Death Bringer by Derek Landy
“Wow… the great Skulduggery Pleasant had a big brother. What was he like?”
Skulduggery’s chin tilted to the right. “He was bigger than me, stronger than me, he liked to think he was smarter than me. He protected us, looked out for us. He was everything an older sibling should be. He was everything that you’re going to be to your sister.”
“I hope so. It’s weird, isn’t it? You meet someone and you become friends and you grow to love them, and that’s the way it works. That’s how things go. But then a baby is born, and you don’t have that long period of getting to know them, of figuring out if you like them as a person… you just love them. Like, it’s instant. You hold the baby in your arms and you feel so much real, overwhelming love, like you would do anything to protect it. Bam, just like that, your whole life is different. This baby, this little person that you don’t even know, is now more important to you than anything else.”
“It does come as quite a surprise,” Skulduggery murmured, and stood up.
“Oh,” she said. “Sorry. I was talking about a little sister, not… not a child of your own… I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
Skulduggery shook his head. “Nonsense. You described it perfectly. Pure, unconditional love. It’s a wonderful thing. You’ll experience it again when you have a child of your own.”
“Whoa!” said Valkyrie, jumping to her feet, the blanket falling around her. “Whoa! Stop right there! We’re not even going to talk about that! We’re not even going to mention the possibility!”
“It unnerves you, then?”
“It freaks me out is what it does! I think I still have a few years left of, you know, playing the field before I find someone I want to settle down with. We’re talking a few centuries, you know?”
“So you’re not planning on rushing into anything?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Does Fletcher know this?”
She laughed. “He’d better.”
“And Caelan?”
“I make sure to tell him every time I see him.”
Skulduggery put his hat on. “That’s my girl.”
Chapter 17
The Zombie King and Co
aurien Scapegrace, the Killer Supreme, the Zombie King, lay in a freezer, his legs curled up to his chest. He felt the freezer move slightly and he muttered dark things under his breath. The refrigerated truck he’d been using as a mobile base had broken down, so he’d sent that idiot Thrasher to get another one. But Thrasher couldn’t find a refrigerated truck. The only thing he could find that even remotely met Scapegrace’s requirements was a Percy Penguin Ice-cream Van.
Thrasher had tried to convince Scapegrace, when faced with his wrath, that an ice-cream van was ideal – it was innocent, it was unexpected, no one would ever imagine it housed a terrifying zombie. Scapegrace fumed. Innocent was not the same as discreet. His mobile base had a smiling plastic penguin on its roof, and it couldn’t go faster than forty kilometres an hour. They couldn’t even find a way to switch off that damn Popeye music that jingled and jangled on a constant loop. It was driving Scapegrace mad. What was worse, every time they stopped in traffic, he could hear people run up and tap on the window.
They were moving through yet another small town. Scapegrace hated small towns. He felt the van slow, and heard the kids immediately swarm out on to the road, waving money and shouting their orders. Scapegrace stayed where he was, safe in the frosty confines of the freezer, trying to think of things that would soothe his impatience. He thought of tranquil lakes, of birds singing, of plucking out Thrasher’s eyes, and eventually, he reached a place within himself that had some degree of balance.
He heard Thrasher’s voice, the one thing guaranteed to ruin the Zen of even the most placid monk, and opened the freezer lid. He could hear people battering on the window above him.
“What did you say?” he called out.
“I’m just wondering,” Thrasher answered from the driver’s seat, “if maybe we should serve some ice cream.”
“Why on earth would we want to do that?”
“To be inconspicuous. They’re all around us. If we give them ice cream, they’ll go away, and we won’t arouse suspicion.”
Scapegrace struggled to control his temper. Tranquil lakes. Birds singing. Eye-plucking. Calm.
“Thrasher,” he called out, “we have no ice cream. I’m in the freezer, Thrasher. Did you forget that?”
“Well, what about the machine?”
“The ice-cream-making machine?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how to work it?”
“You just, you just put the cone under the nozzle and you pull the thing and the ice cream swirls out and you stick a chocolate flake in it.”
“It’s that easy?”
“Yes.”
“Should I get out of the freezer and do it?”
“If you want.”
“You’re an idiot, Thrasher. I have bits falling off me and I have a burnt head. I’d say that would arouse a little suspicion, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh… yes. Well, I could do it, if you want to drive. I always wanted to work in an ice-cream van, ever since I was a little boy.”
“Is that right?”
“Oh, yes. My mother would take me to the beach and I loved hearing the tinkle tinkle of the ice-cream van as it made its way across the—”
“Shut up!”
Thrasher shut up. “We’re not serving ice cream, do you hear me?
We’re not! Tell these people to go away! We’re closed!”
“I tried that, sir. They don’t really listen.”
Scapegrace glowered. “Are there children out there?”
“Um, yes sir, they’re all children.”
“Run a few down.”
“Sir?”
“Drive over a few of the little brats. That’ll scare ’em off.”
“I… I don’t think I can do that, sir.”
“You’re not developing a conscience on me now, are you, Thrasher?”
“No sir!”
