It came through the cracks and crevices of the the building, a rotten, slinking, creeping smoke that burned sulfur red and sucked out all the light in the room. Everything was dark and confusion, and a scream rang out in the darkness. Probably Fletcher. But then Skulduggery clicked his fingers and called forth light, and the horror of the room was revealed.

Blood. That was the first thing one noticed in the room. On Finbar, and Ravel, because they were the first dead. Blood and meat and messy bits were shredded in deep claw marks in their corpses.

And then there was Grimalkin.

Imagine the smell of rotting meat and animal corpses. Bloody nails screeching down a chalkboard and a thousand dieing screams. Cold fire and burning ice. Now imagine that your eyes could experience these sensations. If you multiplied that times the biggest number you could think of, you might come close to what it was like to look at Gimalkin when he was freakin pissed off.

The firelight created a particularly fierce red glow that danced and played around in the insubstantial smoke that his mass was made of. He wasn't quite what a Faceless one looked like, not really. But there was just something not right about the planes and angles of his figure, something that suggested a creature of impossibility, similar to the old Gods.

And It came straight for Skulduggery.

Smoke rushed at him, and when it hit him it was like a physical blow, despite it's lack of substance. Skulduggery went flying and the flame went out, plunging the room back into darkness. There was the sound of a struggle, a bang and a flash as Skulduggery fired his gun, and a loud thump. Someone clicked their fingers, and light flooded back into the room. Gimalkin was a column of twisting, writhing miasma that flowed down to the floor and spread out across the room, hiding the corpses for now. He held Skulduggery pinned to the wall by one long, long limb that was much too big to come from anything that should have been able to fit in that room.

Ghastly stood slowly, flame in one hand, clutching his side with the other. He staggered, but stayed upright, and looked around. Fletcher was gone, China was down, unmoving, and Tipstaff was huddled in the corner. Clarabelle just stood in the middle of the room, checking things off her clipboard and ignoring everything else, and Ravel and Finbar were dead. Things were looking grim.

A wet muzzle with sharp teeth formed it's self out of the smoke and drifted to Skulduggery's ear, moving and whispering things Ghastly couldn't hear, and it's four black cat eyes rippled and moved, not quite in time with it's other visible appendages. Ghastly stepped forward and flexed his palm, and the air rippled and moved in a fierce wind, but although the smoke twisted and blew back in great waves, it somehow managed to conceal the shapes and limbs of Grimalkin. The Daemon turned and observed the mortal that challenged him with something approaching contempt. The limb that held Skulduggery aloft dissolved back into the mist, and he fell to the floor with a thump. He didn't get up.

Grimalkin came at him, knowing there was no escape. Creeping, drifting, he slunk along the floor until he came before Ghastly, and then all his essence gathered its self up in one towering column, his black eyes boring into him. He was a great and terrible sight to behold.

"You will burn, fool." He hissed.

Ghastly stood calm and straight. He smiled. "Not if you burn first." He thrust his hand into the cloud that was Grimalkin, and light disappeared as the flame sank into his essence. Grimalkin convulsed and twisted away, into the ceiling. He grew a human mouth to scream with, and arms that began tearing strips of burning mist away from his body, and tentacles that wriggled and whipped around wildly.

But his screams were drowned out by Ghastly's.

Where his skin had touched the Daemon's form, it burned away like acid, leaving flesh and mussels exposed, and little flashes of bone. He clutched his hand to his side and dropped to his knees, still howling in anguish. The Daemon grew out and up, the movement of the smoke that concealed him now writhing like worms. It's eyes narrowed in furry.

And then the Nye came.

It stepped into the room and there was a smile on it's torn and threaded lips, a scalpel in his hands. "Hello Beasty." He said.

The Daemon turned it"s eyes to the Nye, and they widened in surprise. It stilled. "You. Old One."

"I'm old? I'm old? How long have you been loitering around this rock? A million, two million years? And you think I'm old?"

Grimalkin narrowed his eyes. He gathered himself up and rolled and broiled in fury. "I will get you, Old One, and your little assistant, too."

"Oooooo! Wicked witch of the west. I'm scared." Grimalkin hissed and flew twords the Nye. Nye smiled and jumped-

And disappeared into rolling mist.