Читать книгу Last Stand of Dead Men - Derek Landy - Страница 12

t wasn’t easy, being a woman in a man’s world.

It was even less easy to be a man in a woman in a man’s world. And who says it’s a man’s world anyway? Such outdated notions of sexism had no place in the mind of Vaurien Scapegrace. Not any more. Not since the … mistake.

Once he had been the Killer Supreme. Then the Zombie King. Then a head in a jar. That was probably the low point. But he’d been given a chance, an opportunity to turn it all around. He’d been shown a body, a perfect physical specimen, and he knew that this empty vessel would be the ideal place for his transplanted brain to rest. He could live again. He would live again. He would be a living, breathing man once more. No rotting flesh for him. No decomposition. No ridicule. He would have respect. Finally, he would have respect.

Instead, his brain got put into the body of a woman, and his idiot zombie sidekick got the body of the tall, handsome man with all those muscles.

Life had sucked when Scapegrace was alive. Then death sucked. And now life was sucking all over again.

Living in a new body was hard, but living in a woman’s body was even harder. Every time he spoke, he heard a voice that wasn’t his, and for the first few weeks he kept looking round to check if there were someone else in the room. He didn’t even know how to walk without looking stupid. And then there was the whole trauma of looking into the mirror and seeing a face that was not his own.

It was a pretty face, he wasn’t denying that. The woman had been very attractive. Early twenties, with auburn hair and green eyes. Six feet tall and in excellent physical condition. If Scapegrace had met her in other circumstances, he liked to think he would have swept her off her feet. Or he’d have considered it, at the very least. She would probably have laughed at him if he’d tried. Women this attractive usually did.

He frowned. Where was he going with this train of thought? He had no idea.

He looked at his reflection as he frowned. The woman even looked good when she did that. Or rather, he did. He even looked good when he did that. It was all very confusing.

“Are you looking at your reflection in that blade?”

Scapegrace whirled, the sword held out in front of him. The old man who had spoken stood there with his hands pressed together like he was praying. Grandmaster Ping was the kind of old that you just didn’t see a whole lot of any more. He was a small Chinese man with a grey wispy beard that sprouted from his chin like a trail of hairy smoke. His skin was like parchment paper that had been crumpled up, tossed in a bin, then taken out and half-heartedly flattened. It was full of wrinkles, basically. Ping was dressed in what he called the traditional robes of his ancestors, but Scapegrace was fairly certain that the bathrobe was new.

“You must be ready at all times,” Ping said in that heavy Chinese accent. “How can you see your enemies clearly when you cannot even take your eyes off yourself?”

Scapegrace didn’t answer. He was pretty sure that was a rhetorical question.

Ping’s hands moved like flowing water, and he stepped back into a deep fighting stance. “Come,” he said. “Attack me.”

“But you don’t have a sword,” Scapegrace said.

Ping smiled. “That does not mean I am unarmed.”

Scapegrace let out a yell and ran forward, slashing his sword at the air, and then he leaped, spun, landed and twisted his ankle. He cried out, dropped the sword as he stumbled to one knee in front of Ping, who looked down at him and punched him on the nose.

“Ow!” Scapegrace yelled.

Ping brought his hands together again, and he bowed. “Ask yourself, my student, how did I beat you?”

“You hit my nose!”

“Exactly. If you can hit your opponent’s nose more than he can hit yours, you too will taste victory.”

“I’m bleeding!”

“You might need a tissue.”

Thrasher came forward, a box of tissues in his big, stupid, masculine hands. Scapegrace yanked a handful free and held them to his face as he glared at Ping. “When will I be ready?”

“Soon, my student.”

“You keep saying that. How soon is soon?”

“Soon is when the moment passes,” Ping answered.

Scapegrace was certain that made no actual sense, but he knew better than to press it. Thrasher helped him to his feet. The idiot’s new body was all muscle and chiselled jawline – a chiselled jawline that should have been Scapegrace’s own.

“You seem frustrated,” Ping said.

“Of course I’m frustrated,” said Scapegrace. “I have one way of gaining the respect of the people who have mocked me all my life – to become the greatest warrior the world has ever seen. You were supposed to teach me the deadly arts, but all you do is hit me when I fall down.”

“I see,” said Ping. “You do not think you are learning, is that it? Tell me something, my student. Have you ever seen The Karate Kid? The original, starring Ralph Macchio, not the remake, starring the son of Will Smith. Have you seen it?”

“Of course.”

“In that movie, Daniel-san does not believe he is learning, either, does he? And yet Mr Miyagi is teaching him without him even being aware of it. That is sort of what I am doing.”

“So what am I learning?”

“When the time comes, you will know.”

