Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was a flash and a large group of people appeared in a large room full of chairs. "Where are we?" one of them asked.
"I don't know," said another.

One of the people looked around the room and spotted something. "There is a letter!" he said. The man was wearing odd clothing, Stephanie thought. It was old fashioned, as though he was from the seventeenth century. A lot of the people in in the room with her were dressed like that.
"What does the letter say?" one of the women asked.
"'Hello, people of the past, present and future,

You are here to read books about the future. There will be plot twists and revelations. You must read all of the books and any short stories present, in order. Whilst you are here, time will be stopped and when you leave, you will have no memory of what happened here. You may have as many breaks as needed or wanted per book. I recommend that you introduce yourselves to each other as soon as possible. Only tell the others your names. Nothing else. The two people in disguise, you know who you are, do not introduce yourselves. Wait for the rest to figure out who you are.

With love, the Reader.'"

"So I guess we should introduce ourselves?" Stephanie Edgley said. She already recognised some people. Her parents and her Uncle Gordon were there. She had no clue who the rest were.
"Yes, I suppose we do," a man with scars all over his head said. "I am Ghastly Bespoke." What kind of name was that?
"I am Stephanie Edgley."

One by one, everyone introduced themselves. In total, there was about nineteen people. There was no shortage of strange names. There was literally a man named Hopeless. As the letter had said, two people remained anonymous. Their faces weren't even showing. Who were they?

Chapter Text

"Shall we get started?" the man who had noticed the letter asked. His name was Skulduggery Pleasant. The group sat in the chairs provided. There were eighteen in total. The perfect number for the amount of people present. Stephanie was sat with her parents. The only two people who hadn't introduced themselves were wearing some sort of disguise. Who were they? The man named Skulduggery Pleasant picked up the first book. "I'll begin, I suppose," he said.

Chapter One - Stephanie

"Is this chapter about me?" Stephanie asked.
"Probably," Skulduggery responded, then continued.

Gordon Edgley’s sudden death came as a shock to everyone—not least himself.

"That doesn't sound very good," Gordon said. Despite the revelation that her favourite uncle was going to do at some point in the near future, Stephanie found herself smiling.

One moment he was in his study, seven words into the twenty-fifth sentence of the final chapter of his new book And The Darkness Rained Upon Them, and the next he was dead. A tragic loss, his mind echoed numbly as he slipped away. The funeral was attended by family and acquaintances but not many friends. Gordon hadn’t been a well-liked figure in the publishing world, for although the books he wrote—tales of horror and magic and wonder—regularly reared their heads in the bestseller lists, he had the disquieting habit of insulting people without realising it, then laughing at their shock. It was at Gordon’s funeral, however, that Stephanie Edgley first caught sight of the gentleman in the tan overcoat.

"And in the middle of writing a book, too," Gordon said. Stephanie's eyes were drawn to the unknown people who seemed to be very good friends.

He was standing under the shade of a large tree, away from the crowd, the coat buttoned up all the way despite the warmth of the afternoon. A scarf was wrapped around the lower half of his face and even from her position on the far side of the grave, Stephanie could make out the wild and frizzy hair that escaped from the wide brimmed hat he wore low over his gigantic sunglasses. She watched him, intrigued by his appearance. And then, like he knew he was being observed, he turned and walked back through the rows of headstones, and disappeared from sight.

"That disguise was terrible," the unknown woman remarked. She sounded strangely familiar

After the service, Stephanie and her parents travelled back to her dead uncle’s house, over a humpbacked bridge and along a narrow road that carved its way through thick woodland. The gates were heavy and grand and stood open, welcoming them into the estate. The grounds were vast and the old house itself was ridiculously big. There was an extra door in the living room, a door disguised as a bookcase, and when she was younger Stephanie liked to think that no one else knew about this door, not even Gordon himself. It was a secret passageway, like in the stories she’d read, and she’d make up adventures about haunted houses and smuggled treasure. This secret passageway would always be her escape route, and the imaginary villains in these adventures would be dumbfounded by her sudden and mysterious disappearance. But now this door, this secret passageway, stood open, and there was a steady stream of people through it, and she was saddened that this little piece of magic had been taken from her.

Stephanie couldn't help but be annoyed by this.

Tea was served and drinks were poured and little sandwiches were passed around on silver trays, and Stephanie watched the mourners casually appraise their surroundings. The major topic of hushed conversation was the will. Gordon wasn’t a man who inspired, or even demonstrated, any great affection, so no one could predict who would inherit his substantial fortune. Stephanie could see the greed seep into the watery eyes of her father’s other brother, a horrible little man called Fergus, as he nodded sadly and spoke sombrely and pocketed the silverware when he thought no one was looking.

"That's rude," Gordon said. Stephanie smiled. There was a reason why he was her favourite uncle.

Fergus’s wife was a thoroughly dislikeable, sharp-featured woman named Beryl. She drifted through the crowd, deep in unconvincing grief, prying for gossip and digging for scandal. Her daughters did their best to ignore Stephanie. Carol and Crystal were twins, fifteen years old, and as sour and vindictive as their parents. Whereas Stephanie was dark-haired, tall, slim and strong, they were bottle blonde, stumpy and dressed in clothes that made them bulge in all the wrong places. Apart from their brown eyes, no one would guess that the twins were related to her. She liked that. It was the only thing about them she liked.

She left them to their petty glares and snide whispers, and went for a walk. The corridors of her uncle’s house were long and lined with paintings. The floor beneath Stephanie’s feet was wooden, polished to a gleam, and the house smelled of age. Not musty exactly but… experienced. These walls and these floors had seen a lot in their time, and Stephanie was nothing but a faint whisper to them. Here one instant, gone the next.

Gordon had been a good uncle. Arrogant and irresponsible, yes, but also childish and enormous fun, with a light in his eyes, a glint of mischief. When everyone else was taking him seriously, Stephanie was privy to the winks and the nods and the half-smiles that he would shoot her way when they weren’t looking. Even as a child she felt she understood him better than most. She liked his intelligence and his wit, and the way he didn’t care what people thought of him. He’d been a good uncle to have. He’d taught her a lot.

She knew that her mother and Gordon had briefly dated (“courted”, her mother had called it), but when Gordon had introduced her to his younger brother, it was love at first sight. Gordon liked to grumble that he had never got more than a peck on the cheek, but he had stepped aside graciously, and had quite happily gone on to have numerous torrid affairs with numerous beautiful women. He used to say that it had almost been a fair trade, but that he suspected he had lost out.

Stephanie climbed the staircase, pushed open the door to Gordon’s study and stepped inside. The walls were filled with the framed covers from his bestsellers and shared space with all manner of awards. One entire wall was made up of shelves, jammed with books. There were biographies and historical novels and science texts and psychology tomes, and there were battered little paperbacks stuck in between. A lower shelf had magazines, literary reviews and quarterlies. Stephanie passed the shelves which housed the first editions of Gordon’s novels and approached the desk. She looked at the chair where he’d died, trying to imagine him there, how he must have slumped. And then, a voice so smooth it could have been made of velvet: “At least he died doing what he loved."
She turned, surprised, to see the man from the funeral in the overcoat and hat standing in the doorway. The scarf was still wrapped, the sunglasses still on, the fuzzy hair still poking out. His hands were gloved.
“Yes,” Stephanie said, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. “At least there’s that.”
“You’re one of his nieces then?” the man asked. “You’re not stealing anything, you’re not breaking anything, so I’d guess you’re Stephanie.” She nodded and took the opportunity to look at him more closely. She couldn’t see even the tiniest bit of his face beneath the scarf and sunglasses.

