Skulduggery Pleasant (8 page)

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into the washing machine, added the powder, and turned it on. It was only after she'd had something to eat that she allowed herself to think about the previous night.

Well, she said to herself, so that happened.

She tied her shoes and went out, the sunshine warm on her face. At the end of her road, she passed the old pier and started toward Main Street. Normality. Kids playing football, riding bikes, and laughing; dogs running about, tails wagging; neighbors talking to neighbors and the world being as she'd always thought it was. No living skeletons. No magic. No men trying to kill her.

A crazy laugh escaped her lips when she reflected on how much her life had changed in the space of a day. She had gone from being a perfectly ordinary girl in a perfectly ordinary world to being a target for water-soluble weirdos and a partner with a skeleton detective out to solve her uncle's murder.

Stephanie faltered. Her uncle's murder? Where had she got that from? Gordon had died of natural causes; the doctors had said so. She frowned. But these were doctors who lived in a world without walking, talking skeletons. But still, why assume he'd been murdered? What on Earth had made her think that?

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There are items that cannot be taken, China had said, possessions that cannot be stolen. In the case of such an item, the owner must be dead before anyone else can take advantage of its powers.

Her attacker and whoever had sent him--they wanted something. They wanted something badly enough to kill her to get it. And if they wanted it that badly, would they really have waited for her uncle to die of natural causes before they went looking for it?

Stephanie felt cold. Gordon had been murdered. Someone had killed him, and no one was doing anything about it. No one was asking the questions, no one was trying to figure out who did it.

Except for Skulduggery.

She narrowed her eyes. He must have known Gordon was murdered. If he hadn't already suspected it when they first met, he must have worked it out in the library. China probably knew as well, but neither of them had told her. They didn't think she could handle it, maybe. Or maybe they didn't think it was any of her business. It had to do with their world, after all, not hers. But Gordon was still her uncle.

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A car pulled up behind her. People stared. She looked back and saw the Bentley.

The driver's side was still badly buckled from where the car had rammed it, and the windshield was cracked. Three of the windows were without glass, and the hood had a series of ugly dents running up its left side. The usual purr of the engine was replaced by a worrying rattle that cut out abruptly when the engine turned off. Skulduggery--in hat, scarf, and sunglasses--went to get out, but the door wouldn't open.

"Oh boy," she muttered.

She watched him lean away from the door and raise his knee, and then he kicked it open and got out, adjusting his coat as he walked over.

"Good afternoon," he said brightly. "Wonderful weather we're having, isn't it?"

"People are staring," Stephanie whispered as he neared.

"Are they really? Oh, so they are. Good for them. So, are we ready to go?"

"That depends," she answered, speaking softly and keeping a smile on her face. "When were you going to tell me that my uncle was murdered?"

There was a slight hesitation. "Ah. You worked that out, then?"

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Stephanie turned down a narrow lane between two buildings, moving away from the prying eyes of Haggard's gossipmongers. Skulduggery hesitated a moment, then caught up to her, walking fast.

"I had a very good reason for not telling you."

"I don't care." Now that no one could see her, she dropped the smile. "Gordon was murdered, Skulduggery. How could you not have told me?"

"This is a dangerous business. It's a dangerous world that I'm part of."

She stopped suddenly. Skulduggery kept walking, realized she wasn't beside him anymore, and turned on his heel. She crossed her arms. "If you don't think I can handle it--"

"No, you've certainly proven yourself capable." She heard the tone of his voice change slightly. "I knew from the moment I met you that you're just the type of person who would never walk away from danger, simply out of stubbornness. I wanted to keep you out of it as much as I could. You've got to understand--Gordon was my friend; I thought I owed it to him to try to keep his favorite niece out of harm's way."

"Well, I'm in harm's way, so it's not your decision anymore."

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"No, apparently it isn't."

"So you won't keep anything from me again?"

He put his hand to his chest. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Okay."

