he said, “we’ve been through a lot, you and I, and if I could switch bodies with you I would. I really would. Maybe then you could see me the way I see you.”
Scapegrace tried to ponder that one and quickly gave up.
“You are the only important thing in my life,” Thrasher continued, “and I … sir, I …”
“This conversation is boring me,” Scapegrace announced. “Take out the rubbish bins.”
Thrasher sagged. “Yes, Master.”
While Thrasher trudged out with the bins, Scapegrace picked up his fallen sword and returned it to its sheath. Back in olden times, a Samurai would never put his sword away until the blade had tasted blood. But that was the olden times, back when they didn’t understand things like basic hygiene. These days, Scapegrace was sure, a Samurai would much rather break this nonsensical little rule than risk a variety of unfortunate infections.
He heard a scream and, before he knew what he was doing, Scapegrace was running for the door, his sword once more in his hand.
Thrasher was struggling with something in the gloom behind the pub, his back jammed up against the wall while he tried to keep the creature at bay. It was big, as big as a Doberman but with longer hair, and it had a snout and sharp teeth and it snarled and snapped and Thrasher squealed.
“Hey!” Scapegrace shouted, because he could think of nothing else.
The creature turned its head, its eyes flashing. From this angle, the face almost looked human. Then it leaped at Scapegrace and Scapegrace slipped on fallen bits of rubbish and the creature impaled itself on the sword as he fell.
Scapegrace blinked as the creature gave a last rattling breath before it died. He pushed it off him and got to his feet.
Thrasher looked up at him. “Master!”
“What?”
“You saved me!”
“No I didn’t.”
“You rescued me!”
“It was an accident.”
“You saved my life!”
“I didn’t do it on purpose.”
Thrasher bounded to his feet. He was so happy he looked like he was about to cry. “Master, you have no idea how much this means to me. I am a pathetic mortal, not worthy of being saved—”
“I know.”
“—and yet you saved me anyway. You risked your life, which is vastly more important than mine—”
“Vastly.”
“—and you rushed into danger, into the jaws of death … I don’t know what to say. I don’t have the words to … Oh, sir, forgive me, I may cry.”
“Well, do it somewhere else,” Scapegrace said, scowling. “What the hell is that thing anyway? Some kind of dog?”
Thrasher was too busy crying to answer.
Scapegrace pressed his foot against the creature’s body, rolled it into the light. “That’s no dog,” he said. “It looks like a monkey and a dog fell in love and had babies and this is the ugly one they didn’t want.” He crouched down. “Maybe it’s an alien. Maybe we’re being invaded by aliens.”
“Oh, I hope not, sir,” Thrasher sobbed.
“Shut up. Look at that face. It’s definitely an alien. Maybe. It’s not from here, that’s for sure.”
Thrasher sniffled. “Maybe it’s from an alternate dimension.”
“From a what?”
“An alternate dimension, Master. You know, like the one Valkyrie Cain was pulled into.”
Scapegrace stood up. “What the hell are you blubbing about?”
“Last April, sir, when we were waiting for these bodies, there was all this drama going on with Valkyrie being in a parallel dimension and this gentleman called Argeddion running around and … you missed all of this?”
“I was a head in a jar,” Scapegrace said. “I had other things on my mind.”
“Yes, sir, of course. But maybe this creature is from an alternate dimension just like that one. Maybe someone shunted back and brought that with them accidentally.”
“Shunted?”
“That’s what they call it, sir. The Shunter who caused all the trouble for Valkyrie was a man called Silas Nadir.”
“Nadir,” Scapegrace said. “Where have I heard that name before?”
“From what I gathered, he is a rather notorious serial killer, sir.”
Scapegrace’s eyes widened. “A serial killer? Where is he now? Did they catch him?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. He escaped the cells and—”
“He was in the Sanctuary?” Scapegrace interrupted. “So he escaped the cells, disappeared, and a few months later there’s a … thingy …”
“Shunter.”
“… Shunter, active in Roarhaven?”
Thrasher paled. “Oh, sir. You don’t … you don’t think he’s still here, do you?”
Scapegrace turned away from him, eyes on the street. “I know the criminal mind, Thrasher. I know the mind of a murderer. Once upon a time, I was the Killer Supreme. I was the Zombie King. But I have changed my ways since then. I will now channel my inner darkness into fighting evil, not being evil, in an epic tale of redemption and quiet dignity. And if there is one thing I know, if there is one thing of which I am certain, it is that Silas Nadir has never left Roarhaven, and this town needs a protector. Which makes it two things I know.”
“Should we call Skulduggery?”
“No. We should call me.”
“You?”
“This town cries out for a hero.”
“You?”
“Let Pleasant and Cain save them from obvious threats. Let them stand in the spotlight. I will stand in the shadows. I will fight in darkness.”
“You’ll need a torch, sir,” said Thrasher, rushing over to stand beside him. “Please – let me hold that torch.”
“You can be my sidekick.”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“I will be this town’s champion, its unsung hero, its Dark and Stormy Knight.”
“Yes, sir!” Thrasher squealed, clapping his hands.
Scapegrace narrowed his eyes. He could practically smell the evil. “We’ll need masks.”
He’d valued every moment he spent with her when she was alive, and he cherished every memory he had of her when she was gone. Along with his father, she was responsible for the man he became, for the man he was now. A fighter.
But