"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 a.s.sa.s.sin."

"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 h.e.l.l 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?"

"a.s.sault 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 a.s.saulted 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 a.s.sured 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're going to arrest me, Detective? You're going to arrest all of us? I hate to point out the obvious, but there are more of us than there are of you." At his words, the Necromancers started moving, encircling the Sanctuary agents. "I think it might be best for everyone if you just turned round and went away. Don't you think so, Detective?"

"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 a which I doubt a 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."

Craven hadn't realised it before, but he was thirsty. There was nothing in the world he wanted more right at that moment than a gla.s.s of water.

"We're going to walk out of here," Pleasant continued. "We're going to do it slowly. Your friends can back up against the walls. It'll probably be safer for them if they do so, because if even one Necromancer stands between us and the door, we're going to kill every last one of you. But you'll be first, Craven. You keep that in mind. You'll be first."

"Let them go," said Craven, his voice a croak.

Pleasant's gun didn't waver as he backed away, and Craven didn't move. Even if he'd wanted to, his body seemed locked in position.

The Sanctuary agents walked backwards to the stairs and he watched them climb. Pleasant stayed where he was until the doors above him opened. Daylight flooded the staircase, illuminating him as he stood there. His gun glinted. Beneath his hat, his skull was in the deepest, darkest shadow.

"Good boy," he said. He spoke quietly, but his voice easily carried across to Craven. "We're going to be keeping an eye on things here, to make sure you don't take Melancholia off on a nice holiday before we have a chance to speak with her. I'm sure you understand."

Craven said nothing, and Pleasant climbed the steps. A moment after he was gone, the doors slammed shut, cutting off the sunlight.

Chapter 19.

G.o.ds and Monsters.

he cops hadn't been any use. Lynch's death was reported on the news as a mere robbery. No one cared if another homeless person died. Just another piece of rubbish swept into the gutter of the city. Who was there to mourn for someone like that?

Kenny would have liked to mourn, but in truth he was too excited. His run-in with the tall man who'd called himself Detective Inspector Me and the teenage girl had convinced him that something bigger was going on. Suddenly this article on modern urban legends had started to spiral into territories he would never have antic.i.p.ated. What did the tall man and the teenage girl have to do with Lynch's murder? Had they killed him? His stomach churned with happy nerves. This was a story now. A proper story.