Stephanie wasn't quite sure what to think about this.

“Were you a friend of his?” she asked. He was tall, this man, tall and thin, though his coat made it difficult to judge.
“I was,” he answered with a move of his head. This slight movement made her realise that the rest of his body was unnaturally still. “I’ve known him for years, met him outside a bar in New York when I was over there, back when he had just published his first novel.” Stephanie couldn’t see anything behind the sunglasses—they were black as pitch. “Are you a writer too?”
“Me? No, I wouldn’t know where to start. But I got to live out my writer fantasies through Gordon.”
“You had writer fantasies?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Oh. Then that would make me seem kind of odd, wouldn’t it?”
“Well,” Stephanie answered. “It would help.”
“Gordon used to talk about you all the time, boast about his little niece. He was an individual of character, your uncle. It seems that you are too.”
“You say that like you know me.”
“Strong-willed, intelligent, sharp-tongued, doesn’t suffer fools gladly… remind you of anyone?”
“Yes. Gordon.”
“Interesting,” said the man. “Because those are the exact words he used to describe you.” His gloved fingers dipped into his waistcoat and brought out an ornate pocket watch on a delicate gold chain. “Good luck in whatever you decide to do with your life.”
“Thank you,” Stephanie said, a little dumbly. “You too.”

"You talked about me with your friends?" she asked.
"Why wouldn't I?" he responded. "You're my favourite niece."

She felt the man smile, though she could see no mouth, and he turned from the doorway and left her there. Stephanie found she couldn’t take her eyes off where he had been. Who was he? She hadn’t even got his name. She crossed over to the door and stepped out, wondering how he had vanished from sight so quickly. She hurried down the stairs and reached the large hall without seeing him. She opened the front door just as a big black car turned out on to the road. She watched him drive away, stayed there for a few moments, then reluctantly re-joined her extended family in the living room, just in time to see Fergus slip a silver ashtray into his breast pocket.

"What is a car?"
"It's a form of transport," Gordon replied.
"Shall I read the next chapter?" the scarred man said. His name was Ghastly.
"Of course," Skulduggery said and handed Ghastly the book.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two - The Will

Life in the Edgley household was fairly uneventful. Stephanie’s mother worked in a bank and her father owned a construction company, and she had no brothers or sisters, so the routine they had settled into was one of amiable convenience. But even so, there was always the voice in the back of her mind telling her that there should be more to her life than this, more to her life than the small coastal town of Haggard. She just couldn’t figure out what that something was.

"Well, of course there is something more, silly girl," the very beautiful woman named China Sorrows said.
"Like what?" Stephanie asked.
"They are currently unable to say anything, but it will likely become clear to you," the mystery woman said. She really did sound familiar.

Her first year of secondary school had just come to a close and she was looking forward to the summer break. Stephanie didn’t like school. She found it difficult to get along with her classmates—not because they weren’t nice people, but simply because she had nothing in common with them. And she didn’t like teachers. She didn’t like the way they demanded respect they hadn’t earned. Stephanie had no problem doing what she was told, just so long as she was given a good reason why she should. She had spent the first few days of the summer helping out her father, answering phones and sorting through the files in his office.

"What's a phone?"
"It's a form of communication," Stephanie said. Why were these people from, if they didn't know about cars and phones?
"Are they a mortal invention?" the same person asked.
"I guess." Wasn't everything a mortal invention?

Gladys, his secretary of seven years, had decided she’d had enough of the construction business and wanted to try her hand as a performance artist. Stephanie found it vaguely discomfiting whenever she passed her on the street, this forty-three-year-old woman doing a modern dance interpretation of Faust. Gladys had made herself a costume to go with the act, a costume, she said, that symbolised the internal struggle Faust was going through, and apparently she refused to be seen in public without it. Stephanie did her best to avoid catching Gladys’s eye.

"I'm sorry, what?"
"You just get used to it," Stephanie said.

If Stephanie wasn’t helping out in the office, she was either down at the beach, swimming, or locked in her room listening to music. She was in her room, trying to find the charger for her mobile phone, when her mother knocked on the door and stepped in. She was still dressed in the sombre clothes she had worn to the funeral, though Stephanie had tied back her long dark hair and changed into her usual jeans and trainers within two minutes of returning to the house. “We got a call from Gordon’s solicitor,” her mother said, sounding a little surprised. “They want us at the reading of the will.”
“Oh,” Stephanie responded. “What do you think he left you?”
“Well, we’ll find out tomorrow. You too, because you’re coming with us.”
“I am?” Stephanie said with a slight frown.
“Your name’s on the list, that’s all I know. We’re leaving at ten, OK?”

"You left me something?" she asked.
"Of course."
"What did you leave me?"
"You'll find out."

“I’m supposed to be helping Dad in the morning.”
“He called Gladys, asked her to fill in for a few hours, as a favour. She said yes, as long as she could wear the peanut suit.” They left for the solicitor’s at a quarter past ten the next morning, fifteen minutes later than planned thanks to Stephanie’s father’s casual disregard for punctuality. He ambled through the house, looking like there was something he’d forgotten and he was just waiting for it to occur to him again.
He nodded and smiled whenever his wife told him to hurry up, said “Yes, absolutely,” and just before he was due to join them in the car, he meandered off again, looking around with a dazed expression.
“He does this on purpose,” Stephanie’s mother said as they sat in the car, seatbelts on and ready to go. They watched him appear at the front door, shrug into his jacket, tuck in his shirt, go to step out, and then pause.
“He looks like he’s about to sneeze,” Stephanie remarked.
“No,” her mother responded, “he’s just thinking.” She stuck her head out of the window. “Desmond, what’s wrong now?”
He looked up, puzzled. “I think I’m forgetting something.” Stephanie leaned forward in the back seat, took a look at him and spoke to her mother, who nodded and stuck her head out again.
“Where are your shoes, dear?”

"How do you manage to forget your shoes?" Anton Shudder asked.
Stephanie's father blushed and muttered something she couldn't hear.

He looked down at his socks—one brown, one navy—and his clouded expression cleared. He gave them the thumbs-up and disappeared from view. “That man,” her mother said, shaking her head. “Did you know he once lost a shopping centre?”

Everyone was looking at him in amusement.

“He what?”
“I never told you that? It was the first big contract he got. His company did a wonderful job and he was driving his clients to see it, and he forgot where he put it. He drove around for almost an hour until he saw something he recognised. He may be a very talented engineer, but I swear, he’s got the attention span of a goldfish. So unlike Gordon.”
“They weren’t very alike, were they?” Her mother smiled.
“It wasn’t always that way. They used to do everything together. The three of them were inseparable.”
“What, even Fergus?”
“Even Fergus. But when your grandmother died they all drifted apart. Gordon started mixing with a strange crowd after that.”

"Strange?" Rustica asked, offended. "There is nothing strange about us. I am assuming that you were talking about us."
"Most likely," Melissa responded.

“Strange in what way?”
“Ah, they probably just appeared strange to us,” her mother said with a small laugh. “Your dad was getting started in the construction business and I was in college and we were what you might call normal. Gordon resisted being normal, and his friends, they kind of scared us. We never knew what they were into, but we knew it wasn’t anything…”
“Normal.”

