Skulduggery Pleasant

Chapter Twenty-eight Carnage

dublin City was quiet when they reached the Waxwork Museum, as if it was holding its breath.

The stars-were obscured by a veil of dark clouds, and as they left the Bentley and approached the rear entrance, the rain fell steadily. On the street beyond the museum's gates, cars splashed through puddles, and the occasional pedestrian hurried by with his head down. Skulduggery moved quickly but cautiously up to the open door, and Stephanie and Tanith followed.

Stephanie had expected to arrive in the middle of a pitched battle — she expected to hear the sounds of fighting. But the Waxworks Museum was silent. As they walked through the exhibits to the hidden door, Skulduggery slowed and eventually came to a complete stop.

"What's wrong?" Stephanie whispered.

He turned his head slowly, peering into the darkness. "I don't want to alarm anybody, but we're not alone."

That's when they came, the Hollow Men, detaching themselves from the shadows with only the faintest rasp of warning. In an instant Stephanie, Skulduggery, and Tanith were surrounded by the mindless, heartless, soulless things.

Tanith waded through them, her sword strokes deliberate and devastating, every move claiming another unlife. Skulduggery clicked his fingers and a group of Hollow Men was suddenly alight. Stephanie shrank back as they wheeled around blindly. The flames ate through their skin and ignited the putrid gas trapped inside, and with a burst of fire and heat the Hollow Men fell.

One of them avoided the flames and lunged at Stephanie. She punched it square in the face, her fist sinking into its head slightly. Its own fist swung at her and she ducked, then moved into it as she'd seen Skulduggery do. She jammed her hip into it and twisted, and the Hollow Man hit the ground. It wasn't graceful and it wasn't pretty, but it worked. While the Hollow Man was down there, she grabbed its wrist and stomped on its chest, and with a loud tear she pulled its arm off.

As the Hollow Man deflated beneath her, Stephanie realized everything had gone quiet again.

She looked up at Skulduggery and Tanith, who stood watching.

"Not bad," Tanith said, an eyebrow raised.

"That's the last of them," Skulduggery said. "Now for the main event."

The hidden door to the Sanctuary hung open like a gaping wound. A dead Cleaver lay just inside. Stephanie hesitated for a moment, then stepped over the body, and they followed the steps down.

The Sanctuary's foyer had witnessed most of the carnage. It was littered with the dead. There were no wounded here, there were no dying, there were only corpses. Some had been cut to ribbons, some were unmarked, and there were places, spread across the floor, where there was only the dust of those who had fallen before the Scepter. Stephanie tried to step without touching the remains, but they were piled so deep that this was impossible.

She passed the Administrator. His body was curled, his fingers hooked and frozen in death. His face was a mask of agony. A victim of Serpine's red right hand.

Skulduggery went to the doorway on their left and peered around, making sure the corridor was empty. Tanith passed, pressing herself against the wall and nodding to him. He moved forward, stopped, nodded back to her; and they continued like this as they stalked deeper into the Sanctuary.

No more walking straight into danger, Stephanie thought. This was the only sign they gave that they might actually be afraid.

She followed along behind. Her palms were slick with sweat and her mouth was dry. She felt as if her legs weren't going to support her for very much longer. Her thoughts went to her parents, her loving parents. If she died here, if she died tonight, would they even notice? Her reflection would carry on with its empty masquerade, and they'd gradually begin to realize that this thing, this thing they thought was their daughter — its affections 352

weren't even real. They'd realize it all was an act, but they'd still think it was her. And they'd live out the rest of their days thinking that their own daughter didn't love them.

Stephanie didn't want to put them through that. She was going to die, she knew she was. She should turn now and run, run away. This wasn't her business. This wasn't her world. It was as Ghastly had said, the first time she'd met him: Gordon had already lost his life because of this nonsense. Was she so keen to join him?

She didn't hear the footsteps, not even when he was so close he could have reached out and stroked her hair. She didn't catch a glimpse out of the corner of her eye, and she didn't notice his shadow or see a reflection, because if he didn't want to be seen, he wouldn't be seen. But as he was moving behind her, she felt his presence: She felt the air shift slightly and brush against the skin of her hands and she didn't even have to turn her head — she just knew.

She launched herself forward, and Skulduggery and Tanith looked back as she rolled and came up.

The White Cleaver stood there, silent as a ghost, deadly as a plague.

Tanith turned to see Valkyrie coming up out of a roll, and she saw the White Cleaver standing behind her.

"Valkyrie," Tanith said, keeping her voice low and steady, "get behind me."

Stephanie moved backward, and the Cleaver attempted to stop her.

"I'll hold him off," Tanith said, not taking her eyes off her adversary. "You stop Serpine."

Tanith drew her sword, and she heard Skulduggery and Stephanie hurry away. The White Cleaver reached over his shoulder and pulled out his scythe.

Tanith stepped toward him.

"I ordered you to distract the Hollow Men, didn't I?" she said. "You were one of the Cleavers assigned to us."

He didn't answer. He didn't even move.