Scapegrace narrowed his eyes. “In that movie, Mr Miyagi has Daniel doing all these mundane tasks like painting the fence and waxing the car, then later Daniel does the same moves and finds out it’s karate. You have me doing all of these fighting moves … if I find out later that what you’re actually doing is teaching me how to paint fences and wax cars, I’m not paying you, you understand?”

Ping chortled. “Very funny, you are, Miss Scapegrace.”

“Mr!” Scapegrace roared. “I am a man!”

“Of course,” Ping said, bowing. “Of course you are. Our lessons begin again in the morning.” And with that, he stepped backwards into the shadows, and silence settled like autumn leaves falling from the trees.

Thrasher peered closer. “Are you still there?”

From the shadows, the aforementioned silence. Then, “No.”

“You are,” said Thrasher. “I can see you.”

Scapegrace could see Ping, too, but he didn’t say anything as the wise old grandmaster shuffled sideways until he reached the doorway, then went down on his hands and knees and crawled out. A few seconds later, the back door opened and closed. Thrasher murmured something.

Scapegrace glared. “What? What did you say?”

Thrasher sighed. “I just don’t see why you have to become a warrior, Master. Why put yourself in harm’s way? We have healthy new bodies and new lives to live and, OK, your body might not be ideal, but who cares about what we look like? It’s who we are inside that counts.”

“Tell me something – when Nye was putting your brain in that head, are you sure he didn’t drop any on the floor?”

“Oh, Master, please don’t be mean.”

“Don’t be mean? Don’t be mean? You’re an idiot! My new body isn’t ‘ideal’? It’s not even the same gender as my old one! Do you know what it’s like to be one gender trapped in another gender’s body?”

“I … I might,” said Thrasher.

“You have no idea! Look at you! You’re an Adonis! You walk down the street and people stare in admiration! But when I walk down the street …”

“Well, maybe if you started wearing underwear …”

“Underwear?” Scapegrace screeched. “Underwear? You think that’s the solution? Everything I wear is either too tight or too loose! I have pains in my back, did you know that? Do you know how hard it is to even stand upright in this body? How do women do it?”

Thrasher cleared his throat. “Well, sir, not all women are as … physically impressive as you are.”

Scapegrace narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you be getting any ideas.”

“Sir?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

Thrasher looked horrified. “Master, no! I assure you, I do not find your present body to be attractive in the slightest!”

“Oh, really? You think you could do better?” Scapegrace sagged, turned away. “What am I saying? Of course you could do better. Look at you. You could have any woman you want.”

“But I don’t want any woman, Master.”

“You say that now …”

“I’ll say that until the end of time, sir. I’m yours.”

Scapegrace turned slowly, looked Thrasher in the eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Uh,” said Thrasher.

“That was an odd thing to say.”

“Was it?”

“Very.”

“Oh.”

“Very odd.”

“We could ignore it, if you want.”

Scapegrace looked at him. Thrasher was acting weird. Even weirder than usual. He appeared to be blushing, for God’s sake. Scapegrace frowned. “What was I saying before?”

“Becoming a warrior, Master.”

“Yes. Soon, I will unlock the secrets of the deadly arts and I will become the greatest warrior the world has ever known.”

Thrasher looked at him. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why become a great warrior? What are you going to do afterwards?”

Scapegrace sneered. “You ask an awful lot of questions.”

“I just … I was just wondering what—”

“I don’t pay you to wonder.”

“You don’t pay me at all.”

“I am a sorcerer, Thrasher. Among the many things that separate us, that is but one. There is no magic in you, but in me? Magic seethes within me. And now that I’m no longer a zombie, I can feel it again. It is reawakening.”

“What kind of magic is it? I’ve always wanted to ask.”

“But you haven’t asked, have you? Not until right now. Why is that, I wonder? Is your new body giving you confidence, Thrasher?”

“What? No, Master!”

“Is it filling you with self-worth? With self-respect?”

“Never! I swear to you!”

“Because if I find out it is …”

Thrasher fell to his knees. “Master, I hate my new body. I do. Granted, it’s perfect in every physical way, but it’s … it’s not the body you attacked and killed on that warm September afternoon, those few short years ago. It’s not the body you bit. It’s not the body that came back, that opened its eyes and saw you, gazing at it …”

“This is getting weird again,” Scapegrace muttered.

Thrasher stood up. He was so tall and good-looking it was stupid. “Master,” he said, “we’ve been through a lot, you and I, and if I could switch bodies with you I would. I really would. Maybe then you could see me the way I see you.”

Scapegrace tried to ponder that one and quickly gave up.

“You are the only important thing in my life,” Thrasher continued, “and I … sir, I …”

“This conversation is boring me,” Scapegrace announced. “Take out the rubbish bins.”

Thrasher sagged. “Yes, Master.”