"I find that very rude," said the unknown man. The unknown woman patted him on the arm.
"Sorry," Stephanie said.
"It's OK," the woman said and elbowed the man.
"What she said."

“Exactly. They scared your dad most of all though.”
“Why?” Stephanie’s father walked out of the house, shoes on, and closed the front door after him. “I think he was more like Gordon than he liked to let on,” her mother said quietly, and then her dad got into the car.
“OK,” he said proudly. “I’m ready.” They looked at him as he nodded, chuffed with himself. He strapped on his seatbelt and turned the key. The engine purred to life. Stephanie waved to Jasper, an eight-year-old boy with unfortunate ears, as her dad backed out on to the road, put the car in gear and they were off, narrowly missing their wheelie bin as they went.

The drive to the solicitor’s office in the city took a little under an hour and they arrived twenty minutes late.

"That's your fault, Dad," Stephanie said.
"I know." At least he looked ashamed of himself.

They were led up a flight of creaky stairs to a small office, too warm to be comfortable, with a large window that offered a wonderful view of the brick wall across the street. Fergus and Beryl were there, and they showed their displeasure at having been kept waiting by looking at their watches and scowling. Stephanie’s parents took the remaining chairs and Stephanie stood behind them as the solicitor peered at them through cracked spectacles. “Now can we get started?” Beryl snapped.

"She seems to be a bit impatient," Quinlan said.
"Says you," Rustica said. Quinlan grinned.

The solicitor, a short man named Mr Fedgewick, with the girth and appearance of a sweaty bowling ball, tried smiling. “We still have one more person to wait on,” he said and Fergus’s eyes bulged.
“Who?” he demanded. “There can’t be anyone else, we are the only siblings Gordon had. Who is it? It’s not some charity, is it? I’ve never trusted charities. They always want something from you.”
“It’s, it’s not a charity,” Mr Fedgewick said. “He did say, however, that he might be a little late.”
“Who said?” Stephanie’s father asked, and the solicitor looked down at the file open before him.
“A most unusual name, this,” he said. “It seems we are waiting on one Mr Skulduggery Pleasant.”

"Huh," Skulduggery said.

“Well who on earth is that?” asked Beryl, irritated. “He sounds like a, he sounds like a… Fergus, what does he sound like?”
“He sounds like a weirdo,” Fergus said, glaring at Fedgewick. “He’s not a weirdo, is he?”
“I really couldn’t say,” Fedgewick answered, his paltry excuse for a smile failing miserably under the glares he was getting from Fergus and Beryl. “But I’m sure he’ll be along soon.”
Fergus frowned, narrowing his beady eyes as much as was possible. “How are you sure?” Fedgewick faltered, unable to offer a reason, and then the door opened and the man in the tan overcoat entered the room.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, closing the door behind him. “It was unavoidable I’m afraid.” Everyone in the room stared at him, stared at the scarf and the gloves and the sunglasses and the wild fuzzy hair. It was a glorious day outside, certainly not the kind of weather to be wrapped up like this. Stephanie looked closer at the hair. From this distance, it didn’t even seem real.
The solicitor cleared his throat. “Um, you are Skulduggery Pleasant?”

Skulduggery looked horrified. Or maybe just shocked. "Do I loose all sense of style and fashion in the future?" he asked. Definitely horrified then.
"Actually, no," Gordon said. "You're just in disguise."
"Why am I in disguise."
"You'll see." Now Stephanie wanted to know why future Skulduggery was in disguise.

“At your service,” the man said. Stephanie could listen to that voice all day. Her mother, uncertain as she was, had smiled her greetings, but her father was looking at him with an expression of wariness she had never seen on his face before. After a moment the expression left him and he nodded politely and looked back to Mr Fedgewick. Fergus and Beryl were still staring.
“Do you have something wrong with your face?” Beryl asked. Fedgewick cleared his throat again.
“OK then, let’s get down to business, now that we’re all here. Excellent. Good. This, of course, being the last will and testament of Gordon Edgley, revised last almost one year ago. Gordon has been a client of mine for the past twenty years, and in that time, I got to know him well, so let me pass on to you, his family and, and friend, my deepest, deepest—”
“Yes yes yes,” Fergus interrupted, waving his hand in the air. “Can we just skip this part? We’re already running behind schedule. Let’s go to the part where we get stuff. Who gets the house? And who gets the villa?”
“Who gets the fortune?” Beryl asked, leaning forward in her seat. “The royalties,” Fergus said. “Who gets the royalties from the books?”

"Let me guess, he wants it all for himself," Mr Bliss said.
"Is it that obvious?" Desmond said.

Stephanie glanced at Skulduggery Pleasant from the corner of her eye. He was standing back against the wall, hands in his pockets, looking at the solicitor. Well, he seemed to be looking at the solicitor; with those sunglasses he could have been looking anywhere. She returned her gaze to Fedgewick as he picked up a page from his desk and read from it. “‘To my brother Fergus and his beautiful wife Beryl,’” he read, and Stephanie did her best to hide a grin, ‘“I leave my car, and my boat, and a gift.’” Fergus and Beryl blinked. “His car?” Fergus said. “His boat? Why would he leave me his boat?”
“You hate the water,” Beryl said, anger rising in her voice. “You get seasick.”
“I do get seasick,” Fergus snapped, “and he knew that!”

"Why do you think I left it to him?" Gordon asked, grinning. Stephanie laughed.

“And we already have a car,” Beryl said. “And we already have a car!” Fergus repeated. Beryl was sitting so far up on her chair that she was almost on the desk. “This gift,” she said, her voice low and threatening, “is it the fortune?” Mr Fedgewick coughed nervously, and took a small box from his desk drawer and slid it towards them. They looked at this box. They looked some more. They both reached for it at the same time, and Stephanie watched them slap at each other’s hands until Beryl snatched it off the desk and tore the lid open.
“What is it?” Fergus asked in a small voice. “Is it a key to a safety deposit box? Is it, is it an account number? Is it, what is it? Wife, what is it?” All colour had drained from Beryl’s face and her hands were shaking.

"What is it?" Dexter asked.
"You'll see," Gordon responded.

She blinked hard to keep the tears away, then she turned the box for everyone to see, and everyone saw the brooch, about the size of a drinks coaster, nestled in the plush cushion. Fergus stared at it.
“It doesn’t even have any jewels on it,” Beryl said, her voice strangled. Fergus opened his mouth wide like a startled fish and turned to Fedgewick.

"A brooch?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"You'll see. Probably."

“What else do we get?” he asked, panicking. Mr Fedgewick tried another smile.
“Your, uh, your brother’s love?” Stephanie heard a high-pitched whine, and it took her a moment to realise it was coming from Beryl. Fedgewick returned his attention to the will, trying to ignore the horrified looks he was getting from Fergus and his wife. “‘To my good friend and guide Skulduggery Pleasant I leave the following advice. Your path is your own, and I have no wish to sway you, but sometimes the greatest enemy we can face is ourselves, and the greatest battle is against the darkness within. There is a storm coming, and sometimes the key to safe harbour is hidden from us, and sometimes it is right before our eyes.’”

"Strange advice," Skulduggery said.
"But useful," the unknown man said. Everyone looked at him, confused.

