Archive of Our Own ^beta

The fire snapped in the hearth, casting flickering shadows against the walls of Ghastly’s shop. The scent of wool and polish lingered in the air, laced with the faint, steady whir of Ghastly’s sewing machine. Outside, thunder rolled distantly, as if the sky was politely clearing its throat.

Ghastly sat at his worktable, hunched over a heavy coat he’d just pulled from the machine. It draped across his lap, the fabric shimmering faintly under lamplight. It was woven with materials only a few knew how to wield, giving it the sheen of style and the resilience of armour. His hands moved with practiced ease, threading a deep blue needle through a thick leather lapel. Every stitch landed firm, exact, unhurried.

Skulduggery sat nearby in one of the old armchairs, legs crossed at the knee, a newspaper – The Daily Beacon – held in bony hands. He didn’t turn the pages so much as flick them, with a snap that somehow felt judgmental.

Erskine Ravel was draped across the back of the couch like a bored cat. One boot tapped rhythmically against the side of the cushion, and a spool of thread floated lazily between his fingers.

“You know,” Erskine said at last, eyes on the ceiling, “I’ve been thinking.”

Ghastly didn’t look up. “No good ever starts with that sentence.”

“You remember Belgium?”

Ghastly let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a prayer. “Which part? The grenade golem or the jellyfish cult?”

“Oh, both,” Erskine said with relish. “One right after the other.”

“I thought we agreed never to talk about that,” Skulduggery said. “Ever again. For the sake of national diplomacy.”

Erskine grinned. “Then I’ll just give the abridged version.”

He sat up, gesturing dramatically with the thread spool. “So there I am — peaceful vineyard, birdsong in the air. And bam — out of the ground explodes a forty-foot golem made entirely of discarded grenades.”

“I told you not to touch that scarecrow,” Ghastly muttered.

“It winked at me!”

Skulduggery sighed. “It had no eyes. Or face. Or structural integrity.”

“So the golem’s rampaging,” Erskine pressed on. “I’m dodging shrapnel, Skulduggery’s yelling about a ‘tactical retreat’—”

“I was on fire.”

“—Ghastly’s trying to grapple it—”

“It was stitched together. I thought I could pull the thread out!”

“—and I, being the strategic genius that I am, leap onto its back and start singing a lullaby in Flemish.”

For a moment, both Skulduggery and Ghastly stared at him in judgemental silence.

“You got the language wrong,” Skulduggery said. “You were singing in Norwegian.”

“Loudly,” Ghastly added.

“It worked, didn’t it?” Erskine defended.

“It fell on me,” Ghastly said flatly.

“Yes, but it stopped moving.”

“Because it detonated.” Skulduggery said.

“I still have shrapnel in my calf,” Ghastly added, rolling up his trouser to reveal a faint metallic glint.

“War wound,” Erskine said proudly. “From the time we defeated the Grenade Golem of Ghent.”

“We didn’t defeat it,” Skulduggery said. “It exploded, and we ran away screaming.”

“You were screaming in German,” Ghastly pointed at Skulduggery accusingly. “Which was not helpful, considering we were trying to avoid an international incident.”

Skulduggery waved a hand. “The important thing is the vineyard survived.”

“It didn’t,” Erskine said.

“Not even remotely,” Ghastly confirmed.

Erskine cracked up, wiping his eyes. “We were goddamn menaces.”

“We still are,” Ghastly said.

A moment passed.

“Don’t tell Valkyrie any of this,” Skulduggery said.

“She’d laugh until she threw up,” Ghastly murmured.

“She’d judge us,” Erskine said with a grin. “And she’d be right to.”

“You ever think you trained her too well?” Erskine asked suddenly, glancing at Skulduggery. “She’s out there being competent and terrifying, and we once lost a fight to a cursed wardrobe in Prague.”

Skulduggery tilted his head. “We didn’t lose. We strategically evacuated.”

“You were stuck in a drawer for six hours.”

“I was investigating the structural integrity of the carpentry.”

“Sure you were.”

They all laughed, louder now. The kind of laughter that felt like a war chant and an exorcism all at once. The rain drummed gently on the windows.

“I miss them,” Ghastly said softly.

“So do I,” Erskine replied. “But we’ve still got each other.”

“Unfortunately,” Skulduggery murmured.

“Valkyrie better write our memoirs someday,” Ghastly muttered. “After we’re gone.”

“Oh please,” Erskine said. “She’ll rewrite history just to make us look worse.”

“She doesn’t have to rewrite anything,” Skulduggery said. “We did that to ourselves.”

The bell above the shop door gave a soft jingle as it swung open, letting in a gust of wet evening air and the sharp smell of rain. And, like a devil summoned, Valkyrie Cain stepped through, shrugging off her coat, soaked boots squelching against the old wooden floor.

