Last Stand of Dead Men. Derek Landy

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      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.”

      

      f it hadn’t been for his mother, Ghastly reckoned he’d have taken to running instead of boxing. The bare-knuckle champion of her age, she had taught him everything she knew as he was growing up. To the taunts that followed him wherever he went, to the bullying that came soon after, his fists were his responses. They were the only words he needed.

      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 fighting takes its toll. It took its toll on his mother. She’d entered into a fight she hadn’t a hope of winning. And all this fighting, all this arguing and confrontation and playing politics, it was taking a toll on Ghastly now, too. He’d needed his few days off. He’d needed a lot more.

      He wondered sometimes what person he would have been if he had chosen running instead of boxing. He could have run from the bullies, then, instead of turning and fighting them. He could have left their taunts far behind. He could have tuned the world out and just focused on his breathing and the rhythm – not of fists on leather, but of feet on track. If he’d been a runner, would he have fought in the war? Would he have become a Dead Man? Would he have lost a year of his life as a blank, unthinking statue? Would he have lost Tanith Low to a Remnant, and then lost her again to a killer?

      Ghastly put his head down and ran.

      The Sanctuary had so many long, winding corridors in its depths that he could run here for an hour and not see one other person. That’s the way he liked it. Up there, where the corridors were brighter and warmer, he was Ghastly Bespoke the Elder, who had to wear that damn robe and appear respectable at all times. Down here, he was Ghastly Bespoke, the scarred tailor, the man who put on a tracksuit to go running and could sweat and push himself as hard as he damn well wanted.

      He ran until he wasn’t thinking of the Supreme Council. He ran until he wasn’t thinking of the Warlocks. He ran and ran and tried to outrun the idea of Tanith Low and Billy-Ray Sanguine, but it caught up with him, ran alongside, and he lost his rhythm and his feet became clumsy and he slowed to a graceless stop.

      He stood there, bent over, hands on his knees, sucking in air, and then he straightened, controlled his breathing, started walking. He shook out his arms and legs with each stride. No one would miss him for another twenty minutes or so. Plenty of time to cool down, shower, and pull on that stupid … robe …

      He stopped, waiting for the air around him to settle. Once it had fallen back to its natural pattern, he concentrated on the currents and the draughts against his skin, and felt something else, a slight nudging, almost too gentle to notice. Someone was reading the air, keeping track of him. Someone skilled.

      Raising his hands, Ghastly formed a vacuum, roughly the size of his own СКАЧАТЬ