Stephanie joined in with everyone else as they stared at Mr Pleasant. She had known there was something different about him, she had known it the first moment she saw him – there was something exotic, something mysterious, something dangerous. For his part, his head dipped lower and that was the only reaction he gave. He offered no explanations as to what Gordon’s message had meant. Fergus patted his wife’s knee. “See, Beryl? A car, a boat, a brooch, it’s not that bad. He could have given us some stupid advice.”

"Hey! I worked really hard on that!" Gordon said, offended. Stephanie smiled. "Plus, it's helpful and will probably be useful in what I think might happen next."
"What do you think will happen next?"
"Something that I have prepared for."
"Will we get to see what that is?"
"I don't know?" Gordon said.
"We will," the unknown woman said. "Trust me."

“Oh, shut up, would you?” Beryl snarled and Fergus recoiled in his chair. Mr Fedgewick read on.
“‘To my other brother, Desmond, the lucky one of the family, I leave to you your wife. I think you might like her.’” Stephanie saw her parents clasp each other’s hands and smile sadly.

They did this in real life too. It was embarrassing. Really embarrassing.

“‘So now that you’ve successfully stolen my girlfriend, maybe you’d like to take her to my villa in France, which I am also leaving to you.’”

"The villa?" Desmond asked. Gordon nodded. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Gordon said.

“They get the villa?” Beryl cried, jumping to her feet.
“Beryl,” Fergus said, “please…”
“Do you know how much that villa is worth?” Beryl continued, looking like she might lunge at Stephanie’s parents. “We get a brooch—they get a villa? There are only three of them! We’ve got Carol and Crystal! We have more! We could do with the extra space! Why do they deserve the villa?” She thrust the box towards them. “Swap!"

This gained quite a few raised eyebrows.

“Mrs Edgley, please retake your seat or we shall be unable to continue,” Mr Fedgewick said, and eventually, after much bug-eyed glaring, Beryl sat down. “Thank you,” Fedgewick said, looking like he had had quite enough excitement for one day. He licked his lips, adjusted his glasses, and peered again at the will. “‘If there is one regret that I have had in my life, it is that I have never fathered any children. There are times when I look at what Fergus and Beryl have produced and I consider myself fortunate, but there are also times when it breaks my heart. And so, finally, to my niece Stephanie.’”

Stephanie sat up straight in her chair, eager to find out what she had been left.

Stephanie’s eyes widened. What? She was getting something? Leaving the villa to her parents wasn’t enough for Gordon? Fedgewick continued reading. “‘The world is bigger than you know and scarier than you might imagine. The only currency worth anything is being true to yourself, and the only goal worth seeking is finding out who you truly are.’”

"So much bigger and so much scarier. And also way more dangerous," the unknown woman said. This gained a few chuckles from the weirdos.

She could feel Fergus and Beryl glaring at her and she did her best to ignore them. “‘Make your parents proud, and make them glad to have you living under their roof, because I leave to you my property and possessions, my assets and my royalties, to be inherited on the day you turn eighteen.

"What?" she said.
"It's all yours," Gordon said. Stephanie blushed as her parents hugged her.

I’d just like to take this opportunity to say that, in my own way, I love you all, even those I don’t particularly like. That’s you, Beryl.’” Fedgewick took off his spectacles and looked up. Stephanie became aware that everyone was staring at her and she hadn’t a clue what she was supposed to say. Fergus was again doing his startled fish impression and Beryl was pointing one long bony finger at her, trying to speak but failing. Her parents were looking at her in stunned surprise.
Only Skulduggery Pleasant moved, walking behind her and gently touching her arm. “Congratulations,” he said and moved on towards the door.
As soon as it clicked shut behind him, Beryl found her voice. “HER?” she screamed. “HER?”

That's the end of the chapter," Ghastly said. "Who would like to read next?"
"I will," Hopeless said. Ghastly passed him the book.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three - Little Girl, All Alone

"That doesn't sound very good," Melissa said.

That afternoon Stephanie and her mother took the fifteen-minute drive from Haggard to Gordon’s estate. Her mum opened the front door and stepped back. “Owner of the house goes first,” she said with a little smile and a bow, and Stephanie stepped inside. She wasn’t thinking of this house as her property—the idea was too big, too silly. Even if her parents were, technically, the custodians until she turned eighteen, how could she own a house? How many other twelve year-old kids owned houses?

"Probably not many," Quinlan Forte said.

No, it was too silly an idea. Too far-fetched. Too crazy. Exactly the kind of thing that Gordon would have thought made perfect sense. The house was big and quiet and empty as they walked through it. Everything seemed new to her now, and Stephanie found herself reacting differently to the furniture and carpets and paintings. Did she like it? Did she agree with this colour or that fabric? One thing that had to be said for Gordon, he had a good eye.

"Obviously, I'm me."

Stephanie’s mother said there was very little she would change if she had to. Some of the paintings were a little too unnerving for her taste maybe, but on the whole the furnishings were elegant and understated, exuding an air of distinction that befitted a house of this stature.

"I do have good taste," Gordon said.

They hadn’t decided what they were going to do with the house. Any decision was left up to Stephanie, but her parents still had the villa to consider. Owning three houses between them seemed a bit much. Her father had suggested selling the villa but her mother hated the thought of letting go of a place so idyllic. They had also talked about Stephanie’s education, and she knew that conversation was far from over. The moment they had left Mr Fedgewick’s office they warned her not to let all this go to her head. Recent events, they had said, should not mean she could stop studying, stop planning for college. She needed to be independent, they said, she needed to make it on her own.

"Good. Relying on just money to get you through life is never a good idea. You need other things as well," Saracen said.
"Like food?" Anton responded.
"Shut up," Saracen muttered.

Stephanie had let them talk, and nodded occasionally and muttered an agreement where an agreement was appropriate. She didn’t bother to explain that she needed college, she needed to find her own way in the world because she knew that if she didn’t, she’d never escape Haggard.

Everyone gathered nodded their heads in agreement.

She wasn’t about to throw her future away simply because she had come into some money. She and her mother spent so long looking around the ground floor that by the time they got to the bottom of the stairs, it was already five o’clock. With their exploring done for the day, they locked up and walked to the car. The first few drops of rain splattered against the windscreen as they got in. Stephanie clicked her seatbelt closed and her mother turned the key in the ignition. The car spluttered a bit, groaned a little and then shut up altogether. Stephanie’s mother looked at her. “Uh oh.” They both got out and opened the bonnet. “Well,” her mother said, looking at the engine, “at least that’s still there.”

"I'm guessing that that's bad thing," Skulduggery said.
"It is," Gordon said.
The mysterious woman snorted.

“Do you know anything about engines?” Stephanie asked.
“That’s why I have a husband, so I don’t have to. Engines and shelves, that’s why man was invented.” Stephanie made a mental note to learn about engines before she turned eighteen. She wasn’t too fussed about the shelves. Her mum dug her mobile phone out of her bag and called Stephanie’s dad, but he was busy on site and there was no way he could get to them before nightfall. They went back inside the house and her mother called a mechanic, and they spent three quarters of an hour waiting for him to arrive. The sky was grey and angry and the rain was falling hard by the time the truck appeared around the corner.

"What's a truck?" Ghastly asked.
"It's kind of like a car, but a bit different," Stephanie responded.

