There was a tall man in a black robe waiting for them. His face looked like a living porcelain mask.

“You are not who I was expecting,” the Guardian said.

“Skulduggery couldn’t make it,” Scapegrace. “He sent me in his place.”

“And me,” said Thrasher.

“He didn’t send him,” Scapegrace clarified. “But I am here to face the final test. Will you battle me?”

“And me,” said Thrasher.

“I cannot,” said the Guardian. “You are brave, the both of you, for coming here. But he who begins the trials must end the trials.”

“He told me not to take no for an answer,” Scapegrace said.

The Guardian gave a little smile. “You must be a great hero for him to pass this responsibility on to you.”

“I’m no hero,” said Scapegrace. “I’m just a man, who used to be a woman, who used to be a man. My name is Vaurien Scapegrace, and I have come here to—”

“The Zombie King?”

Scapegrace froze. Finally, he said, “Uh … you’ve heard of me?”

“This is the Necropolis,” said the Guardian, “the City of the Dead. Of course I have heard of you. There hasn’t been a Zombie King in centuries. It is an honour to have you here.”

Scapegrace waited for the punchline.

Thrasher nudged him, and whispered, “I think he’s serious.”

“If the skeleton has asked you to come here in his place,” the Guardian said, “then it would be a privilege to engage you in combat.”

Scapegrace blinked. “So … so we can fight?”

“The both of us?” Thrasher asked. “Against you?”

The Guardian bowed. “If that is what you wish. Please, choose your weapons.”

A pillar rose up, rumbling, from the ground. Hanging from it were swords and knives and maces and spears. Scapegrace looked at the Guardian, standing there with a peaceful expression on his porcelain face, unarmed and courteous, and he chose a curved, gleaming sword. Thrasher chose two smaller swords. The pillar rumbled again, and sank into the ground.

Brandishing his weapon, Scapegrace stepped towards the Guardian. “Shall we begin?”

“By all means,” the Guardian said, and the biggest sword Scapegrace had ever seen materialised in his hands.

“Oh,” Thrasher muttered. “Oh, dear.”

73

The radio has been on for the last hour. Eighties pop. Gant has probably had enough of listening to Jeremiah. Now ‘Don’t You Want Me’ by the Human League plays. Danny listens to it in the darkness over the Cadillac’s engine. His mom loved eighties pop. The Human League, Duran Duran, Erasure. His dad preferred seventies rock. Led Zeppelin, Rush, Sabbath. They both had an appreciation for music, though, which is probably where Danny gets it from.