Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 1 - 12. Derek Landy

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      “But we don’t have four days, do we?”

      “No, we don’t.”

      “So you know what we have to do, right?”

      “Unfortunately, yes.”

      “We need to look at that collection.”

      Skulduggery looked at her. “I knew you’d be good at this. The moment I saw you, I knew you had an instinct for this job.”

      “So we break into the Vault?”

      He nodded reluctantly. “We break into the Vault.”

      The Dublin Municipal Art Gallery was situated in one of the more affluent parts of the city. A gleaming triumph of steel and glass, it stood alone and proud, its lush gardens keeping the other buildings at a respectable distance.

      Stephanie and Skulduggery parked across the road as part of what Skulduggery was calling a preliminary stake-out. They weren’t going to break into the Vault yet, he assured her; they were just here to get some idea of what they were up against. They had just seen the gallery staff and a half-dozen security guards leave the building, their shift over for the day. Two people, a man and a woman, dressed in blue overalls, passed them on the steps and entered the gallery, locking the doors behind them.

      “Ah,” Skulduggery said from beneath his scarf. “We may have a problem.”

      “What problem?” Stephanie asked. “Them? Who are they?”

      “The night shift.”

      “Two people? That’s all?”

      “They’re not exactly people.”

      “So who are they?”

      “It’s not so much who as what.”

      “I swear, Skulduggery, you either give me a straight answer or I’m finding the biggest dog you’ve ever seen and I’m going to make him dig a hole and bury you in it.”

      “Oh that’s charming, that is,” Skulduggery said, then made a sound like he was clearing his throat, though there was nothing to clear and no actual throat to clear it from. “Did you notice the way they moved?”

      “Very, I don’t know… gracefully. What about it? Are they dancers? The Vault has ballerina security guards?”

      “They’re vampires,” Skulduggery said. “The Vault has vampire security guards.”

      Stephanie made a show of poking her head out of the window and looking up at the sky. “The sun’s still out, Skulduggery. It’s still bright.”

      “Doesn’t matter to them.”

      She frowned. “Doesn’t sunlight kill them? Doesn’t it turn them to dust, or make them burst into flames or something?”

      “Nope. Vampires tan, just like you and me. Well, just like you. I tend to bleach.”

      “So sunlight has no effect on them?”

      “It binds them. It dampens their powers. During the day, they are for all intents and purposes mortal, but when the sun goes down, their powers flare up.”

      “I didn’t know that.”

      “And the Vault employs two of them as their nightshift. The ultimate guard dogs.”

      “If sunlight doesn’t hurt them, I don’t suppose crosses will scare them off?”

      “The best way to stop a vampire is with a whole lot of bullets, and since we don’t want to hurt anyone, this is that problem I was telling you about.”

      “There must be a way to get by them. We could disguise ourselves as cleaning staff or something.”

      “No one works when vampires are around – vampires don’t make a distinction between allies and prey. They can’t resist the bloodlust any more than a moth can resist a big bright light. They’re killers: the most efficient, deadly killers on the face of the planet.”

      “Scary.”

      “Yes, well, vampires aren’t known for being cute.”

      “Well then, we’re going to have to come up with something really really clever.”

      Skulduggery paused then shrugged. “I suppose I am good at that.”

       9

      THE TROLL BENEATH WESTMINSTER BRIDGE

      kulduggery took Stephanie home, and as she was lying in bed that night, finally drifting off to sleep, a young woman in London was hunkering down and peering into the darkness.

      “Hello?” she said. “Anyone down there?”

      The Thames was dark and rushing beneath her, but no one answered. She glanced at her watch then looked around. It was seven minutes to midnight and Westminster Bridge was empty except for her. Perfect.

      “Hello?” she said again. “I need to talk to you.”

      A voice answered: “There’s no one down here.”

      “I think there is,” she said.

      “No,” came the voice. “No one.”

      “I think there’s a troll down there,” the young woman said. “And I need to talk to him.”

      A face rose up out of the shadows, small and wrinkled, with large ears and a shock of spiky black hair. Huge eyes blinked at her.

      “What do you want?” the troll asked.

      “I want to talk to you,” the young woman answered. “I’m Tanith Low. What’s your name?”

      The troll shook his head. “No no, not telling. Not telling that.”

      “Oh yes,” Tanith said, “trolls only have one name, isn’t that right?”

      “Yes yes, one name. No telling.”

      “But I can guess, isn’t that how it goes? If I guess your name correctly, what happens then?”

      The troll grinned, showing lots of sharp yellow teeth. “You get to live,” he said.

      “And if I get it wrong?”

      The troll giggled. “You get eaten!”

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