It splashed through puddles on its way up the long drive, and Stephanie’s mum pulled her jacket over her head and ran out to meet it. Stephanie could see a great big dog in the cab of the truck, looking on as the mechanic got out to examine their car. After a few minutes, her mother ran back inside, thoroughly drenched. “He can’t fix it here,” she said, wringing out her jacket on the porch, “so he’s going to tow it to the garage. It shouldn’t take too long to fix.”
“Will there be room for both of us in the truck?”
“You can sit on my knee.”
“Mum!”
“Or I can sit on your knee, whatever works.”

"Please don't ever suggest that again."
"Even as a joke?" Stephanie glared at her mother. "Point taken."

“Can I stay here?”
Her mother looked at her. “On your own?”
“Please? You just said it won’t take long, and I’d like to have another look around, just on my own.”
“I don’t know, Steph…”
“Please? I’ve stayed on my own before. I won’t break anything, I swear.”
Her mother laughed. “OK fine. I shouldn’t be any more than an hour, all right? An hour and a half at the most.” Her mother gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Call me if you need anything.” She ran back outside and jumped in the cab next to the dog, who proceeded to slobber all over her face. Stephanie watched their car being towed off into the distance and then it vanished from sight.

"Is it weird that I'm a bit scared?" Stephanie asked.
"Of course not," Skulduggery said. "It is quite obvious that something bad is about to happen."

She did a little more exploring, now that she was on her own. She climbed the stairs and went straight to Gordon’s study. His publisher, Seamus T. Steepe of Arc Light Books, had phoned them earlier that day, passing on his condolences and enquiring about the state of Gordon’s last book. Her mother had told him that they’d find out if Gordon had completed it, and if he had, they’d send it on. Mr Steepe was very keen to get the book on the shelves, certain that it would crash on to the bestseller list and stay there for a long time. “Dead writers sell,” he had said, like he approved of Gordon’s clever marketing ploy.

"He acts as though I planned it."
"No but you prepared for it," the mysterious woman said.
"True."

Stephanie opened the desk drawer and found the manuscript in a neat stack. She pulled it out carefully and laid it on the desktop, careful not to smudge the paper. The first page held the title, nothing more, in bold lettering: And The Darkness Rained Upon Them. The manuscript was thick and heavy, like all of Gordon’s books. She’d read most of them, and the odd splash of pretension aside, had quite enjoyed his work. His stories tended to be about people who could do astonishing and wonderful things, and the strange and terrible events that invariably led up to their bizarre and horrible deaths. She noticed the way he would set up a strong and noble hero, and over the course of the book systematically subject this hero to brutal punishment in a bid to strip away all his arrogance and certainty so that by the end he was humbled and had learned a great lesson. And then Gordon killed him off, usually in the most undignified way possible. Stephanie could almost hear Gordon laughing with mischievous glee as she’d read.

"That is actually quite realistic," said Quinlan.
"Is it?"
"Yes."

She lifted the title page and carefully laid it face down on the desk beside the manuscript. She started reading. She didn’t mean to spend long at it, but soon she was devouring every word, oblivious to the creaking old house and the rain outside. Her mobile phone rang, making her jump. She had been reading for two hours. She pressed the answer button and held it to her ear. “Hi, sweetie,” came her mother’s voice, “everything OK?”
“Yes,” Stephanie answered. “Just reading.”
“You’re not reading one of Gordon’s books, are you? Steph, he writes about horrible monsters and scary stuff and bad people doing worse things. It’ll give you nightmares.”
“No, Mum, I’m… I’m reading the dictionary.”

"Mum?" Stephanie said.
"Yes?" Melissa responded.
"I'm twelve. And I can read what I want!"
"Within reason." Stephanie crossed her arms and pouted.

Even the brief silence from the other end of the phone was sceptical. “The dictionary?” her mother said. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Stephanie said. “Did you know that popple is a word?”

"Is it?"
"I don't know."

“You are stranger than your father, you know that?”
“I suspected as much… So is the car fixed yet?”
“No, and that’s why I’m calling. They can’t get it going and the road up to you is flooded. I’m going to get a taxi up as far as it’ll go and then I’ll see if I can find some way around on foot. It’s going to be another two hours at least.”
Stephanie sensed an opportunity. Ever since she was a child she had much preferred her own company to the company of others, and it occurred to her that she had never spent a whole night without her parents nearby. A small taste of freedom and it almost tingled on her tongue.

"Freedom as a child is good," Quinlan said. "It gives you independence."

“Mum, it’s fine, you don’t have to. I’m OK here.”
“There’s no way I’m leaving you in a strange house by yourself.”
“It’s not a strange house; it’s Gordon’s and it’s fine. There’s no point in you trying to get here tonight – it’s lashing rain.”
“Sweetie, it won’t take me long.”
“It’ll take you ages. Where’s it flooded?”
Her mother paused. “At the bridge.”
“The bridge? And you want to walk from the bridge to here?”
“If I speed-walk—”
“Mum, don’t be silly. Get Dad to pick you up.”
“Sweetheart, are you sure?”
“I like it here, really. OK?”
“Well, OK,” her mother said reluctantly. “I’ll be over first thing in the morning to pick you up, all right? And I saw some food in the cupboards, so if you’re hungry you can make yourself something.”
“OK. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“Call us if you need anything or if you just want some company.”
“I will. Night Mum.”
“I love you.”
“I know.” Stephanie hung up and grinned. She slipped the phone back into her jacket and put her feet up on the desk, relaxing back into the chair, and went back to reading. When she looked up again she was surprised to find that it was almost midnight and the rain had stopped.

"There is nothing quite like a good book," China said. Mr Bliss smiled.
"Agreed," said the mystery woman.

If she were home right now, she’d be in bed. She blinked, her eyes sore, stood up from the desk and went downstairs to the kitchen. For all his wealth and success and extravagant tastes, she was thankful that when it came to food, Gordon was a pretty standard guy. The bread was stale and the fruit was a bit too ripe, but there were biscuits and there was cereal, and the milk in the fridge was still good for one more day. Stephanie made herself a snack and wandered to the living room, where she flicked on the TV. She sat on the couch and was just getting comfy when the house phone rang.

"Why would anyone be calling? Gordon's dead," Desmond said.
"I have a feeling we'll be finding out."

She looked at it, resting there on the table at her elbow. Who would be calling? Anyone who knew Gordon had died wouldn’t be calling because they’d know he had died, and she didn’t really want to be the one to tell anyone who didn’t know. It could be her parents, but then why didn’t they just call her mobile? Figuring that as the new owner of the house, it was her responsibility to answer her own phone, Stephanie picked it up and held it to her ear. “Hello?” Silence. “Hello?” Stephanie repeated.
“Who is this?” came a man’s voice.
“I’m sorry,” Stephanie said, “who do you want to speak to?”
“Who is this?” responded the voice, more irritably this time.
“If you’re looking for Gordon Edgley,” Stephanie said, “I’m afraid that he’s—”
“I know Edgley’s dead,” snapped the man. “Who are you? Your name?”
Stephanie hesitated. “Why do you want to know?” she asked.

"Good. Don't tell him your name," Skulduggery said.

“What are you doing in that house? Why are you in his house?”
“If you want to call back tomorrow—”
“I don’t want to, all right? Listen to me, girlie, if you mess up my master’s plans, he will be very displeased and he is not a man you want to displease, you got that? Now tell me who you are!”

