"Don't rub your eyes," he was saying. "It makes it worse. Just let the water do the work."

She moaned something, unable to speak. Acid burned in her belly. She wanted to throw up. Again, the water splashed. Not much, just cold drops, working to drive away the stinging. She tried pressing her face downwards, to submerge her whole head, but the hands stopped her.

"You're going to be fine," said the voice. "Try to breathe. You're going to be OK."

Slowly, gradually, she began to relax. At the voice's instruction, she stopped screwing her eyes shut, and let the water cool her eyelids. When she was finally able to open them, Hansard Kray handed her a towel and stepped back.

"Your nose is running," he said.

Valkyrie covered her face with the towel, hiding her embarrassment and drying off at the same time, then used it to blow her nose. When she looked up, Hansard was holding out a tissue.

"Oh," Valkyrie said. "Sorry."

"Never mind," said Hansard. "You can keep the towel if you want. We have lots."

He stepped out of the washroom and she followed him. The carriage they were in was long and luxurious. There was a table, a bar, and even a bed down the other end. No one else in it. She glanced out through the glass in the door, back into the carriage filled with Hollow Men.

She turned to him. "What are you doing with them?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Hollow Men. What are you doing with a train full of Hollow Men? I thought you weren't like your father."

Hansard leaned back against the bar. "Meaning what, exactly?"

"You know what," she said. "Why do you need them? What are you planning? What are you a part of?"

"I'm a part of the family business," he replied. "As for what I'm planning to do with eight carriages of Hollow Men, I'm planning on delivering them to the people who placed the order."

She frowned. Her eyes still stung. "What?"

"They're not for my use, Valkyrie. This is a freight company. Transporting things is what we do."

"Then who ordered them?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that. Confidentiality is a big part of why people choose us. From your reaction, though, I can tell you're thinking the worst. I know that Nefarian Serpine was fond of using Hollow Men, but not everyone who does has evil schemes in mind. Mostly they're used as cheap labour or security, if Rippers can't be afforded."

She looked at him, her hostility dampening. "Oh," she said.

Hansard smiled. "Not that I don't enjoy being accused of terrible plots against humanity, but may I ask what you're doing here? Aside from insulting me, of course, and damaging property that isn't mine."

"I'm sorry," Valkyrie said. "I didn't know they could be used for... other things. But they attacked me."

He shook his head. "Without specific orders, Hollow Men don't do anything on their own initiative. If they attacked you, you must have attacked them first."

She hesitated. "Maybe," she said. "Oh, God, I'm really sorry. But they're different from the other ones."

Hansard nodded. "These Hollow Men are tougher, their skins more expensive. You should see the new ones they've come out with you'd need a chainsaw to cut through them."

"I really don't like the sound of that."

"You didn't answer my question, Valkyrie."

She cleared her throat. "I'm actually here to ask you for a favour."

He laughed. "A favour? After this?"

"Yeah. I know. Sorry."

"And what's wrong with using a phone? Or calling by the office, or the house? I'm sure you'd be able to find out where I live without much trouble. Aren't you a bona fide Sanctuary Detective now? And where is your partner? Don't tell me he let you stow away on a strange train alone?"

"I didn't stow away," she said. "I just dropped in. And as for where Skulduggery is, well, if you look outside your window..."

Hansard turned, saw Skulduggery flying alongside the train in a standing position with his arms crossed.

"Now that," Hansard said, "looks like fun." He looked back at her. "You didn't want to run into my father again, did you?"

"Not really."

"You've got to remember, he was extremely drunk when you met him. He's not normally like that."

"He's not normally a worshipper of the Faceless Ones?"

"No, he is always that... He just isn't usually so mean."

"He threatened to spank me."

"I'll refrain from commenting," Hansard said, showing that smile again. "So what's the favour that you have gone to such great lengths to ask me?"

"You've heard about those ordinary people who've suddenly developed powers?"

"I have. My dad is by turns amused and horrified at the prospect. What about it?"

"We think the answer lies with a man named Tyren Lament, who hired your company thirty years ago to ship materials to an unknown destination. We need to know that destination."

Hansard exhaled. "Thirty years ago? You mean before computers were as commonplace as they are now? When every little bit of information was recorded in ledgers and on paper in dusty old cabinets? You're looking for an address in all of that?"

