suffer, and you draw strength from that?”
“Their pain makes me strong,” said Fawkes, smiling. “And your readers’ pain can make you strong.”
“And you actually believe everything you’re saying?”
“You will believe, too, my dear.”
“Uh-huh,” said Susan. “You said something about draining their life energy. Isn’t that, like, bad?”
“No, not necessarily. Is it exploitative? Yes. But fatalities are few.”
“Fatalities? Are you saying you’ve killed your readers?”
“It is regrettable, obviously. We don’t want to hurt anyone. We’re refining the process even now. Argento is supplying me with new, safer symbols. We want our readers living a long life … so they can keep buying our books!” He chuckled.
Susan looked around. “I don’t get what’s going on here. Are you all this stupid?”
“There’s always one,” Fawkes said, his smile growing sad. “Always one who needs convincing.”
The crowd parted and a gap opened between Susan and Argento.
“I can feel your doubt,” Argento said, his voice soft yet piercing.
“Yeah, no kidding,” Susan replied.
“Doubt, uncertainty … these are feelings laced with a bitter aftertaste. Powerful, in their own way, and made all the more so by the fear that always follows.”
“Uh-huh,” said Susan.
Argento held out his hand. “I will drink from you now.”
Susan gasped, her body sagging, and Gordon tried to push through the tightly packed guests.
Argento’s hand glowed and he closed his eyes. “Delicious,” he said. “Doubt turns to realisation … to the truth … and the truth is a scary thing. Let me taste your fear.”
Susan had gone ashen-white, and still Gordon fought to get to her, and then suddenly there was a cry from above and everyone turned, looked up at the balcony from which Skulduggery had just thrown the spotlight operator. He stood there, looking down at them all.
“Terribly sorry,” he said, “but I’m going to have to bring an end to tonight’s festivities. It’s just … I’m disappointed. I wanted tonight to be special. I’m here with my friend, I’m surrounded by writers and I wanted to talk about books and stories and creativity and I wanted to overhear conversations about social responsibilities and the writer as outcast, but … but instead I get this.
“I get an empathy vampire and a group of idiots who are working with him. And he looks ridiculous. I mean we’re all here dressed up in costumes, I understand that, but he wants you to think that this is how he dresses normally. It’s not. No one dresses like that normally. Why would they? I met a vampire once, an ordinary vampire, who dressed like Lestat. I told him what I’m telling this one – stop reading books about vampires.”
Fawkes cleared his throat and looked at Argento, who stepped forward with a dramatic swish of his toga.
“You talk like you know my kind,” Argento said. “You, who are nothing to me but an insect, would dare stand upon that balcony and attempt to wound me with insults. I am made of sturdier stuff, my friend. I cannot be hurt by words, nor by blade, nor by bullet. I am eternal. I am the night. I am the day. I am forever. And who are you?”
Skulduggery let his sunglasses fall, then clicked his fingers and set fire to the bandages around his head. They went up in a blaze that died as suddenly as it began, revealing the skull beneath. “I’m Skulduggery Pleasant.”
“Oh, hell,” said Argento.
“And you’re under arrest.”
Argento spun on his heels and sprinted away. Skulduggery leaped high into the air, using his magic to boost himself halfway across the ballroom. He landed and gave chase. Argento shrieked.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then somebody screamed, and the guests surged to the doors, yelling and shouting and tripping over each other. Gordon pushed his way through, catching Susan as she fell. He checked her pulse and her eyes fluttered open.
“That was weird,” she said, sounding drunk. “Did that happen?”
“It did,” said Gordon, making sure she could stand on her own. “Are you OK? Will you be OK here?”
Susan frowned at him. “Where’re you going?”
“I’m going after Fawkes.”
Susan grinned. “I’m fine. You go get him, tiger.”
He nodded, left his mask with her, and ran as fast as his costume would allow. He got to the door, emerged into a narrow corridor. He followed it to an empty kitchen with three doors leading out from it. He chose one at random, ran the length of it, and found Sebastian Fawkes trying to get out of a window.
“You’re going nowhere,” Gordon said.
Fawkes turned. “Edgley,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here? Go away. There are forces at work you cannot possibly fathom.”
“I know all about magic,” Gordon said. “I know about the Sanctuaries and the sorcerers. You’re not the holder of dark secrets. You’re an idiot, and you’re not going to get away with what you’ve done.”
Fawkes stopped trying to get away, and regarded Gordon with new eyes. “I don’t understand why you’re against this. It’s power. It’s success. It’s wealth. And it’s a longer life to enjoy all that. Why won’t you just go along with it?”
“Because you’re hurting your readers,” said Gordon.
“Writers hurt their readers all the time! And the readers love it!”
“This is different. This is torture.”
“Nonsense! How can it be torture, how can it be cruel, if they don’t even know it’s happening? We give them stories, they give us longer life. It’s a fair trade.”
Gordon approached. “So what about the readers who’ve died reading your books? What do you call them?”
Fawkes shrugged. “The learning curve.”
“No. This will not continue.”
Colour rose in Fawkes’s cheeks. “Who are you to stand up to me? I am Sebastian Fawkes! The Telegraph called me the world’s greatest living horror novelist. The New York Times said my work was artfully sublime. My last novel was heralded as a humane, heartbreaking journey through a nightmare landscape and a triumph in form. What awards have you won? What accolades have you gathered? You’re a flavour of the month, easily dismissed, easily forgotten. I am a literary horror novelist. What the hell are you?”
Gordon took a last step towards him. “I’m a storyteller, you pretentious buffoon,” he said and he pushed Fawkes.
Fawkes stared at him, his eyes wide. He pushed Gordon back.
Gordon lost his temper, gave Fawkes an extra-hard push to teach him a lesson.
Fawkes let out a roar and charged. Gordon tried to keep him away, but he was too slow. They collided, and stood there, wrestling. Every so often, they’d move their feet slightly. There was a lot of grunting.
Fawkes got a hand against Gordon’s face. Gordon squeezed his eyes shut. Fawkes’s palm