"Ooh, it's getting interesting," Tanith Low said. She was English.
"It's just getting started," said the mystery woman.

Stephanie realised her hands were shaking. She forced herself to calm down and quickly found anger replacing her nervousness. “My name is none of your business,” she said. “If you want to talk to someone, call back tomorrow at a reasonable hour.”
“You don’t talk to me like that,” the man hissed.
“Goodnight,” Stephanie said firmly.
“You do not talk to me like—” But Stephanie was already putting the phone down. Suddenly the idea of spending the whole night here wasn’t as appealing as it had first sounded. She considered calling her parents, then scolded herself for being so childish. No need to worry them, she thought to herself. No need to worry them about something so— Someone pounded on the front door.

Her eyes widened and her dad pulled her into his side.

“Open up!” came the man’s voice between the pounding. Stephanie got to herfeet, staring through to the hall beyond the living room. She could see a dark shape behind the frosted glass around the front door. “Open the damn door!” Stephanie backed up to the fireplace, her heart pounding in her chest. He knew she was in here, there was no use pretending that she wasn’t, but maybe if she stayed really quiet he’d give up and go away.

"I really doubt that's going to work," Rustica said.

She heard him cursing, and the pounding grew so heavy that the front door rattled under the blows.
“Leave me alone!” Stephanie shouted.
“Open the door!”
“No!” she shouted back. She liked shouting—it disguised her fear. “I’m calling the police! I’m calling the police right now!” The pounding stopped immediately and Stephanie saw the shape move away from the door. Was that it? Had she scared him away?

"Most likely not," Fletcher said. He too was English. He seemed to be a couple of years older than her.

She thought of the back door – was it locked? Of course it was locked… It had to be locked. But she wasn’t sure, she wasn’t certain. She grabbed a poker from the fireplace and was reaching for the phone when she heard a knock on the window beside her. She cried out and jumped back. The curtains were open, and outside the window was pitch-black. She couldn’t see a thing. “Are you alone in there?” came the voice. It was teasing now, playing with her.
“Go away,” she said loudly, holding up the poker so he could see it. She heard the man laugh.
“What are you going to do with that?” he asked.
“I’ll break your head open with it!” Stephanie screamed at him, fear and fury bubbling inside her. She heard him laugh again.
“I just want to come in,” he said. “Open the door for me, girlie. Let me come in.”

"Whatever you do, do not open the door," Melissa said.
"I'm not planning on it," Stephanie responded.

“The police are on their way,” she said.
“You’re a liar.” Still she could see nothing beyond the glass and he could see everything. She moved to the phone, snatching it from its cradle.
“Don’t do that,” came the voice.
“I’m calling the police.”
“The road’s closed, girlie. You call them, I’ll break down that door and kill you hours before they get here.”
Fear became terror and Stephanie froze. She was going to cry. She could feel it, the tears welling up inside her. She hadn’t cried in years. “What do you want?” she said to the darkness. “Why do you want to come in?”
“It’s got nothing to do with me, girlie. I’ve just been sent to pick something up. Let me in. I’ll look around, get what I came here for and leave. I won’t harm a pretty little hair on your pretty little head, I promise. Now you just open that door right this second.” Stephanie gripped the poker in both hands and shook her head. She was crying now, tears rolling down her cheeks. “No,” she said.

"He's been sent?" Skulduggery said. "Who sent him?"
"You'll find out," the mystery man said.

She screamed as a fist smashed through the window, showering the carpet with glass. She stumbled back as the man started climbing in, glaring at her with blazing eyes, unmindful of the glass that cut into him. The moment one foot touched the floor inside the house Stephanie was bolting out of the room, over to the front door, fumbling at the lock. Strong hands grabbed her from behind. She screamed again as she was lifted off her feet and carried back. She kicked out, slamming a heel into his shin. The man grunted and let go and Stephanie twisted, trying to swing the poker into his face but he caught it and pulled it from her grasp. One hand went to her throat and Stephanie gagged, unable to breathe as the man forced her back into the living room. He pushed her into an armchair and leaned over her and no matter how hard she tried she could not break his grip. “Now then,” the man said, his mouth contorting into a sneer, “why don’t you just give me the key, little girlie?”

"Key? What key?"
"Again, you'll find out," the mystery woman said
"Can you two stop being mysterious?"
"We could but we won't."

And that’s when the front door was flung off its hinges and Skulduggery Pleasant burst into the house.

"Please tell me you're about to save her," Melissa said.
"I can't say that just yet, but I would like to think that I am," Skulduggery responded.

The man cursed and released Stephanie and swung the poker, but Skulduggery moved straight to him and hit him so hard Stephanie thought the man’s head might come off. He hit the ground and tumbled backwards, but rolled to his feet as Skulduggery moved in again. The man launched himself forward. They both collided and went backwards over the couch and Skulduggery lost his hat. Stephanie saw a flash of white above the scarf.

"Yep," Stephanie said. "You are definitely saving me."
"I can tell."

They got to their feet, grappling, and the man swung a punch that knocked Skulduggery’s sunglasses to the other side of the room. Skulduggery responded by moving in low, grabbing the man around the waist and twisting his hip into him. The man was flipped to the floor, hard. He cursed a little more, then remembered Stephanie and made for her. Stephanie leaped out of the chair, but before he could reach her, Skulduggery was there, kicking the man’s legs out from under him. The man hit a small coffee table with his chin and howled in pain. “You think you can stop me?” he screamed as he tried to stand. His knees seemed shaky. “Do you know who I am?”
“Haven’t the foggiest,” Skulduggery said.

"Well, that's helpful. I quite like to know the names of the people who try to kill me."
"Has anyone ever tried to kill you before?"
"No, but still."

The man spat blood and grinned defiantly. “Well, I know about you,” he said. “My master told me all about you, detective, and you’re going to have to do a lot more than that to stop me.” Skulduggery shrugged and Stephanie watched in amazement as a ball of fire flared up in his hand and he hurled it and the man was suddenly covered in flame.

"Was that magic?" she asked.
"It was indeed." Stephanie, her parents and Fletcher stared at him. Magic existed?

But instead of screaming, the man tilted his head back and roared with laughter. The fire may have engulfed him, but it wasn’t burning him. “More!” he laughed. “Give me more!”
“If you insist.” And then Skulduggery took an old-fashioned revolver from his jacket and fired, the gun bucking slightly with the recoil. The bullet hit the man in the shoulder and he screamed, then tried to run and tripped. He scrambled for the doorway, ducking and dodging lest he get shot again, the flames obstructing his vision so much that he hit a wall on his way out. And then he was gone. Stephanie stared at the door, trying to make sense of the impossible. “Well,” Skulduggery said, “that’s something you don’t see every day.”

"Understatement of the century."

She turned. When his hat came off, his hair had come off too. In the confusion all she had seen was a chalk-white scalp, so she turned expecting to see a bald albino maybe. But no. With his sunglasses gone and his scarf hanging down, there was no denying the fact that he had no flesh, he had no skin, he had no eyes and he had no face. All he had was a skull for a head.

"That's the end of the chapter," Hopeless said. Skulduggery paled. He patted his face as though he was expecting there to be a skull instead of skin. "What happened to me?" he asked.
"That is a very long story that is most likely going to be explained soon," Mystery Man said.
"After the next chapter, I suppose we have a break," Quinlan said, plucking the book from Hopeless' hand. "I shall read next."

