need to know if we are wasting our time with this one.”
“A Sensitive,” Craven nodded.
“We’ve tried this before,” Wreath argued. “None of our psychics are able to tell us anything.”
“Reading the future has never been a particular talent of the Necromancer Order,” Tenebrae said. “Our Sensitives are somewhat lacking when it comes to fortune-telling. But there is another I keep hearing about. Finbar something …”
“Finbar Wrong,” Wreath said. “But he knows Valkyrie personally. It would raise too many questions. Even if he didn’t know her, I doubt he’d ever aid our cause. As I keep reminding you, nobody out there likes us.”
“We’re working to save them all!” Craven barked, and this time not even the High Priest paid him any attention.
“The psychic will help us,” Tenebrae said, “and afterwards he will remember nothing about it. Cleric Wreath, I want you to take the Soul Catcher and release the Remnant we have trapped inside it.”
Wreath’s face slackened. “Your Eminence, Remnants are highly dangerous …”
“Oh, I trust your ability to handle any situation,” Tenebrae said with an airy wave of his hand. “Have it possess this Finbar person, and if he sees a future where Valkyrie Cain is the Death Bringer, and he sees her saving the world, then we can put all our energies into making sure she fulfils her potential. If he does not see this future, we forget about her, and our search continues.”
“But using the Remnant …”
“Once the job is done, simply return it to the Soul Catcher. What could be easier?”
The big car that rolled to a stop outside the house with no lights was a 1954 Bentley R-Type Continental, one of only 208 ever made. It was an exquisite car, retro-fitted with modern conveniences, adapted to the needs of its owner. It was fast, it was powerful, and if it received even the slightest of dents, it would fall apart.
That’s what the mechanic had said. He’d done all he could, used all his knowledge and all his abilities to bring this car back from the brink so many times – but the next dent, he promised, would be its last. All the tricks he’d used to keep it going, to bend it back into shape, would be counteracted. The glass would shatter, the metal would rupture, the frame would buckle, the tyres would burst, the engine would crack … The only way to avoid complete and utter catastrophe, the mechanic had said, was to make sure you weren’t in the car when all this happened.
Skulduggery Pleasant got out first. He was tall and thin, and wore a dark blue suit and black gloves. His hair was brown and wavy, and his cheekbones were high and his jaw was square. His skin was slightly waxy and his eyes didn’t seem capable of focusing, but it was a pretty good face, all things considered. One of his better ones.
Valkyrie Cain got out of the passenger side. She zipped up her black jacket against the cold, and joined Skulduggery as he walked up to the front door. She glanced at him, and saw that he was smiling.
“Stop doing that,” she sighed.
“Stop doing what?” Skulduggery responded in that gloriously velvet voice of his.
“Stop smiling. The person we want to talk to lives in the only dark house on a bright street. That’s not a good sign.”
“I didn’t realise I was smiling,” he said.
They stopped at the door, and Skulduggery made a concerted effort to shift his features. His mouth twitched downwards. “Am I smiling now?”
“No.”
“Excellent,” he said, and the smile immediately sprang back up.
Valkyrie handed him his hat. “Why don’t you get rid of the face? You’re not going to need it in here.”
“You’re the one telling me how much I should practise,” he said, but slid his gloved fingers beneath his shirt collar anyway, tapping the symbols etched into his collarbones. The face and hair retracted off his head, leaving him with a gleaming skull.
He put on his hat, cocked at a jaunty angle. “Better?” he asked.
“Much.”
“Good.” He knocked, and took out his gun. “If anyone asks, we’re scary carollers.”
Humming ‘Good King Wenceslas’ to himself, he knocked again, and still no one answered the door, and no lights came on.
“What do you bet everyone’s dead?” Valkyrie asked.
“Are you just being incredibly pessimistic,” Skulduggery asked, “or is that ring of yours telling you something?”
The Necromancer ring was cold on her finger, but no colder than usual. “It’s not telling me anything. I can only sense death through it when I’m practically standing over the dead body.”
“Which is an astonishingly useful ability, I have to say. Hold this.”
He gave her his gun, and crouched down to pick the lock. She looked around, but no one was watching them.
“It might be a trap,” she said, speaking softly.
“Unlikely,” he whispered. “Traps are usually enticing.”
“It might be a very rubbish trap.”
“Always a possibility.”
The lock clicked open. Skulduggery straightened up, put his lock picks away, and took his gun back.
“I need a weapon,” Valkyrie muttered.
“You’re an Elemental with a Necromancer ring, trained in a variety of martial arts by some of the best fighters in the world,” Skulduggery pointed out. “I’m fairly certain that makes you a weapon.”
“I mean a weapon you hold. You have a gun, Tanith has a sword … I want a stick.”
“I’ll buy you a stick for Christmas.”
She glowered as he pushed the door. It opened silently, without even a creepy old creak. Skulduggery went first and Valkyrie followed, closing the door after them. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to this level of gloom, and Skulduggery,