“You’re still an evil zombie, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes sir, evil to the core!”
“Then why can’t you drive over a few children?”
“I just don’t think we’re capable of going that fast, sir. With this traffic, plus the fact that they do seem to be an unusually spry bunch…”
“Fine,” Scapegrace said angrily. “I’ll take care of it.”
He pushed the lid all the way open and repositioned himself, then reached up and opened the window. Voices flooded the van, and hands poked through, waving money. Scapegrace pulled a face before plunging his head out of the window, and all the little kids screamed in terror and ran off, hands waving in the air. Scapegrace broke down, laughing hysterically, and fell back into the freezer, clutching his sides.
Thrasher glanced back, and Scapegrace heard him force a laugh. “That’s very good, sir, very funny.”
An hour later, Scapegrace felt the van slow again, and eventually stop. A few moments passed, then Thrasher appeared over the freezer.
“We’re here,” he said, sliding open the lid. “At least I think we’re here. We’re definitely somewhere.”
Scapegrace clambered out, slapping Thrasher’s hands away when he went to help him. Once out, he went to the front of the van.
They were in Dublin’s docklands, outside an old warehouse. There was a girl out there with blue hair. She was looking at the warehouse door, same as Scapegrace, but hadn’t once turned round to look at the van with the giant penguin on top. Thrasher joined him.
“Who is she?” Thrasher asked.
“How am I supposed to know?” Scapegrace scowled. “All I can see is the back of her blue head.”
“Do you think she’s crazy?”
“Why would she be crazy?”
Thrasher shrugged.
Scapegrace got out of the van, Thrasher close behind him. They approached the crazy girl with the blue hair.
“Nye? Is that who you’re talking about? Doctor Nye?”
The crazy girl nodded, and looked at him. His face had been burnt off by Valkyrie Cain, and being a zombie meant that it had never even tried to heal itself. The crazy girl didn’t even bat an eyelid. “My name’s Clarabelle,” she said. “What’s yours?”
“You don’t need to know his name,” Thrasher snarled. “You don’t need to know anything!”
“Cool.” The crazy girl didn’t appear too bothered.
“Where has he gone?” Scapegrace asked.
“Where has who gone?”
“Doctor Nye.”
“Doctor Nye isn’t a he. Doctor Nye is an it. I found a note that said it’s got a job in the Sanctuary. Can you imagine that? Doctor Nye, working in the Sanctuary. Weirder things have happened, I suppose. Like Belgium.”
Scapegrace frowned. “What about Belgium?”
“That’s pretty weird, isn’t it? If Belgium happened, why should I be surprised that Doctor Nye is working for the Sanctuary? It’s all relative, isn’t it? It all depends on where you’re standing. And where you’ve stood.”
Wherever Scapegrace was standing in relation to the crazy girl, he was pretty sure he was lost.
“I came here looking for a job,” she answered, even though no one had asked. “I had to leave my old job. I killed my boss. I didn’t mean to do it, and it wasn’t actually me who did it, but I still killed him. So now I need a new job. I dyed my hair. Do you like it?”
“I know you,” Scapegrace said. “Do you?”
“You worked for the old man. Professor Grouse.”
“I did. I don’t any more. I don’t like to talk about it. He took care of me. He thought I needed taking care of. I let him think that. I think he needed to think that. He needed to take care of someone, so I let him take care of me. I don’t like to talk about it. You’re a zombie.”
“He is the Zombie King!” Thrasher announced with too much enthusiasm.
“That’s cool,” said Clarabelle with the crazy blue hair. “And who are you?”
Thrasher faltered. “Me?”
“If he’s the Zombie King, who are you? The Zombie Queen?”
“He’s not the Zombie Queen,” Scapegrace said quickly.
“The Zombie Prince, then?”
“He’s Thrasher. That’s all he is. Just Thrasher. I’m Vaurien Scapegrace.”
Clarabelle nodded. “The Killer Supreme.”
Scapegrace stared. “You’ve heard of me?”
“Of course. Do you like my hair?”
“It’s very blue,” said Thrasher.
“I dyed it and cut it. I think it was an attempt to leave that part of my life behind me, to start anew. I’m sure that’s what it was. It’s not just a fashion thing. Is blue hair in this year?”
Scapegrace frowned. “Is it in any year?”
“Is it not?” Clarabelle asked, looking genuinely worried.
“I don’t know,” Scapegrace confessed. “I don’t know much about fashion. You’ve heard of me, then? The Killer Supreme?”
“Yes. You’re a feared assassin.”
“But he hasn’t actually killed anyone,” Thrasher said.
“I killed you,” Scapegrace snapped. “That not enough for you? I killed the others too, made them into zombies.”
“But we all came back to life,” Thrasher pointed out, “so it can’t really be counted, can it?”
Scapegrace towered over him. “It can be counted and it will be counted.”
“Sorry, Master,” Thrasher whimpered.
“Why do you want to see Doctor Nye?” Clarabelle asked.
“I think it can return me to full life,” Scapegrace said, “and end this accursed affliction.”
“What accursed affliction?”