Chapter Text

Chapter Four - The Secret War

"That sounds even worse than the last chapter, Stephanie said.
"Yep."

Skulduggery put his gun away and walked out to the hall. He peered out into the night. Satisfied that there were no human fireballs lurking anywhere nearby, he came back inside and picked the door off the ground, grunting with the effort. He manoeuvred it back to where it belonged, leaving it leaning in the doorway,

"I feel like that's the least important thing right now."

then he shrugged and came back into the living room, where Stephanie was still standing and staring at him. “Sorry about the door,” he said. Stephanie stared. “I’ll pay to get it fixed.” Stephanie stared. “It’s still a good door, you know. Sturdy.”

"Why are you focusing on the door?"
"I don't know."
"That's a first," said the mystery woman. The mystery man elbowed her.

When he realised that Stephanie was in no condition to do anything but stare, he shrugged again and took off his coat, folded it neatly and draped it over the back of a chair. He went to the broken window and started picking up the shards of glass. Now that he didn’t have his coat on, Stephanie could truly appreciate how thin he really was. His suit, well-tailored though it was, hung off him, giving it a shapeless quality. She watched him collect the broken glass, and saw a flash of bone between his shirtsleeve and glove. He stood, looking back at her. “Where should I put all this glass?”
“I don’t know,” Stephanie said in a quiet voice. “You’re a skeleton.”

"We're not focusing on the door, now," Skulduggery said.
"No. We're focusing on the fact that you're a skeleton."

“I am indeed,” he said. “Gordon used to keep a wheelie bin out at the back door. Shall I put it in that?” Stephanie nodded.
“Yes OK,” she said simply and watched Skulduggery carry the armful of glass shards out of the room. All her life she had longed for something else, for something to take her out of the humdrum world she knew— and now that it looked like it might actually happen, she didn’t have one clue what to do.

"I did tell you," China said.

Questions were tripping over themselves in her head, each one vying to be the one that was asked first. So many of them. Skulduggery came back in and she asked the first question. “Did you find it all right?”
“I did, yes. It was where he always kept it.”

"Where else would it be?" Gordon asked.

“OK then.” If questions were people she felt that they’d all be staring at her now in disbelief. She struggled to form coherent thoughts.
“Did you tell him your name?” Skulduggery was asking.
“What?”
“Your name. Did you tell him?”
“Uh, no…”
“Good. You know something’s true name, you have power over it. But even a given name, even Stephanie, that would have been enough to do it.”

"What kind of power?"
"You'll probably find out."
"And what did you mean by true name and given name?"
"Again, you'll find out."

“To do what?”
“To give him some influence over you, to get you to do what he asked. If he had your name and he knew what to do with it, sometimes that’s all it takes. That’s a scary thought now, isn’t it?”
“What’s going on?” Stephanie asked. “Who was he? What did he want? Just who are you?”
“I’m me,” Skulduggery said, picking up his hat and wig and placing them on a nearby table. “As for him, I don’t know who he is, never seen him before in my life.”
“You shot him.”
“That’s right.”
“And you threw fire at him.”
“Yes, I did.”
Stephanie’s legs felt weak and her head felt light. “Mr Pleasant, you’re a skeleton.”
“Ah, yes, back to the crux of the matter. Yes. I am, as you say, a skeleton. I have been one for a few years now.”

"That's not helpful. I want to know how and why I'm a skeleton. Not how long."

“Am I going mad?”
“I hope not.”
“So you’re real? You actually exist?”
“Presumably.”
“You mean you’re not sure if you exist or not?”
“I’m fairly certain. I mean, I could be wrong. I could be some ghastly hallucination, a figment of my imagination.”
“You might be a figment of your own imagination?”
“Stranger things have happened. And do, with alarming regularity.”

"That is true," the mystery woman said. "I should know."
"Seriously, who are you?"
"You'll find out."

“This is too weird.”
Skulduggery put his gloved hands in his pockets and cocked his head. He had no eyeballs so it was hard to tell if he was looking at her or not. “You know, I met your uncle under similar circumstances. Well, kind of similar. But he was drunk. And we were in a bar. And he had vomited on my shoes. So I suppose the actual circumstances aren’t overly similar, but both events include a meeting, so… My point is, he was having some trouble and I was there to lend a hand, and we became good friends after that. Good, good friends.”

"None of that bares any resemblance to what happened just now."

His head tilted. “You look like you might faint.”
Stephanie nodded slowly. “I’ve never fainted before, but I think you might be right.”
“Do you want me to catch you if you fall, or…?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
“No problem at all.”
“Thank you.”

"Why was that conversation so polite?"
"I don't know."

Stephanie gave him a weak smile and then darkness clouded her vision and she felt herself falling and the last thing she saw was Skulduggery Pleasant darting across the room towards her.

"Well, at least he catches me."

Stephanie awoke on the couch with a blanket over her. The room was dark, lit only by two lamps in opposite corners. She looked over at the broken window, saw that it was now boarded up. She heard a hammering from the hall, and when she felt strong enough to stand, she slowly rose and walked out of the living room. Skulduggery Pleasant was trying to hang the door back on its hinges. He had his shirtsleeve rolled up on his left forearm. Ulna, Stephanie corrected herself, proving that her first year of Biology class had not gone to waste. Or was it radius? Or both? She heard him mutter, then he noticed her and nodded brightly.

"Skulduggery?"
"Yes?"
"Why would you board the window up?"
"It's polite."
"It's broken."
"So?"

“Ah, you’re up.”
“You fixed the window.”
“Well, covered it up. Gordon had a few pieces of timber out back, so I did what I could. Not having the same luck with the door though. I find it much easier to blast them off then put them back. How are you feeling?”

"Why are you like this?" Quinlan asked.
"I'm your son?" Skulduggery tried.
"Can't argue with that."

“I’m OK,” Stephanie said.
“A cup of hot tea, that’s what you need. Lots of sugar.” He abandoned the door and guided her to the kitchen. She sat at the table while he boiled the water. “Hungry?” he asked when it had boiled, but she shook her head. “Milk?” She nodded. He added milk and spoonfulls of sugar, gave the tea a quick stir and put the cup on the table in front of her. She took a sip—it was hot, but nice.
“Thank you,” Stephanie said, and he gave a little shrug. It was hard discerning some of his gestures without a face to go by, but she took the shrug to mean “think nothing of it”.
“Was that magic? With the fire, and blasting the door?”
“Yes, it was.” She peered closer.
“How can you talk?”
“Sorry?”
“How can you talk? You move your mouth when you speak, but you’ve got no tongue, you’ve got no lips, you’ve got no vocal cords. I mean, I know what skeletons look like, I’ve seen diagrams and models and stuff, and the only things that hold them together are flesh and skin and ligaments, so why don’t you just fall apart?” He gave another shrug, both shoulders this time.
“Well, that’s magic too.” She looked at him.
“Magic’s pretty handy.”
“Yes, magic is.”

"What else can magic do?"
"A lot more."
The mystery man whispered something to the mystery woman who then nudged him.

“And what about, you know, nerve endings? Can you feel pain?”
“I can, but that’s not a bad thing. Pain lets you know when you’re alive, after all.”
“And are you alive?”
“Well, technically, no, but…”
She peered into his empty eye sockets. “Do you have a brain?”
He laughed. “I don’t have a brain, I don’t have any organs, but I have a consciousness.” He started clearing away the sugar and the milk. “To be honest with you, it’s not even my head.”