She blinked at the sight before her.

Ghastly sat serenely, one leg crossed, hand stitching the coat she already knew was meant for her, a mug of cooling tea resting beside it. Skulduggery lounged nearby, the paper draped across his lap like a particularly stylish gargoyle.

And Erskine Ravel was standing on the arm of the couch with a spool of thread in one hand, dramatically reenacting an explosion using a napkin, a candlestick, and what looked like a biscuit tin.

“…Am I interrupting?” Valkyrie asked warily.

Erskine lit up. “Val! Perfect timing. We were just recounting the tale of the Grenade Golem of Ghent.”

“I don’t know what that is,” she said, “but I already hate it.”

“Oh, you would’ve loved it,” Erskine said. “Magical golem made entirely of active grenades, vineyard setting, near-total diplomatic collapse—”

Valkyrie slowly turned to Skulduggery. “Was this one of those things you told me was ‘classified’?”

He nodded solemnly. “It was classified because it was incredibly stupid.”

“Okay, hold on,” Valkyrie said, raising a hand. “There was a golem. Made of grenades. In Belgium.”

“All true so far,” Ghastly said.

“And you tried to fight it?”

“I sang to it,” Erskine said proudly.

“In the wrong language,” Skulduggery added.

“And then?” Valkyrie asked, already regretting asking.

“It exploded on him,” Skulduggery supplied.

“Skulduggery screamed in German and ran into a wine cellar,” Ghastly accused.

“Which collapsed,” Skulduggery said, rising and disappearing briefly into a back room, “because Erskine detonated half the hillside.”

“Defensive detonation,” Erskine said. “Tactical vineyard destruction.”

Valkyrie buried her face in her hands. “Why do people trust you?”

“They don’t,” Skulduggery said, reappearing with a towel and handing it to her.

“Never have,” Ghastly agreed.

Erskine leaned in. “And yet, we always win.”

“That’s not what winning looks like,” she muttered.

“You’re just in time for story hour.” Skulduggery said.

“No, don’t do that,” she said quickly, snatching the towel and backing away. “Every time you people ‘reminisce,’ I find out something deeply traumatizing. Like the time you seduced a vampire queen to steal a soul dagger.”

“Technically,” Skulduggery said, “that was Dexter’s plan. I was just the bait. The sexual bait.”

“You harlot,” Erskine barked a laugh.

“To be fair,” Ghastly added, “it worked.”

“He wore a cravat and everything,” Erskine said, eyes gleaming.

Valkyrie turned to Skulduggery. “She bought it?”

“Oh, she bought all of it,” Skulduggery muttered. “And then she tried to buy me.”

“She offered him eternal marriage,” Erskine said cheerfully. “And very detailed recreational options.”

“I think she used the phrase ‘eternal companionship and recreational torment,’” Ghastly said thoughtfully.

“None of which I agreed to,” Skulduggery said quickly. “I escaped through a window.”

“I’ve never seen him run so fast in formalwear,” Erskine said wistfully. “The cravat caught fire mid-sprint. It was beautiful.”

“It was custom-tailored,” Skulduggery said mournfully. “I still grieve.”

“She called after him,” Ghastly said, mimicking her accent, “‘Come back, my lovely little bone daddy!’”

“Oh, I hate that sentence.” Valkyrie gagged.

“She purred,” Skulduggery said flatly. “At me.”

“You screamed,” Erskine said. “In your polite voice.”

“It was a dignified exit.”

“You leapt out a stained-glass window.” Ghastly pointed out.

“Elegantly.”

Valkyrie stared at all three of them, slowly lowering her towel like it might protect her from the memory. “I have so many questions.”

Ghastly shook his head. “No, you don’t.”

“Do you want to hear about the cursed wardrobe in Prague?” Skulduggery asked.

“No,” Valkyrie said immediately.

“I got stuck in a drawer for six hours.”

“I said no.”

There was a pause.

Valkyrie sighed, slumping onto the couch, towel still draped over her shoulders. “Tell me anyway.”

Erskine clapped his hands. “Right, so. Picture this. Prague. A masquerade ball. A haunted armoire possessed by the ghost of an interior designer—”

“Not proven,” Ghastly said. “We still don’t know who was controlling it.”

“Skulduggery gets folded into a drawer; I get possessed by sentient cufflinks—”

“They bit him,” Ghastly muttered.

“—and Ghastly ends up fencing a cursed mannequin that only speaks Latin.”

Valkyrie stared at them, horrified. “What is wrong with all of you?”

The room was silent for a long, thoughtful pause.

“We’re the Dead Men,” Skulduggery said.

Ghastly sipped his tea. “It’s a condition.”

Erskine winked. “You’ll catch it eventually.”

Valkyrie groaned into her towel, hiding a smile.

And in that warm, chaotic little shop, it felt like home.