“And now you have a job that is worthy of me?” it asked.
“Of course,” said Scapegrace. “I’m a zombie head in a jar. I’m unique. I’m a challenge.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“I want you to attach me to a new body, Doctor. I want to live again.”
Nye laughed, and straightened, immediately towering out of Scapegrace’s view. “I think not,” it said, and turned to walk away.
“I can pay you,” Scapegrace said.
Nye hesitated. Scapegrace could see its long fingers, contorting like a huge spider. Nye swung its head back, its small eyes magnified as it peered in.
“How much?”
“I won’t be paying you in money, Doctor. I’ll be paying you in something far more valuable.”
“I am not a patient creature, zombie-head. Tell me what you have or—”
“The White Cleaver,” said Scapegrace. “I have the White Cleaver.”
Nye observed him through the glass. “The White Cleaver is destroyed. Lord Vile tore him apart.”
“And even then, he was alive. Little bits of finger, twitching on the ground in all of the blood. His right eye was intact, and it was looking around. So I got Thrasher to pick up the pieces – every single little piece – and put them in plastic containers.”
“He is functional?”
“You just have to put him back together,” said Scapegrace. “So you can do that, and take ownership, after you’ve attached my head to a new body.”
“And mine,” Thrasher said.
“We are not sharing,” Scapegrace said quickly.
“I mean a new body of my own, Master. This one rots, and my intestines keep falling out.”
Scapegrace sighed. “Fine. You find us new bodies, Doctor Nye, and you get to keep the White Cleaver. Someone like you, with your history, I’m sure you could find a use for him.”
Nye smiled. “I’m sure I could, zombie-head. Very well. But you should know – this idea of transferring your heads to fresh bodies is ridiculous. Your heads would continue to rot, after all. Instead, I will be transplanting your brains. You will have to say goodbye to what is left of your face.”
“I barely have a face any more, Doctor. Do we have a deal?”
“Yes, zombie-head. We do. I will arrange for your idiot companion to bring me the remains through a private entrance, and once that is done, I will make you live again.”
It was a very dramatic moment, spoiled only by Thrasher saying, “Yippee.”
“Here,” he said, handing her a small box, “this is for your journey.”
Valkyrie opened it, pulled out what was inside. “A mask?”
“It should keep you warm,” Ghastly said. “Unless you’d prefer a woolly hat and earmuffs?”
She smiled. “This will do fine, thank you.”
“It’s the same material I used for your clothes, but don’t get too carried away. It’ll absorb impacts and dissipate the effects, but you’re still going to feel it and it’s still going to hurt.”
“But it’s still bulletproof, right?”
Ghastly hesitated. “Yes,” he said slowly, “it is bulletproof. Just do me a favour and don’t get shot in the head. The mask won’t let the bullet through, but the impact alone might be enough to kill you. Valkyrie, please – view this as something to keep your head warm. Nothing more.”
“Right,” she said. “Thanks.”
“There are also some gloves in there.”
“You’re the best, Ghastly.”
“Call me Elder Bespoke when we’re in public.”
She blinked, and he chuckled and walked away. “I’m so funny,” he said.
She grinned and got in the car beside Skulduggery, and they drove to the private airstrip the Sanctuary owned. Their transport was a huge cargo plane that looked like it had seen action in a world war – which one, Valkyrie couldn’t be sure. It was big and loud and cold, and they had the entire body of the thing to themselves. She put on her new gloves and tried to go to sleep against the netting, eventually falling into a fitful doze. She was woken, hours later, by Skulduggery.
“We’re here,” he said over the roar of the engines.
She sat up. It had gone from cold to freezing. Moving a little stiffly, she crossed to a porthole and looked out over the snow-capped peaks of the Alps.
“Wow,” she said. “It’s just like watching TV.”
Skulduggery shook his head. “Yet again, you manage to drain the wonder out of the most impressive of spectacles.”
Valkyrie grinned at him. “Are we close to the airport?”
“Airport?”
“Sorry, airstrip. The landing thing. Runway. Whatever.”
“Ah,” he said. “I’m afraid we won’t be landing. This is a round trip for the pilots, no rest stops in between.”
Her eyes widened. “We’re going to parachute out? Oh my God, I’ve always wanted to try that!”
“Parachutes,” Skulduggery said. “Yeah, they’d probably have been a good idea.”
She frowned. “We don’t have parachutes?”
“Why would we need them?”
“Because… we’re jumping out of a plane.”
“You jump out of your bedroom window all the time.”
She stared. “That’s a little different, Skulduggery. My bedroom window isn’t thirty thousand feet off the ground.”
“But you still use the air to slow your descent, yes? So do the same here. I don’t know what you’re so worried about.”
“I’m not worried about the jumping,” she said. “I’m worried about the falling. I’m worried about the splatting.”
He patted her shoulder. “You amuse me,” he said, and walked up to the cockpit.
Valkyrie pushed the nerves down, and found herself grinning. She took the mask from her pocket and pulled it on. It covered her whole head save for her eyes and mouth, and there was even a hole in the back for her ponytail to hang from. Like everything Ghastly made, it fitted perfectly, and it warmed her immediately.
Skulduggery came back, holding a GPS device. “Sixty seconds to our destination,” he informed her.
She put on her gloves. “What do you think? Do I look amazing?”
“You do indeed.”
“Do I look like a ninja?”