enough,” said Skulduggery.
“I’m going to kill all of you.”
The door opened and China came in.
“And here comes the witch,” Kenspeckle sneered. “Going to draw a little symbol, are you? You think that’ll force me out? It’ll never happen. I’m too strong. Too powerful.”
China didn’t respond. She barely looked at him. Her students had been working in the room for hours before they’d even brought Kenspeckle in. Skulduggery nodded to her and she closed her eyes, and the symbols that had been drawn in the room earlier shimmered into view. Ornate signs and complicated sigils appeared on the walls, swept down to join the patterns on the floor and rose upwards and spread along the ceiling. Kenspeckle’s arrogance vanished.
“This will kill him,” he said quickly. “You hear me? This will kill the old man.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” China told him. “The Mass Expulsion of 1892 left hundreds of people unconscious, not dead. Kenspeckle Grouse will wake up in a few minutes with a sore head and a gap in his memory, but you, my little friend, will be trapped in this.”
Skulduggery showed him the Soul Catcher. For all its dreadful connotations, it reminded Valkyrie of nothing more threatening than a snowglobe. “You can save yourself a lot of pain by leaving that body willingly,” Skulduggery said.
Kenspeckle glared. “I’m not going back to that room.”
“This will only take a moment,” said China.
The symbols glowed, bathing the room in blue and then red and then green light. Kenspeckle strained against his bonds, cursed all of them and screamed and cried and then cursed them again. China walked around the walls, her fingers touching parts of the sigils, and with each new touch Kenspeckle gave a new scream.
“It’s coming,” China said.
Kenspeckle arched his spine, his body rigid and his head thrown back. Valkyrie watched as the Remnant climbed out of his screaming mouth. She thought she saw arms, and white eyes, and it turned sideways and she could see its jaws. It darted to the ceiling and Skulduggery held out the Soul Catcher. The nasty little thing twisted and writhed and screeched as it was dragged into the globe, which instantly turned black and went dead.
And then it was all over.
The conversation faded as the others watched him approach. To Wreath’s right was Quiver, a tall man who was almost as thin as Skulduggery Pleasant. Quiver’s cheeks were sunken hollows and his eyes gleamed from shadowed pockets. He was a man who only spoke when he had something worthwhile to say – quite a rarity in Necromancer circles, Wreath had to admit.
The man on Wreath’s left was Quiver’s polar opposite. He was blandly good-looking, but a little too pale and a little too weak to be truly memorable. Craven’s flattering words had elevated him to an unlikely position of power, but as of yet, Wreath couldn’t see how this benefited him in any meaningful way. Because he spent all his time agreeing with everything the High Priest said, he never had a spare moment to exert any influence of his own. Wreath couldn’t figure him out, and as such, he trusted him about as much as he liked him. Which was to say, not at all.
The High Priest stood between Quiver and Craven, his robes setting him apart. A little more frayed, but a lot more regal. Wreath wouldn’t have been surprised if High Priest Tenebrae wore a brand-new robe every day and had a team of sycophants carefully fraying it overnight, purely for effect. The thought almost made Wreath smile.
Tenebrae folded his long-fingered hands inside his voluminous sleeves and tilted his head on his slender neck. He reminded Wreath of one of those ridiculous birds that stand around in water all day – a crane or possibly a flamingo. Whichever one looked the silliest.
“Your Eminence,” Wreath said, bowing with due reverence. “I thought we were going to have this conversation within the Temple walls.”
“Walls have ears,” Craven announced pompously.
“No, they don’t,” Wreath reminded him without gracing him with a glance. “You’re thinking of people.”
Craven glowered and Wreath ignored him.
“I would prefer to discuss this matter outside,” Tenebrae said, “where we will not be overheard. I believe the Soul Catcher has been retrieved?”
“Yes,” Wreath said. “Valkyrie informs me that they need it to transfer a Remnant back to the Midnight Hotel, but once that is done, it will be returned to us.”
“The Soul Catcher is our property,” Craven said to Tenebrae. “They have no right to dictate to us when we can have it back. We should demand it be returned to us immediately.”
“In which case,” said Wreath, “they will ignore our demand then we will look weak and ineffectual in their eyes.”
“They can’t ignore us!” Craven spluttered.
“They can and they will. If you were ever to leave the safety of the Temple, you would quickly realise that nobody likes us. They think we’re untrustworthy and dangerous.”
“Then they should fear us!”
“And if we had a history of stepping out into the world, they most assuredly would. But it is widely known that we Necromancers like to stay in our temples with our schemes and our plots, and we really don’t like getting our hands dirty. Lord Vile, of course, being the obvious exception.”
“Traitor,” Quiver said softly, in a tone that almost conveyed emotion.
“Now is not the time to talk of Lord Vile,” said Tenebrae. “He was once our Death Bringer, he is not any more and so our search continues. Solomon, you will offer to take the Soul Catcher off their hands once the Remnant is trapped.”
“Sir?”
“Tell them you will take it back to the Midnight Hotel yourself, or tell them you want to study the contraption once it has a soul inside it. I don’t care what lie you use, just bring me the Soul Catcher and bring me the Remnant. Can you do that?”
“Of course. May I ask why?”
“No, you may not,” Craven sneered. Wreath shifted his gaze to him and Craven held that gaze for three whole seconds before crumbling beneath it.
“The Cain girl,” Tenebrae said, changing the subject with no
