And this, Skulduggery realized, is why I don't usually have a plan. Strategy hadn't seemed to do much apart from set his shirt on fire, but several desperate punches into the soft black hair had finally managed to tear through something. Not that it seemed to do much good, just like practically everything else he and Rita had thrown at the thing. All it seemed to accomplish was sending an unfamiliar shudder down Skulduggery's spine as his fist sank through the rotting flesh.

"I feel I should warn you," he said, watching the owner of the rotting hands rise into view before him, "that I once met someone whose face was inside out. Compared to that, you're downright charming."

He wondered for a moment if the enraged woman would answer - or if she was even capable of understanding - but the far more immediate concern of being dragged down into the writhing mass of hair with her presented itself. Skulduggery had only recently acquired a throat and lungs, so he was by no means an expert, but he didn't think suffocating on hair and dead flesh was going to feel very good.

Although he would never have admitted it, Skulduggery was hoping this night would be as short as the last. Because without the static that seemed to precede every intercom announcement interrupting them, he really couldn't see a way out of this.