LITMIR.BIZ

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href="#fb3_img_img_9f33762d-012b-50b0-b1cf-3575681a274d.jpg" alt=""/> demand a body!” the zombie head yelled from his jar of gross liquid. Sanguine had to resist the urge to throw a pillow at him. He’d already done that once, and had succeeded in toppling the jar on the table. The head had shrieked and rolled off on to the floor, and Sanguine had laughed so much he’d popped some stitches.

      “I demand a body!”

      “Would you please shut up?” Sanguine said. “If someone other than Nye hears you, we’re both sunk.”

      Scapegrace ignored him. “Doctor Nye! Doctor Nye, I demand a body!”

      Nye swept in, ducking its head to fit through the door. It had to bend its knees and spine in order to peer into the jar. “You,” it breathed through its surgical mask, “are shouting again.”

      “Where is my body, Doctor Nye? We had a deal.”

      “I remember,” the doctor said. “Do you think I would forget? Or perhaps you think I would cheat you now that I have the remains of the White Cleaver?”

      “Oh, I know you wouldn’t.” Scapegrace was trying to glare into the doctor’s small yellow eyes, but his head was lopsided in the jar and so he ended up glaring at Nye’s elbow. “Because until you find me a new body, you’re not getting the White Cleaver’s brain.”

      “The brain?”

      Scapegrace chuckled. “You didn’t think I’d hand over everything, did you? I told Thrasher to collect the pieces of brain into one single container, and then to keep that container back – just to ensure your honesty.”

      “And when I have fulfilled my end of the bargain...?”

      “We’ll hand over the final container. So you see, Doctor Nye, you’re not dealing with some amateur here. I am the Zombie King. I am the Killer Supreme. And you will drop everything right this second and go find me another body or you will never see that—”

      Nye took a plastic container from its pocket, and placed it on the table in front of the jar. It was filled with what looked like pieces of brain.

      Scapegrace blew a bubble as he whimpered.

      “Your friend Thrasher,” Nye said, “is every bit as much of an idiot as you make him out to be.”

      “I’m going to kill him,” Scapegrace said.

      Nye flicked the jar with one long, bony finger. “Have patience, zombie. When I find a suitable body, work will begin. Do not presume to threaten me again.”

      Taking the container, it ducked back out through the door, and Scapegrace’s head slipped a little further askew.

      “Smooth,” Sanguine said.

      “Shut up.”

       “Are you ignorin’ me now? Is that what you’re doin’? Givin’ me the silent treatment? Oh, no, the decapitated zombie isn’t speakin’ to me – whatever will I do? How will I cope? The shame, the shame, to be shunned by a head.”

      Scapegrace murmured something.

      “Sorry? What was that?”

      “I said at least I have eyes!”

      Sanguine laughed, and Tanith walked in.

      “You two seem to be having fun,” she said, picking up a towel and covering the jar with it. She ignored Scapegrace’s cries and sat on the edge of Sanguine’s bed. “How are you feeling?”

      Sanguine gave her the grin. “You actually sound like you care.”

      “Of course I care, honey-bunny,” she said, squeezing his hand. “But if you could possibly manage to heal a little faster, that would be super-fantastic.”

      “It’s gettin’ worse out there, is it?”

      She sighed. “This place is crawling with sorcerers. It’s not safe for people like us. I keep expecting Skulduggery to come walking through that door or for Ghastly to call my name...”

      “You give me the word, darlin’, and I’ll take care of that scarred freak in a heartbeat.”

      Tanith smiled, and tapped Sanguine’s chest. “You leave Ghastly alone. He is not to be harmed, you hear me? Don’t be mean.”

      “I don’t know, Tanith. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you still had a soft spot for that guy.”

      She leaned in and kissed him. “What’s all this? Are you getting jealous again?”

      Sanguine was about to answer when he saw movement over Tanith’s shoulder. He stiffened and she turned as Madame Mist entered the room.

      Sanguine didn’t even have time to sit up before Tanith ran at her, sword out. Mist raised her arm and a torrent of tiny spiders shot out from her voluminous sleeve, catching Tanith full in the face. She stumbled to her knees, spitting and gagging, gradually lost under the growing mound. There were thousands of them. Tens of thousands. More. And then Mist’s arm fell back to her side. Sanguine caught a glimpse of the black veins that spread beneath Tanith’s skin, and she snarled and leaped from the mountain of spiders. Mist caught her, a slender hand closing round Tanith’s throat as she swung her overhead and slammed her to the ground. The sword fell and Mist picked her up like she was picking up a doll and flung her to the other side of the room. Tanith crashed through a set of curtains, bringing the whole frame down with her, and landed somewhere behind the bed, tangled and cursing.

      The spiders returned to their mistress, forming lines that flowed beneath the hem of Madame Mist’s long black dress.

      Nye swept in, looking like a giant spider itself. “What seems to be the problem?” it rasped.

      Sanguine waited for Mist to alert the Cleavers or call for help or something, but all she did was stand there, very still, and Sanguine realised Nye had been addressing him.

      “She’s an Elder,” he explained, feeling like there was a huge part of this situation that he hadn’t been filled in on.

      “Madame Mist is my patron,” said Nye. “We have nothing to hide. The debt you owe to me for healing you is now owed to her.”

      Sanguine took a moment to figure it all out. “Right,” he said. “OK. In that case, Tanith, it might be better if you didn’t kill her.”

      Nye looked up to where Tanith crouched, upside down on the ceiling directly above Mist’s head, a scalpel in either hand. She still wore the black lips and black veins of the Remnant inside her. Mist, to her credit, didn’t even glance upwards.

      Tanith jumped, flipping to the ground. Without taking her eyes off the woman in the veil, she passed the scalpels to Nye, and held out her hand to Mist. Their fingers touched, forming a bridge, and a trail of spiders trickled along Tanith’s arm and disappeared up Mist’s sleeve.

      “Is that all of them?” Tanith asked, and Mist nodded. Tanith picked her sword up off the floor, her face returning to normal.

      “So Madame Mist has a secret agenda,” she said. “Who would have guessed?”

      “The others suspect,” Mist said softly, “but they have no proof. And so we have time.”

      “Time to do what?” Sanguine asked.

      “To prepare,” said Mist. “To arrange. You owe me a favour. I want you to kill someone.”

      “We figured that much,” Tanith said. “Who?”

      “Stay close, and stay hidden, and I will tell you who your target is when the time is right.” Mist glided away so smoothly that Sanguine had visions of a carpet of spiders beneath her feet.

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