"For what's it worth," Tanith said, "I'm sorry about what happened to you. But it was necessary.

And for what it's worth, I'm sorry for what is going to happen to you. But that's necessary too."

He started twirling his scythe, and she raised an eyebrow. "Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough."

He lunged, and she blocked and sprang at him, her sword slicing through the air. He ducked back and blocked, spinning as the scythe whistled over Tanith's head. Her sword clashed with his blade and then the handle of the scythe, and his blade clashed with her sword and then the lacquered scabbard she still held in her left hand.

She ducked under his guard, staying in close, where she had the advantage, where he couldn't maneuver the scythe.

His blocks were lightning fast but he was on the defensive, and one of her strikes would get through eventually. Her sword sliced through his side and he stumbled back, out of range.

Tanith looked at the blood on his white coat and gave him a smile. Then the blood started to darken, and a black stain moved over the red.

Her smile dropped, and the bleeding stopped altogether.

She backed away. There was a door behind her, and she waved it open as the Cleaver advanced.

The room she backed into was filled with cages, and in these cages, men and women stood and sat. She realized instantly where she was: the Sanctuary's jail. The people in these cages were the worst of the worst, criminals of such a sickening and grotesque order that they had to be held here, in the Sanctuary itself. The cages bound their powers while at the same time sustaining their bodies, keeping them healthy and nourished. It meant neither the Elders nor the Cleavers had to bring them food and water — these criminals had only themselves for company. And when the person in the cage next to each of them was as maniacal and as egotistical as they were, that was hell itself.

The Cleaver pursued her steadily down the steps, sparks flying as their blades clashed.

The prisoners watched, and for the first few moments, they were confused. The Cleavers were their jailers, yet this Cleaver wore white, and they recognized something within him, something that identified him as one of them. They started to shout and cheer as Tanith was forced back, enemies all around her.

She blocked a strike and her bruised wrist gave way. The Cleaver took full advantage, his blade passing along her belly, drawing blood. She grimaced in pain and retreated under the Cleaver's impossibly fast onslaught, barely managing to keep up her defense.

The prisoners laughed and jeered, reaching through the cage bars at her, pulling at her hair, trying to scratch her. One of them snagged her coat and she spun out of it, throwing her sword and scabbard into the air as she freed her arms from the sleeves and catching them again before the Cleaver could close the gap.

He swung, and she blocked with the scabbard and flicked up with the sword, but he was twisting the scythe, deflecting the strike and returning with one of his own.

She dodged back, lost her footing, and went into a backward roll as he brought the scythe down, the point of the blade striking the ground where she had just been.

The prisoners howled with laughter as she turned and ran to the wall, the Cleaver right behind her. She jumped to the wall and kept going till she was upside down, and she crossed the ceiling, trading strikes with the Cleaver below her. He was forced to walk backward, to defend and attack over his own head.

The Cleaver slashed and missed and she saw her chance and took it. She struck his left hand with her scabbard and his fingers opened. She dropped and flipped, landing before he could recover, and snatched the scythe from his grasp. She kicked out and he stumbled back, and she drove her sword into him.

The prisoners stopped jeering. The Cleaver took a step back.

She swung the scythe, burying the blade in his chest. He fell to his knees, black blood dripping onto the floor.

She looked down at him, felt his eyes through his visor, looking back at her. Then his weight fell onto his haunches, his shoulders sagged, and his head lolled forward.

The prisoners were muttering now, cheated out of seeing her die. Tanith gripped her sword and pulled it from the Cleaver's body, snatched up the scabbard, and ran for the steps.

She heard a crash from elsewhere in the Sanctuary — the Repository — and urgency lent her speed. Just as she neared the top step, however, one of the prisoners laughed.

She turned and, to her horror, saw the White Cleaver standing, pulling the scythe from his chest. He can't be stopped, she said to herself. Just like Serpine, he can't be stopped. She ran the last few steps to the door. Just as she reached it', the breath went out of her.

She stopped, frowning, willing her body to move, but it wouldn't listen. She looked down — at the tip of the scythe that protruded through her chest.

She turned, cursing herself, saw the Cleaver walking up the steps toward her. That was some throw. She almost laughed. Her right arm was numb, and her sword fell from her grip. He stepped up beside her and took hold of the scythe. He circled, moving her around, looking at her like he was observing her pain, remembering what it was like.

A twist of his hands and she was forced to her knees. She gasped when he removed the weapon, saw her own blood, deep red, mix with the black blood already on the blade. Her body was shutting down. She wasn't going to be able to defend herself.

He raised the scythe. Tanith looked up, ready to die, then realized that when he had circled her, he had passed through the doorway and was now standing in the corridor.

She lunged, slamming the door in his visored face. She pressed her hand against it and whispered, "Withstand." The sheen spread over the door just as the Cleaver began to pound on it from the other side.

She had failed. She had slowed him down, but she hadn't stopped him, and now Serpine had his attack dog back.

Tanith tried standing, but her body couldn't take any more. She slumped to the ground. The prisoners watched from their cages with delighted eyes, and as her blood seeped through her tunic, they started whispering.