"Somehow, this just got a whole lot worse. I didn't even think it was possible," Skulduggery said.

“What?”
“It’s not. They ran away with my skull. I won this one in a poker game.”
“That’s not even yours? How does it feel?”
“It’ll do. It’ll do until I finally get around to getting my own head back. You look faintly disgusted.”
“I just… Doesn’t it feel weird? It’d be like wearing someone else’s socks.”
“You get used to it.”
“What happened to you?” she asked. “Were you born like this?”

"As you can see, I was not born like that."
"Yeah. Obviously."
"Something I've wondered for years," the mystery woman said, "is what you were doing before you won that head. Were you just walking around headless?"
"I guess we'll never know," the mystery man said.

“No, I was born perfectly normal. Skin, organs, the whole shebang. Even had a face that wasn’t too bad to look at, if I do say so myself.”
“So what happened?”
Skulduggery leaned against the worktop, arms folded across his chest. “I got into magic. Back then—back when I was, for want of a better term, alive—there were some pretty nasty people around. The world was seeing a darkness it might never have recovered from. It was war, you see. A secret war, but war nonetheless. There was a sorcerer, Mevolent, worse then any of the others, and he had himself an army, and those of us who refused to fall in behind him found ourselves standing up against him.

"So, there is going to be a war?" China said.
"Certainly looks like it," Skulduggery said.

“And we were winning. Eventually, after years of fighting this little war of ours, we were actually winning. His support was crumbling, his influence was fading, and he was staring defeat in the face. So he ordered one last, desperate strike against all the leaders on our side.” Stephanie stared at him, lost in his voice. “I went up against his right-hand man who had laid out a wickedly exquisite trap. I didn’t suspect a thing until it was too late. “So I died. He killed me. The twenty-third of October it was, when my heart stopped beating. Once I was dead, they stuck my body up on a pike and burned it for all to see. They used me as a warning—they used the bodies of all the leaders they had killed as warnings—and, to my utter horror, it worked.”

Quinlan stopped reading. She raised a shaking hand to her eyes. "Do you want me to take over?" Skulduggery asked.
"No, I can finish the chapter."

“What do you mean?”
“The tide turned. Our side starting losing ground. Mevolent got stronger. It was more than I could stand, so I came back.”
“You just… came back?”
“It’s… complicated. When I died, I never moved on. Something was holding me here, making me watch. I’ve never heard of it happening before that and I haven’t heard of it happening since, but it happened to me. So when it got too much, I woke up, a bag of bones. Literally. They had gathered up my bones and put them in a bag and thrown the bag into a river. So that was a marvellous new experience right there.”

"Only you can joke about dying and coming back to life," Ghastly said. Skulduggery smiled.

“Then what happened?”
“I put myself back together, which was rather painful,

"I'm not surprised."

then climbed out of the river and rejoined the fight, and in the end, we won. We finally won. So, with Mevolent defeated, I quit that whole scene and struck out on my own for the first time in a few hundred years.”

"That sounds like a very long war."
"It was," Tanith said.

Stephanie blinked. “Few hundred?”
“It was a long war.”
“That man, he called you detective.”
“He obviously knows me by reputation,” Skulduggery said, standing a little straighter. “I solve mysteries now.”

"That's quite a career change you had."
"Clearly."

“Really?”
“Quite good at it too.”
“So, what, you’re tracking down your head?”
Skulduggery looked at her. If he’d had eyelids, he might well be blinking. “It’d be nice to have it back, sure, but…”
“So you don’t need it, like, so you can rest in peace?”
“No. No, not really.”
“Why did they take it? Was that another warning?”
“Oh, no,” Skulduggery said with a little laugh. “No, they didn’t take it. I was sleeping, about ten or fifteen years ago, and these little goblin things ran up and nicked it right off my spinal column. Didn’t notice it was gone till the next morning.”
Stephanie frowned. “And you didn’t feel that?”
“Well, like I said, I was asleep. Meditating, I suppose you’d call it. I can’t see, hear or feel anything when I’m meditating. Have you tried it?”
“No.”
“It’s very relaxing. I think you’d like it.”
“I’m sorry, I’m still stuck on you losing your head.”
“I didn’t lose it,” he said defensively. “It was stolen.”

"Only you, Skulduggery," Ghastly said.
"Is it just me who's wondering what he was doing when he didn't have a head?" Desmond asked.
"Nope."

Stephanie was feeling stronger now. She couldn’t believe that she’d fainted. Fainted. It was such an old woman thing to do. She glanced up at Skulduggery. “You’ve had a very unusual life, haven’t you?”

"That is certainly one thing to call it."

“I suppose I have. Not over yet though. Well, technically it is, but…”
“Isn’t there anything you miss?”
“About what?”
“About living.”
“Compared to how long I’ve been like this, I was only technically alive for a blink of an eye. I can’t really remember enough about having a beating heart in my chest to miss it.”
“So there’s nothing you miss?”
“I… I suppose I miss hair. I miss how it… was. And how it was there, on top of my head. I suppose I miss my hair.” He took out his pocket watch and his head jerked back. “Wow, look at the time. I’ve got to go, Stephanie.”

"Don't leave her there alone. She could be attacked again."

“Go? Go where?”
“Things to do, I’m afraid. Number one is finding out why that nice gentleman was sent here, and number two is finding out who sent him.”
“You can’t leave me alone,” she said, following him into the living room.
“Yes,” he corrected, “I can. You’ll be perfectly safe.”
“The front door’s off!”

"Exactly!"

“Well, yes. You’ll be perfectly safe as long as they don’t come through the front door.” He pulled on his coat but she snatched his hat away. “Are you taking my hat hostage?” he asked doubtfully.
“You’re either staying here to make sure no one else attacks me or you’re taking me with you.”
Skulduggery froze. “That,” he said eventually, “wouldn’t be too safe for you.”

"I don't think either option is particularly safe for her."

“Neither would being left here on my own.”
“But you can hide,” he said, gesturing around the room. “There’s so many places to hide. I’m sure there are plenty of good solid wardrobes your size. Even under a bed. You’d be surprised how many people don’t check under beds these days.”
“Mr Pleasant—”
“Skulduggery, please.”
“Skulduggery, you saved my life tonight. Are you going to undo all that effort by leaving me here so someone else can come along and just kill me?”

"She does kind of have a point."
"Thank you!"

“That’s a very defeatist attitude you’ve got there. I once knew a fellow, a little older than you. He wanted to join me in my adventures, wanted to solve mysteries that beggared belief. He kept asking, kept on at me about it. He finally proved himself, after a long time, and we became partners.”
“And did you go on to have lots of exciting adventures?”
“I did. He didn’t. He died on our very first case together. Horrible death. Messy too. Lots of flailing around.”

"Pleasant."
"Very."

“Well, I don’t plan on dying any time soon and I’ve got something he didn’t.”
“And that is…?”
“Your hat. Take me with you or I’ll stand on it.”
Skulduggery looked at her with his big hollow eye sockets, then held out his hand for his hat. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

"That's the end of the chapter," Quinlan said.
"And the start of a lifetime of adventure," the mystery woman said. "And trauma." Seriously, who was that woman?
"Time for a break, I think."
"Agreed."