"Yep."

"So you obviously didn't hear me earlier when I said that confidentiality is a big part of why people choose to do business with us."

"But this was thirty years ago."

"That doesn't make it any less confidential."

"But Lament is dead. You can look it up. He's listed as missing, presumed dead."

"That's really sad."

"It really is, but he's not around any more, so why keep his secrets?"

"Keeping secrets is one of our policies."

"We really need that address, Hansard. People are dying. And the longer this goes on, the greater the chance that the mortal world will find out the biggest secret of all."

He smiled. "Nicely done."

"Thank you. And, well... if you help us, I would personally be ever so grateful."

"Would you now?"

"I would."

The train rocked and she let herself stumble slightly. He caught her, his hands round her arms, her own hands pressing against his chest.

"I really would," she said softly.

He looked at her, and chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Fine," he said at last, leaving her standing there and walking to the table. He sat, opened up a laptop, started tapping the keyboard. "Lament. What was the first name?"

"Tyren," she said, walking over. "But I thought you said all this information was in a dusty old cabinet somewhere."

"It is," he said, nodding. "And I spent an entire summer transferring it to computer when all of my friends were out having fun. That's the disadvantage of a family business you've really got no choice in the matter." His fingers flew over the keys, and he sat back. "Tyren Lament," he said. "Going back over fifty years, he used this company three times in total. Twice shipping materials from New York to Dublin, and once shipping from Africa to Switzerland. The Switzerland job was the last time he used us."

"Then that's the one I'm interested in," Valkyrie said. "Is there an address?"

Hansard scribbled a few numbers on a piece of paper, and handed it to her as he stood.

She smiled. "Your phone number? Do I have to call you before you'll tell me?"

"They're co-ordinates, Valkyrie. The materials were delivered halfway up a mountain."

"Oh," she said. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "What harm can it do? The guy's dead, right?"

"Exactly." She smiled. "But really, thank you. And I'm sorry about, you know, accusing you of whatever. And sorry about the damage. I don't have a happy history with those things."

"That's understandable," Hansard said. "And don't worry about it. I'll put it down to travel damage, we'll reimburse the owner, and my father will never know you paid me a visit."

"Cool. Thanks. Well, I should probably get going."

He nodded, and she smiled awkwardly and walked to the carriage door. Right before she opened it, she turned. "Do you want my number?" she asked quickly. "My phone number, like. Do you want it?"

He looked at her as if she'd asked him to list off mathematical equations. "Why would I need it?"

She blinked, and felt the heat rising. "No. No reason. Just thought. OK, cool, thank you so much for-"

"Oh," he said, his eyes widening slightly. "Ah, of course. Sorry, I'm a bit slow sometimes. Certain things, you know, it takes ages for them to reach my brain."

She laughed. "I know the feeling."

He smiled. "But no, I don't want your number."

Her laugh died. "Er... OK then."

She waited for a little more information, maybe a reason or the name of a girlfriend, but she didn't get either of those things.

"No problem," she said, sliding open the door and leaning out into the wind and noise. She gave him a forced smile and stepped out, letting the wind catch her. She adjusted the current and propelled herself upwards, passing through the cloaking bubble that took the train from her sight. Skulduggery swooped in, caught her, one arm encircling her hip.

"Did you get it?" he asked as they hovered there in the light breeze.

"I am morto," she mumbled.

"Sorry?"

"Mortified. Oh, God, I want to die."

"What happened?"

She buried her head in his bony shoulder. "I don't want to talk about it."

"You brought it up."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, we weren't until you-"

"I have the co-ordinates," she interrupted. "It's in the Alps."

"Marvellous. I love the Alps. Why are you mortified?"

"Don't. Want. To talk about it."

"Your eyes are red."

"There were Hollow Men in there, being taken to someone who wants to use them for something. Is that illegal?"

"Owning Hollow Men is not illegal, no. It's unsettling, but not illegal. Hansard didn't happen to tell you who they're going to, no?"

"He was tight-lipped."

"Ah," said Skulduggery. "Then I can see why you were mortified."

She glared. "Shut up."

"How could anyone possibly resist the fabulous Valkyrie Cain?"

"Shut up."