While Thrasher trudged out with the bins, Scapegrace picked up his fallen sword and returned it to its sheath. Back in olden times, a Samurai would never put his sword away until the blade had tasted blood. But that was the olden times, back when they didn’t understand things like basic hygiene. These days, Scapegrace was sure, a Samurai would much rather break this nonsensical little rule than risk a variety of unfortunate infections.

He heard a scream and, before he knew what he was doing, Scapegrace was running for the door, his sword once more in his hand.

Thrasher was struggling with something in the gloom behind the pub, his back jammed up against the wall while he tried to keep the creature at bay. It was big, as big as a Doberman but with longer hair, and it had a snout and sharp teeth and it snarled and snapped and Thrasher squealed.

“Hey!” Scapegrace shouted, because he could think of nothing else.

The creature turned its head, its eyes flashing. From this angle, the face almost looked human. Then it leaped at Scapegrace and Scapegrace slipped on fallen bits of rubbish and the creature impaled itself on the sword as he fell.

Scapegrace blinked as the creature gave a last rattling breath before it died. He pushed it off him and got to his feet.

Thrasher looked up at him. “Master!”

“What?”

“You saved me!”

“No I didn’t.”

“You rescued me!”

“It was an accident.”

“You saved my life!”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Thrasher bounded to his feet. He was so happy he looked like he was about to cry. “Master, you have no idea how much this means to me. I am a pathetic mortal, not worthy of being saved—”

“I know.”

“—and yet you saved me anyway. You risked your life, which is vastly more important than mine—”

“Vastly.”

“—and you rushed into danger, into the jaws of death … I don’t know what to say. I don’t have the words to … Oh, sir, forgive me, I may cry.”

“Well, do it somewhere else,” Scapegrace said, scowling. “What the hell is that thing anyway? Some kind of dog?”

Thrasher was too busy crying to answer.

Scapegrace pressed his foot against the creature’s body, rolled it into the light. “That’s no dog,” he said. “It looks like a monkey and a dog fell in love and had babies and this is the ugly one they didn’t want.” He crouched down. “Maybe it’s an alien. Maybe we’re being invaded by aliens.”

“Oh, I hope not, sir,” Thrasher sobbed.

“Shut up. Look at that face. It’s definitely an alien. Maybe. It’s not from here, that’s for sure.”

Thrasher sniffled. “Maybe it’s from an alternate dimension.”

“From a what?”

“An alternate dimension, Master. You know, like the one Valkyrie Cain was pulled into.”

Scapegrace stood up. “What the hell are you blubbing about?”

“Last April, sir, when we were waiting for these bodies, there was all this drama going on with Valkyrie being in a parallel dimension and this gentleman called Argeddion running around and … you missed all of this?”

“I was a head in a jar,” Scapegrace said. “I had other things on my mind.”

“Yes, sir, of course. But maybe this creature is from an alternate dimension just like that one. Maybe someone shunted back and brought that with them accidentally.”

“Shunted?”

“That’s what they call it, sir. The Shunter who caused all the trouble for Valkyrie was a man called Silas Nadir.”

“Nadir,” Scapegrace said. “Where have I heard that name before?”

“From what I gathered, he is a rather notorious serial killer, sir.”

Scapegrace’s eyes widened. “A serial killer? Where is he now? Did they catch him?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. He escaped the cells and—”

“He was in the Sanctuary?” Scapegrace interrupted. “So he escaped the cells, disappeared, and a few months later there’s a … thingy …”

“Shunter.”

“… Shunter, active in Roarhaven?”

Thrasher paled. “Oh, sir. You don’t … you don’t think he’s still here, do you?”

Scapegrace turned away from him, eyes on the street. “I know the criminal mind, Thrasher. I know the mind of a murderer. Once upon a time, I was the Killer Supreme. I was the Zombie King. But I have changed my ways since then. I will now channel my inner darkness into fighting evil, not being evil, in an epic tale of redemption and quiet dignity. And if there is one thing I know, if there is one thing of which I am certain, it is that Silas Nadir has never left Roarhaven, and this town needs a protector. Which makes it two things I know.”

“Should we call Skulduggery?”

“No. We should call me.”

“You?”

“This town cries out for a hero.”

“You?”

“Let Pleasant and Cain save them from obvious threats. Let them stand in the spotlight. I will stand in the shadows. I will fight in darkness.”

“You’ll need a torch, sir,” said Thrasher, rushing over to stand beside him. “Please – let me hold that torch.”

“You can be my sidekick.”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“I will be this town’s champion, its unsung hero, its Dark and Stormy Knight.”

“Yes, sir!” Thrasher squealed, clapping his hands.

Scapegrace narrowed his eyes. He could practically smell the evil. “We’ll need masks.”