He nodded and led the way back to the Bentley.

"Though you don't actually have a heart," she said.

"I know."

"And technically, you've already died."

"I know that too."

"Just so we're clear."

"What's he like?" Stephanie asked as they drove.

"What's who like?"

"This guy we're going to see. What's his name?"

"Ghastly Bespoke."

She looked at Skulduggery to make sure he wasn't joking, then realized there was no way she could tell. "Why would anyone call themselves Ghastly?"

"All manner of names suit all manner of people. Ghastly is my tailor, and also happens to be one of my closest friends. He first taught me how to box."

"So what's he like?"

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"Decent. Honorable. Honest. But more fun than I'm making him sound, I swear. Also, he's not magic's biggest fan. ..."

"He doesn't like magic? How could he not like magic?"

"He just doesn't find it interesting. He prefers the world he reads about in books and sees on TV, the world with cops and robbers and dramas and sports. If he had to choose, I expect he'd choose to live in the world without magic. That way, he could have gone to school and gotten a job and been . . . normal. Of course, he's never been given the choice. I suppose, for him, there could never really be a choice. Not really."

"Why not?"

Skulduggery hesitated for only a moment, as if he was choosing how best to say it, then told her that Ghastly was born ugly.

"Not just unattractive," he said. "Not merely unappealing, but really, honestly ugly. His mother was jinxed when she was pregnant with him, and now his face is ridged with scars. They tried everything to fix it--spells, potions, charms, glamors, various and sundry creams, but nothing worked."

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He explained that as a child, Ghastly had always told his friends that he got his love of boxing from his father, and his love of sewing from his mother. The truth was, his father was the one who was constantly making alterations to hemlines and such, and his mother was a bare-knuckle boxing champ, who boasted twenty-two consecutive wins. Skulduggery had seen her fight once. She had a right hook that could take a head clean off. And according to legend, it had once, too.

Regardless, Ghastly was brought up in these two separate disciplines and, figuring he was ugly enough already, decided to try a career as a tailor rather then a boxer.

"And I for one am glad he did," Skulduggery said. "He makes extraordinary suits."

"So we're going to see him because you need a new suit?"

"Not quite. You see, his family has amassed a unique collection of artwork, paintings, and literature about the Ancients, from all over the world. Included are a couple of rare volumes that could be very useful indeed. All anyone knows about the Scepter is based on half-forgotten myths. Those books, and whatever else is in Ghastly's collection,

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will hold a far more detailed description of the legends, about what the Scepter is and, in theory, how one would go about defending oneself against it."

They parked and got out. The neighborhood was dirty and run-down, and people hurried by without even glancing at the battered car in their midst. A little old lady shuffled past, nodding to Skulduggery as she went.

"Is this one of those secret communities you were telling me about?" Stephanie asked.

"Indeed it is. We try to keep the streets as uninviting as possible, so no casual passerby will stop and have a look around."

"Well, you've succeeded."

"You should be realizing by now that looks are, more often than not, deceiving. A neighborhood like this, with its graffiti and litter and squalor, is the safest neighborhood you could possibly visit. Open the door to any one of these houses around us, and you walk into a veritable palace. Surface is nothing, Stephanie."

"I'll try to remember that," she said as she followed him to a little shop perched on the corner. She looked around for a sign. "Is this the tailor's?"

"Bespoke Tailors, yes."

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"But there's no sign. There aren't any clothes in the window. How would anyone know it's even open?"

"Ghastly doesn't need to advertise. He has a very specific clientele, and he can't really afford to let ordinary people wander in when he's measuring out a new suit for an eight-armed octopus man."

"Are you serious? There's an eight-armed octopus man?"

"There's a whole colony of octopus people," he said as they approached the door.

"Really?"

"Good God, Stephanie, of course not. That would be far too silly."

