The Dying of the Light. Derek Landy
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But then there were other perks, too, like being part of an internationally recognised and respected team of adventurers. Although they weren’t quite as recognised and respected as Fletcher had been led to believe. Most of the sorcerers they spoke to around the world had only a passing notion of who they actually were, being more familiar, in fact, with the books they wrote than their actual real-life escapades.
Gracious O’Callahan – the short, strong one with the muscles and the T-shirts – and Donegan Bane – the tall, dapper one with the skinny jeans and the skinny ties – spent most of their time signing autographs and posing for photos while Dai Maybury stroked his beard and looked on with envy and Fletcher was ignored altogether.
The reason they’d got as far as they had in their search for the renegade sorcerers had nothing to do with the Monster Hunters at all, and everything to do with the two men who accompanied them. Dexter Vex, he of the chiselled abs and the scuffed boots, and Saracen Rue, of the winning smile and the designer suits, had a reputation that all but guaranteed straight answers to their many questions. The Dead Men were taken seriously wherever they went.
And now they were back in a small town in Ireland with a new set of targets – the Remnants. Even Gracious had looked apprehensive at the idea of taking on those sneaky little bodysnatchers. Vex and Saracen, of course, hadn’t batted an eyelid, and gradually their sense of calm had spread throughout the group, and the casual nature of the team returned. Unfortunately.
“I remember my first girlfriend,” said Gracious as they prowled the town’s quiet back streets.
“Stephanie is not my first,” Fletcher responded.
Gracious ignored him. “A farmer’s daughter, she was, though back then nearly every girl was a farmer’s daughter. Or a farmer. She had hair as long as rope, and a nose. All her eyes were blue and she had a smile like a radiant hole in the ground, with teeth. God, she was beautiful.”
“She sounds terrifying,” said Donegan.
“Hush, you. I will hear no bad word spoken of your sister.”
“Stephanie is not my first,” Fletcher repeated. “I really don’t need any advice.”
“Lads,” said Gracious, “any words of wisdom for Fletcher here?”
The others closed in.
“Honesty is, honestly, the best policy,” said Saracen. “But when honesty doesn’t work, lie, and lie convincingly.”
“Treat her right and with respect,” said Vex from up ahead. “Even when it ends, you want to remain friends.”
Donegan pondered. “My advice would be to go for someone better than you are. Stops you from getting complacent.”
“Grow a beard,” said Dai.
Fletcher frowned back at him. “Sorry?”
“A beard,” Dai said. “Women love beards. Grow one like mine. Mine is a manly beard.”
“I suppose it is kind of … manly.”
“I’ve had it since I was twelve.”
“You must have been a very hairy child.”
“The hairiest.”
“Hold on a second,” said Donegan, waving around a forked branch. “My divining rod is picking up something.”
“It’s not a divining rod,” Saracen said. “It’s a twig. You broke it off a tree.”
“It does work, though,” Gracious said. “It’s not one hundred percent accurate, it doesn’t lead you straight to the source of magic, but it gets you into the general area.”
“This way.” Donegan led them down a narrow alley. “Something’s close. Very close.”
“How sure are you?” Vex asked.
“Pretty sure,” Donegan called back. “This isn’t an exact science.”
“It’s not even remotely a science,” said Saracen.
“Aha!” Gracious said, picking up speed and passing Donegan. He pointed to two chocolate bar wrappers as they skipped along on the breeze.
“I’m missing something,” said Fletcher.
“One of the strongest urges a Remnant has once it takes a new host is to sate its appetites,” Vex told him. “It needs sensation. It needs to experience pleasure or pain. Food is an instant source of pleasure.”
“So all these sweet wrappers …”
“Classic signs of a Remnant possession. Look. More.”
They followed the trail to a loose pile of wrappers beneath an open window. Fletcher peered in. A small office with a single desk and cheap trophies on a shelf.
“A dojo,” said Saracen.
Fletcher looked back. “What?”
“A martial arts school. Looks like our Remnant might be an instructor.”
They walked round the corner to the street entrance. It was an unimpressive building with a cheap sign showing a badly-drawn man executing a flying kick. Fletcher followed the others inside. They passed a framed photograph of a man with a ponytail in a black karate uniform. The name under it was Noonan.
They pushed through another set of doors, entered the hall. Parents sat at one end while their kids stood to attention in the main space. The uniforms they wore were black and red. Only the man in charge, the one called Noonan, had a black belt around his waist.
A teenaged student hurried to the top of the class and faced him. The student settled into a fighting stance, and at Noonan’s nod he stepped in with a right punch. Noonan moved, blocking with a quick exhalation, and then he pivoted, shouting out a “Ki-yah!” as his fist sank into the student’s side. The student dropped to his knees, wheezing.
Noonan swung round to address the students and their parents. “A basic defence against a straight punch!” he announced. “Now I will demonstrate a defence against a knife attack!”
He gestured to another student, and Fletcher saw the trepidation in the girl’s eyes as she picked up a rubber training knife and approached the mat. Noonan said a few words to her, the student nodded, and Noonan readied himself.
A curt nod to the student, who stepped in with a wild slash. Noonan dodged back and kicked, his foot connecting with the student’s wrist. The knife went flying, and Noonan continued the technique with a series of whirling kicks that sent the student slamming back into the wall.
“Is this guy always so rough?” Saracen whispered to a parent.
The parent glowered. “Every time. He’s a bully and a thug.”
“Questions?” Noonan said loudly. “No? No one? Our system speaks for itself, doesn’t it?” He laughed. There were a few uneasy chuckles from his students. “But anyone can do it, regardless of age or fitness level. I can teach any student to defend themselves and their loved ones. Would one of the parents like to volunteer for a demonstration? No? Are you a little nervous of being shown up in front of your kids?” He laughed again.
Vex walked forward.
“A volunteer!” Noonan said. “Give this brave soul a round of applause, ladies and gentlemen!”
Everyone clapped. Fletcher joined in.
“I’m just going to demonstrate some simple defences against a right punch,” Noonan told him. “I’ll go easy on you, don’t worry! Just take your shoes off and – no, just remove your shoes. Take your shoes off when you’re on the mat. Take them—”
Vex strolled across the mat, his boots still on. Noonan’s smile became a little strained.
“OK then,” he said. “Shoes staying on, are they? Well, seeing