came through the sombre crowd, spilling someone’s drink and apologising profusely before arriving at Scapegrace’s table. “Some men are here,” he said urgently. “They say they know you.”
Scapegrace leaned back in his chair. “Let’s see them.”
Thrasher nodded, turned, but the crowd was already parting for the six newcomers. Scapegrace did indeed know them. Lightning Dave sidled up on Scapegrace’s right, playing with a bright stream of electricity that crackled between his fingertips. His hair stood on end, and his features had settled into a permanent smirk.
Beside him was Hokum Pete. Hokum Pete had been born in Kerry, but harboured a well-known and widely ridiculed desire to be seen as a Wild West outlaw. He liked to wear cowboy boots and long duster coats, and today he had a six-gun holstered low on his right leg. His hand flashed and the gun cleared the holster. He started to spin it around on his finger, like that was going to impress anyone.
Thrasher gave a delighted “Oooh”, and Scapegrace fought the urge to hit him.
To Scapegrace’s left was a pair of sorcerers who had never managed to garner much of a reputation for themselves. They weren’t powerful and they weren’t smart, and Scapegrace could never remember their names.
Brobding the giant, bringing up the rear, had to hunch over to even fit in here, and the man who stood right in front of Scapegrace was Hieronymus Deadfall. Deadfall had been a mercenary, had fought in a few wars, both magical and mortal, before returning to Ireland and settling down in Roarhaven, where he had stolen Scapegrace’s pub from under him. Not that Scapegrace held a grudge or anything.
“Hello, moron,” said Scapegrace.
“My God,” Deadfall responded. “It’s true. Everything they said is true. You’re a shambling pile of decomposition.”
Hokum Pete sniggered, and Scapegrace sat up a little straighter. “I am the living dead, if that’s what you mean, yes. What can I do for you, Hieronymus? I assume you’ve heard about the auction.”
“We heard,” Deadfall nodded. “So you know where the Skeleton Detective lives?”
“Yes, I do. You want revenge, for the time he smacked you around your own pub? This is how you do it. Catch him unawares. Or you can sell the information to someone else. His little partner will probably be there too.”
“Cain,” snarled one of the sorcerers whose name Scapegrace couldn’t remember.
“This information is worth a lot,” Scapegrace continued, “but all I’m looking for is information in exchange. Kenspeckle Grouse. I want to know where to find him.”
It was all going so perfectly, and Scapegrace had to resist grinning in case any more teeth fell out. He’d give up the Skeleton Detective’s location, and in return he’d find Kenspeckle Grouse and get himself fixed. It was, he had to admit, one of his more brilliant plans.
“Grouse …” Deadfall said. “The scientist? How the hell would I know that?”
“If you don’t know it, you’re of no use to me. Next! Anyone know where Kenspeckle Grouse is?”
Deadfall smiled. “Tell me, Vaurien, what’s to stop us from just pulling you apart, limb from limb, until you tell us the skeleton’s address?”
Scapegrace didn’t really have an answer for that one.
There were mumblings and mutterings in the crowd as a large man in a long coat passed Deadfall and approached the table. He had his hood up, and beneath it Scapegrace could see metal, like a mask.
“I need to know where Skulduggery Pleasant lives,” the big man said with an accent. Eastern European maybe, or Russian. Scapegrace decided on Russian. It was, like many sorcerer’s accents, one that came from a lot of places over the years.
“Do you have what I need in exchange?” Scapegrace asked, ignoring Deadfall’s scowl.
The head beneath the hood shook. “I have heard of this Grouse person, but I do not know where he lives.”
“Then why are you wasting my time?”
The Russian didn’t answer for a bit. Then he placed both hands on the table, and leaned in. “Because I’m giving you a chance to avoid bloodshed. Tell me where the Skeleton Detective lives and we can all walk out of here. You are a dead man, but there are ways to kill even dead men.”
The conversation had tilted wildly out of Scapegrace’s control in a remarkably short amount of time, with an astonishingly small amount of words.
It was the tone the big Russian was using, a tone that implied that violence was a mere afterthought. Scapegrace didn’t like that one bit. Anyone who did not give violence its careful and rightful due was someone to whom violence was an old pair of shoes – slip on, slip off, think nothing more about it. That wasn’t Scapegrace’s style at all.
“Maybe,” he said, “we can reach a compromise.”
“No way,” Deadfall said to the mysterious Russian. “Listen, pal, a funny accent and a funny mask don’t scare me. We were here first, so you, take a hike.”
The big man turned to him slowly. “You do not want to make trouble with me.”
Deadfall actually chuckled in disbelief. “Scapegrace, take note. After we deal with the funny man here, you’re next.”
Hokum Pete was still showing off with his six-gun. His finger in the trigger guard, he spun it until it blurred, then flipped it, reversed it, slid it into the holster. It barely had time to settle before it flashed out again. He tossed it into the air and caught it as it spun, tossed it to his other hand, still spinning. He threw it over his shoulder and caught it, reversed the motion and that was when the Russian reached back, snatched it from the air, and shot him point-blank.
Hokum Pete flew backwards, there were screams and yells and cries, and suddenly everyone was moving.
Lightning Dave snarled and electricity burst from his fingers. The Russian dodged behind the giant, and Brobding shrieked as the stream hit him instead. Scapegrace toppled backwards over his chair, saw Thrasher dive to the floor. Panic spread, and there was a stampede for the exits.
The Russian shot Lightning Dave twice in the chest. Deadfall, his fists already turning to hammers, knocked the gun from the Russian’s hand and swung for his head. The Russian ducked under the swing and moved past him, towards the two sorcerers with the forgettable names.
The first of them had glowing hands, ready to discharge a blast of energy. The second had opted for the up-close-and-personal approach, drawing a long dagger from his sleeve. Scapegrace watched as the Russian bent the second sorcerer’s arm back, stabbing him with his own blade. The poor, unmemorable fool gurgled in astonishment, and the Russian took the dagger from him and whipped it across the throat of his friend. Then he turned, saw Brobding coming for him and flicked the dagger to the ground. It impaled itself through the giant’s foot, pinning it to the floor. Brobding shrieked.
Deadfall came at him. The Russian swayed back out of range, watched the hammer swing uselessly by his face, then leaned in. His knuckles met the hinge of Deadfall’s jaw, and Deadfall’s legs gave out from under him.
Brobding pulled the dagger from his foot with a self-pitying squawk of pain. He fixed his face with a snarl, and charged. He didn’t have far to charge, but he did have to keep himself stooped, so it resembled more of a stumble. Still, the intent behind it was unmistakable.
The Russian ducked under the giant’s arms. Brobding’s great fist came around, but the masked man avoided it easily. Brobding lunged and the Russian snapped out a pair of jabs that broke the giant’s nose and split his lip. Brobding bellowed and the Russian kicked his knee. The bellow became a howl, drawn-out and horrified, his huge hands clutching at his leg.
The Russian tapped a single fingertip lightly against Brobding’s chest. There was a terrible crack of bone, and Brobding fell, dead. It was like a great oak falling