He walked on before she could even try to hit him. The shop door was unlocked, and he led the way in. Stephanie was surprised by how clean and bright and ordinary-looking it was. She didn't know what she was expecting--mannequins that came alive and tried to eat you, perhaps. There was a nice smell in here too. Comforting.

Ghastly Bespoke walked out from the back room and smiled when he saw them. He shook Skulduggery's hand warmly. He was broad shouldered, and his scars covered his

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whole head. When Skulduggery turned to introduce Stephanie, and he saw the way she was staring at Ghastly, he shrugged.

"Don't mind her," he said. "She stares. That's what she does when she meets new people."

"I'm quite used to it," Ghastly said, still smiling. "Do you want to shake hands, miss, or start off with something easy, like waving?"

Stephanie felt herself blush, and she stuck out her hand quickly. His hand was normal--no scars--but tough, and strong.

"Do you have a name?" he asked.

"Not yet," she admitted.

"Better make sure that you really want one before you think any more about it. This life isn't for everyone."

She nodded slowly, not sure what he was getting at. He took a moment, looking her up and down.

"There's been some trouble?"

"Some," answered Skulduggery.

"Then the proper attire is probably called for." Ghastly took out a small pad, started jotting down notes. "Do you have a favorite color?" he asked her.

"I'm sorry?"

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"To wear. Any preference?"

"I'm not sure I understand. ..."

"Not all the clothes I make are merely examples of exquisite tailoring. Sometimes, if the situation arises, special requirements are catered to."

"Such as keeping you safe until this whole thing is over," Skulduggery said. "Ghastly can make you a suit, nothing too formal, that could very possibly save your life."

"Fashion," said Ghastly with a shrug. "It's life or death." His pen was at the ready. "So, once more, do you have a favorite color to wear?"

"I. . . I'm not sure I could afford it. ..."

Ghastly shrugged again. "I'll put it on Skulduggery's tab. Go nuts."

She blinked. To go from her mother buying most of her clothes to this was a step she hadn't been expecting. "I don't know; I'm not sure. . . . Black?"

Ghastly nodded and scribbled in his notebook. "Can't go wrong with black." He looked at Skulduggery. "Just let me lock up," he said. "Then we can talk properly."

While they waited for him to do so, Skulduggery and Stephanie wandered into the back

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of the shop. Fabrics of all types and textures were arranged very neatly on massive shelves that lined the walls. There was a single workplace in the center of the room and another doorway leading farther back.

"He's going to make me clothes?" Stephanie whispered.

"Yes, he is."

"Doesn't he need to take measurements or something?"

"One glance, that's all he needs."

They passed through into a small living room, and moments later Ghastly joined them. Stephanie and Skulduggery sat on the narrow sofa, and Ghastly sat in the armchair across from them, both feet flat on the ground and fingers steepled.

"So what's all this about?" he asked.

"We're investigating Gordon Edgley's murder," Skulduggery said.

"Murder?" Ghastly said after a short pause.

"Indeed."

"Who would want to kill Gordon?"

"We think Serpine did it. We think he was looking for something."

"Skul," Ghastly said, frowning, "usually when you want my help, you just call and we go

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off and you get me into a fight. You've never explained what's going on before, so why are you doing it now?"

"This is a different type of help I need."

"So you don't need me to hit anyone?"

"We'd just like your help in finding out what Serpine is after."

"I see," Ghastly said, nodding his head.

"You don't see, do you?"

"No," Ghastly said immediately. "I really don't know what you want me to do."

"We think Serpine is after the Scepter of the Ancients," Stephanie said, and she felt Skulduggery sink lower into the cushion beside her.

"The what?" Ghastly said, his smile reappearing. "You're not serious, are you? Listen, I don't know what my dear friend here has been saying, but the Scepter isn't real."

"Serpine thinks it's real. We think that has something to do with my uncle's death."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Ghastly said. "I really am. I respected Gordon. He knew there was magic in the world, and he wasn't seduced by it. He just wanted to observe and to write about it. That takes a strength that I hope has been passed on to you."