Читать книгу Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 7 – 9: The Darquesse Trilogy - Derek Landy - Страница 32

lastic containers full of body parts threatened to nudge Scapegrace’s jar over the edge of the table. They were stacked six high and still Thrasher was bringing them in through Nye’s secret entrance. Scapegrace wouldn’t have thought that a human body would have so many little pieces to collect, but apparently it had – unless Thrasher had accidentally scooped up a load of pebbles when he’d collected the White Cleaver’s remains. Which, knowing Thrasher, wasn’t exactly unlikely.

Through the liquid all around him, Scapegrace heard the idiot’s slow, plodding footsteps, back with another few containers. Nye was going to have some job putting all this back together. Still, if there was one creature who’d probably appreciate a new hobby like that, it was Doctor Nye. And then suddenly Scapegrace was sliding over the edge of the table.

“Hey!” he screamed. “Stop!”

The jar started to topple, the liquid tilting him upside down, and then Thrasher was there, diving to catch him.

“Oh, Master!” the idiot wailed, clutching the jar to his bosom. “I’m so sorry! Are you OK? Oh, Master, please speak to me! Please say something!”

“I will,” Scapegrace growled, “as soon as you shut up.”

Thrasher was practically weeping with joy. “Oh, thank heavens. Oh, thank heavens.”

“Find somewhere else to put me,” Scapegrace said, “as far away from you as possible.”

Thrasher looked around, eventually deciding on a room in the back of the Medical Bay. There was an area that was curtained off, but beside that was a table. He put the jar there, and then plodded off, probably to cry. Scapegrace bobbed around a bit before coming to a stop. The curtain wasn’t pulled over all the way, and he could see a patient lying on a bed, his midsection wrapped in bandages and soaked in mud. He was wearing sunglasses indoors. Even before he turned his head Scapegrace knew who he was.

Billy-Ray Sanguine looked at him without expression, so Scapegrace returned the favour. He wasn’t going to be intimidated by the man who’d killed him. He was beyond that now. He’d changed. Grown. He was the Zombie King, and who was Sanguine? Just some annoying American with a stubble-covered jawline and good muscle tone. So what? At least Scapegrace had eyes, and one of them even worked.

He looked right at Sanguine and Sanguine looked right at him. Neither man looked away. It was a matter of pride now. It had become something more than a mere staring contest. Now it was about dominance. It was about superiority. It was about strength. And Scapegrace was damned if he was going to be the one to look away first. Although he did feel that wearing sunglasses was technically cheating.

Moving slowly, Sanguine sat up. Pressing an arm to his bandages, he got off the bed. He groaned slightly with the effort, pulled the curtain open wider, and walked the few paces to the table. Scapegrace’s mind churned with possible insults and comebacks. The first words out of Sanguine’s mouth were going to be nasty, he knew that much.

Sanguine leaned down and they looked at each other, face to face. Then Sanguine tapped the glass with his finger. “Ugly little critter, ain’t ya?”

“Takes one to know one,” Scapegrace retorted triumphantly, and Sanguine screamed and leaped back, hit the bed and fell backwards over it, collapsing into a heap on the other side.

Scapegrace stared.

Nye and Thrasher rushed in and immediately went to Sanguine’s aid. They picked him up and laid him back on the bed. He was obviously in a great deal of pain.

“What happened?” Nye asked, checking the bandages. “I told you no movement.”

Sanguine pointed. “You got a head in a jar.”

“So?”

“It spoke to me!”

“What did you think it was going to do, shake your hand? You could have pulled your stitches. You must remain still while you heal. I explained this to you.”

Sanguine grabbed Nye’s coat, pulled the creature in close. “Why,” he said through gritted teeth, “is there a goddamn head in a jar talkin’ to me?”

“You talked to me first,” Scapegrace pointed out.

Sanguine lay back. “Somebody shut it up. It’s freakin’ me out.”

“It’s your own fault,” Scapegrace said.

“On principle alone, I refuse to have a conversation with a decapitated head.”

“You’re the one who killed me!”

Sanguine looked around. “I make it a point of rememberin’ who and how I killed, and I ain’t never chopped someone’s head off.”

“My head was on when you killed me. I am Vaurien Scapegrace.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“You murdered me and your father turned me into the walking dead!”

Sanguine frowned. “Hey, I remember you now. You’re that guy...”

“Yes.”

“The idiot.”

“What? No.”

“You’re the moron who pretended he was an assassin, and then you lost control of your own zombies.”

“I didn’t lose control of them,” Scapegrace said. “They lost control of me.”

Thrasher stepped forward. “He’s the Zombie King now.”

“Good God,” Sanguine said. “It’s another one. How many of these things do you have here?”

“Two too many,” Nye said absently.

“Well, at least this one has his head on. But how do you stand the smell?”

Nye pressed its fingers against Sanguine’s stomach. “I don’t have a nose. Does this hurt?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

“Why is he here?” Scapegrace asked. “The last I heard, this man was wanted for a variety of crimes. At the very least he killed me.”

Nye looked up. “You and I have a deal, zombie. You give me what I want, and I give you what you want. I have the same sort of deal with Mr Sanguine here. I expect discretion from all my patients.”

“I think we should flush him down the toilet,” Sanguine said.

“Don’t you dare!” Thrasher screeched, jumping in front of the jar so that now all Scapegrace could see was the way the back of his trousers sagged.

“Oh, God,” Sanguine said, disgust in his voice. “Is that his intestine? It is, ain’t it? Look at it swingin’ there. For God’s sake, man, put it away. That’s disgustin’.”

Scapegrace closed his eyes in embarrassment.

“I am who I am,” Thrasher proclaimed proudly.

“Hey, you go fly your freak flag high, but you just tuck that little bit of yourself back in so you don’t scar no minds. Have some dignity.”

Thrasher turned away dramatically, hands on his hips, and his little piece of shrivelled intestine slapped against Scapegrace’s jar. “You don’t tell me what to do. Only Master Scapegrace, the Zombie King, can order me around.”

“Put it away, Thrasher,” Scapegrace said.

Thrasher blinked down at him. “Sir?”

“Tuck it in, you idiot.”

Thrasher’s lower lip quivered, and he rushed out of the room. Scapegrace sighed, and looked at Sanguine and Nye as the doctor finished its inspection.

“You’re lucky,” it said. “But if you move off this bed again, I’ll snip every last one of your stitches myself.”

It walked to the door, and Sanguine frowned after it. “Hey, you just gonna leave this head talkin’ to me? Hey, Nye, at least turn it so that it’s lookin’ the other way or somethin’!”

But Nye was already gone. Sanguine glowered, and lay back.

Minutes ticked by. Finally, he looked over. “So what happened?”

“What happened when?”

“I mean how’d you lose your head?”

“I didn’t lose my head,” said Scapegrace. “I lost my body.”

“How’d you lose your body, then?”

“The White Cleaver cut it off.”

Sanguine nodded, and it went quiet again. Then he said, “Wanna play I spy?”

Scapegrace would have shrugged if he’d had shoulders. “Sure,” he said.