Armageddon Outta Here - The World of Skulduggery Pleasant Read Online Free PDF Page A

black leather and hooks. Gordon had met him only once before, and had come away thinking of him as a thoroughly decent person. It was occasionally true to say that the writers of the most disturbing horror stories were among the nicest people you could possibly meet.
    There were exceptions, of course. For instance, the gentleman Sykes was chatting to, Edgar Looms, another American, was a man of singular vulgarity. Gordon had first met him ten years earlier, just after Gordon’s first book was published, and since then he had developed quite an abhorrence of the man. Tonight Looms was one of many who had come dressed as Frankenstein’s monster – from the James Whale movie, not the book.
    For his first time here, Gordon himself had come as the Creature from the Black Lagoon – a costume he’d had specially created at no little cost. It was worth it, though, even if the flippers made it difficult to walk and the mask made it difficult to see, hear or breathe. It also made it difficult to be heard, which may have explained why his companion hadn’t responded to his politician line.
    Gordon leaned in closer, careful not to topple over in his costume, and said, quite loudly and clearly, “Invitations to these parties are rarer than an honest coin in a politician’s pocket.”
    His companion, dressed as he was in a 1930s suit and tie, his head covered in bandages exactly like Claude Rains from
The Invisible Man
, turned slightly, so that Gordon could see his own costume’s reflection in those sunglasses.
    “Are you having a stroke?” Skulduggery Pleasant asked. “You keep repeating the same phrase. Is it hot in there? It looks hot.”
    “It is,” Gordon admitted. “But I’m not having a stroke. I’m too young. I’m only thirty-five, for God’s sake. Though I may start hallucinating, and thirst will likely become an issue before too long.”
    “How do you take the mask off?”
    “I’m not entirely sure. It took two people to get me into this thing. They probably told me how to take it off, but the mask makes it hard to hear properly.”
    Skulduggery said something.
    Gordon leaned in again. “What?”
    “I said what about toilet breaks?”
    “I hadn’t thought of that. Can you see a zip anywhere?”
    “It looks rather seamless.”
    “Damn it. And now I want to pee. I didn’t before you brought it up, but now I can feel how full my bladder is. Oh dear God. If I wet myself in front of all these writers, they’ll never let me live it down.”
    Skulduggery nodded. “Writers are small-minded like that.”
    A waiter came over. Gordon went to wave him away, but his huge flipper hand caught the edge of the serving tray and sent glasses of champagne flying. Even before they’d crashed to the ground, Gordon was spinning on his heels and lurching awkwardly away.
    Skulduggery fell easily into pace beside him. “It’s hard to look innocent when you’re the Creature from the Black Lagoon.”
    “I suppose that’s the one advantage of this mask,” Gordon responded. “Nobody knows who I am.”
    “Gordon Edgley!”
    Gordon had to turn his whole body to look round at whoever had called his name. She came out of the crowd like a bespoiled vision in mint green – 1960s skirt and sweater, her blonde hair tied up, scratches all over her face, and attached to her jacket half a dozen plastic birds.
    “Tippi Hedren,” Gordon said at once, smiling even though she couldn’t see it.
    “What gave it away?” Susan said, standing on tiptoes to kiss both cheeks of his mask. “It was either this or Grace Jones from
Vamp
, which would have raised a lot more eyebrows, believe me. Who’s your friend?”
    Susan was a typical upstate New Yorker – talking a mile a minute.
    “This is my associate, Mr Pleasant,” Gordon said. “Mr Pleasant, may I introduce Susan DeWick, author of the
Chronicles of the Dead
series.”
    “Mr Pleasant,” Susan said, shaking Skulduggery’s gloved hand. “How delightfully formal we suddenly