“Uh, this. Being a zombie.”
“Oh. That’s a shame. I think zombies are kind of cute.”
“Seriously?”
“I may be thinking about bunnies. Which one has the fluffy little tail, zombies or bunnies?”
“Bunnies.”
“Then it’s bunnies I’m thinking of. Do you want to go with me to see Doctor Nye? I’m going to ask it to give me a job, and you can ask it to give you life, and your friend can ask it to give him a brain.”
“I already have a brain,” Thrasher said defensively.
“I mean a better one.”
“I like the brain I have.”
“Shut up,” Scapegrace said. He turned back to Clarabelle. “Do you know where this Sanctuary is? I heard they have a new one.”
“They do,” said Clarabelle. “It’s in a far-off place, away from the prying eyes of the mortal world. Wicklow, I think.”
“Then let’s go to Wicklow,” Scapegrace said. “Do you have a car?”
“I don’t know how to drive.”
“Don’t worry, Clarabelle. You can ride in our van.”
She looked over her shoulder. “It’s got a giant penguin on it.”
“Yes, it does.”
“We should call it the Penguin-Mobile.”
“OK.”
“Or Fred.”
“Penguin-Mobile is fine.”
She nodded. “All right then.”
Chapter 18
The Arrest Warrant
n the otherwise silent Temple, raised voices darted through the narrow corridors like unwelcome guests. Craven followed them back to their source and barged through into the Antechamber.
“What the hell is going on?” he thundered, and watched with extreme satisfaction as the crowd of Necromancers parted for him, suddenly quiet and subservient. In that crowd he saw the faces of men and women he had argued with over the years, people he had despised, who had despised him, who had called him petty and sycophantic and weak. Now they bowed, they practically prostrated themselves, in his presence. Never had Craven felt so powerful.
As the crowd parted, he saw the others. Sanctuary agents, Skulduggery Pleasant standing in front, a piece of paper in his gloved hand. The Necromancers had been blocking their entry into the main Temple.
“This is private property,” Craven said. He didn’t sneer. He didn’t snarl. He didn’t hide behind the biggest Necromancer and issue threats. He was beyond all that now.
“This is a warrant for the arrest of Melancholia St Clair,” Pleasant responded. “Either bring her out to us, or we’ll go in after her.”
“On what charge are you arresting her, Detective?”
“Assault on a Sanctuary agent.”
Craven chuckled. “The Death Bringer, our great and glorious saviour, has not left the Temple since her Surge. Maybe you would be better off putting your energies into finding Lord Vile, instead of making up false allegations.”
“She assaulted Valkyrie Cain.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She went to her house while her little baby sister slept inside. You didn’t know about that, did you? That your little saviour had sneaked out for a bit?”
Craven didn’t allow his surprise to register on his face. “Miss Cain was attacked? How dreadful. I do hope there’s no permanent damage. Is there?”
“If there was, Craven, you and your friends here would already be dead.” There was something in Pleasant’s voice that assured Craven that what he was saying was true. “In the meantime, we’re going to have to take Melancholia in for questioning.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“Hand her over.”
“We all know what’s going on here. This is religious persecution.”
“Glorifying death is not a religion, it’s a sickness.”
“You are offending me.”
“Look at the face I don’t have, Craven, and tell me if it looks like I care. She broke the law. If you harbour her, you’re breaking it too.”
“So does that mean you?
“If you try to stop us from carrying out our official duty, the full force of the Sanctuary will come raining down on this Temple.”
“Well now, that certainly seems intimidating. Until, of course, you take into account that within this self-same Temple, we happen to have the Death Bringer, who would be the most powerful sorcerer the world has ever seen. So, factoring that in, your little threat doesn’t really mean a whole lot, now does it? To be honest, there isn’t anything you can do to stop us from doing anything we want to do. I don’t wish to worry you, or any of the brave agents and operatives behind you, but we could kill you all right here and right now, and we’d get away with it.”
Pleasant tilted his head slightly. “That’s where your mind is going, is it?”
“That’s the thought that has just entered my head, yes.”
“Kill us. Kill the next group of agents who come. Kill the next.”
“There is a pleasing simplicity to it, isn’t there?”
“We’ll be back, Craven. And there’ll be more of us.”
Craven shook his head. “Too late for that, I’m afraid. My mind is made up. These are your final moments.”
“Is that so? You’re going to give the order, then?”
“It’s been a pleasure talking to you. Necromancers—”
Pleasant’s hand blurred, and suddenly he was holding a gun, pointing it straight at Craven. “If you issue that order to attack, and if these Necromancers do manage to defeat us – which I doubt – then you won’t get to see any of that. I’ll put a bullet in your brain from right here, where I’m standing. You’ll be dead before you hit the ground. Certainly, you’ll be dead before any of your friends even move towards me. So you’ll never know if they beat us or not. And you’ll never know if we come back here with an army, and drag your Death Bringer away in shackles. You’ll never know any of that. So go ahead, Craven. Give the order. Sacrifice yourself for the well-being of your Death Bringer. Be a martyr.”