“We don’t have much choice,” Skulduggery said. “If Darquesse kills Valkyrie and absorbs her essence or her soul or her power or whatever it is she’s after, then we’re done for. We’re beaten. Twenty-three minutes of invulnerability, plus Valkyrie’s new powers and that gauntlet, may be all that stands in the way of Darquesse and the end of the world.”

“But we can’t lose you,” said Saracen.

“There’s no choice,” said Skulduggery. “Only the dead can enter the Necropolis. I don’t see a whole lot of dead people volunteering to take my place, do you?”

At that exact moment the door opened and everyone looked round as a beautiful, athletic redhead walked in, followed by a handsome, muscular man.

“I am Vaurien Scapegrace,” the woman announced, “and I’m here to save the world.”

70

RETURN OF THE LIVING DEAD

hat followed was confusing.

Valkyrie stayed out of it. She watched the arguments and the debate and said nothing. She watched people change their minds, change them back, and change them again. Gradually an unlikely outcome began to rear its head – people were agreeing that Scapegrace should have his brain put back into his old, dead, zombie body in order to go into the Necropolis and face the Guardian in battle.

It was all very unsettling.

She accompanied Skulduggery, Scapegrace and Thrasher to the Medical Wing, and Synecdoche brought them to see the two original bodies in all their zombie glory.

They floated in green liquid in a big glass tank. They looked disgusting.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Valkyrie asked. “I mean … they’re falling apart. And the way you look now is … well, it’s a lot more attractive.”

Scapegrace looked at her. “I’m a woman.”

“A woman is not a bad thing to be.”

He nodded. “I accept that. I understand that. I have had my horizons broadened by my time in this body. Not broadened as much as some of my pub’s patrons would have liked, but broadened nonetheless. But we belong in those decaying shells, Valkyrie, if it’s at all possible to get us back into them.” He turned to Synecdoche. “Give it to us straight, Doc – our brains may not survive the transplant, right?”

Synecdoche hesitated. “They … they won’t survive. There is no maybe here. If we attempt it, your brains will fall apart. They’re only held together by twine as it is.”

Scapegrace frowned. “Twine?”

“Yes.”

“Our brains are held together with string?”

“I’m afraid so.”

He stared at her, and shook his head. “I hate Doctor Nye so much right now …”

“So what’s the point of doing this if our brains are going to fall apart?” Thrasher asked.

“I’ve spoken with my colleagues,” said Synecdoche, “and we’ve come to the conclusion that we don’t need to transplant your brains. We just need to transplant your minds.”