Last Stand of Dead Men

“War,” said Dubhóg. “They’re planning on going to war.”

hastly Bespoke returned to Roarhaven with a sense of overwhelming dread. It wasn’t danger he dreaded, or battle, or confrontation or arguments. It was meetings. It was endless, monotonous meetings.

The last few days he’d spent at his old shop in Dublin, working on various items of clothing. Repairing, modifying, making from scratch. He had been content there. Happy. Alone with this thoughts, alone with the needle and thread, with the fabrics, his mind had been allowed to settle, and it had been wonderful.

But his vacation was over, and here he was, being driven back into the squalid, bleak little town of Roarhaven and all that anxiety he’d left behind was quickly building up again inside his chest. They drove through Main Street, drawing a few cold glances from the townspeople. There was a single, sad little tree planted in a square of earth on the pavement. For as long as he’d been here, he had never seen it with leaves. Here they were in August and it was just as thin and skeletal as it had been in winter. It wasn’t dead, though. It was as if the town were keeping it alive purely to prolong its torture.

They approached the dark, stagnant lake and the squat building that rested beside it, all grey and concrete and uninspiring. The Administrator, Tipstaff, was waiting for him as he thanked the driver and got out of the car.

“Elder Bespoke, welcome back. The meeting is about to start.”

Ghastly frowned at him. “It’s not scheduled till two. They arrived early?”

“In their words, they are ‘eager to negotiate’.”

Ghastly walked out of the warm sun into the chill Sanctuary, Tipstaff beside him. “Who’s here?”

“Elder Illori Reticent of the English Sanctuary plus two associates, an Elemental and an Energy-Thrower.”

“That’s all?”

“We’ve been tracking them since they flew in this morning, and we’ve been keeping an eye on all known foreign sorcerers in the country. It would appear that these three are the only ones in the vicinity. Elder Bespoke?”

Tipstaff held a door open and Ghastly grumbled, but went inside. In here, his robe was waiting. He pulled it on, checked himself in the mirror. His shirt, his waistcoat, his tie, his trousers, all those clothes he’d made himself, all of them were covered up by this robe. His physique, honed by countless hours of punching bags and punching people, was rendered irrelevant by this shapeless curtain he now wore. The only thing that wasn’t covered up was the one thing he’d spent his life trying to draw attention away from – the perfectly symmetrical scars that covered his entire head.

Tipstaff brushed a speck of lint from Ghastly’s shoulder, and nodded approvingly. “This way, sir.”

Ghastly could have walked to the conference room blindfolded, but he let Tipstaff take the lead. There was Ghastly’s way of doing things and there was the proper way of doing things, and if there was one thing Tipstaff liked, it was procedure.

They reached a set of double doors guarded by two Cleavers. At Tipstaff’s nod, the warriors in grey banged their scythes on the floor in perfect unison and the doors opened. Tipstaff stood to one side as Ghastly walked in.

Grand Mage Erskine Ravel sat at the round table and scratched at his neck. The robes could be particularly itchy against bare skin, which was why Ghastly had lined his with silk. He hadn’t offered to line Ravel’s, though. He found it quietly amusing to watch his friend suffer.

Beside Ravel sat Madame Mist, her face covered by that black veil she always wore. He’d often wondered if her features were as unsightly as his own, but decided that no, the veil was probably some piece of tradition that the Children of the Spider had chosen to keep alive.

Across from Ravel and Mist, Illori Reticent sat patiently. A pretty woman with a beautiful mind, Illori’s smile grew warm when she saw him.

“Elder Bespoke,” she said, rising to meet him, “so good to see you again.”

“Elder Reticent,” said Ghastly, shaking her hand. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re not late, we’re early, which in some circumstances can be twice as rude as being late.”

Ghastly glanced at the man and woman standing behind her, their backs to the wall and their expressions vacant. “You only came with two bodyguards, I see.”

“Of course,” Illori said, smiling innocently. “I’m not in any danger, am I? I am among friends, yes?”

“Indeed you are,” said Ghastly, smiling back at her. “It’s nice that you remember. So many of your fellow mages seem to have forgotten that fact.”

“Well, they’re not here, and I am, so I have been granted the honour of speaking for the whole of the Supreme Council. And I have some things I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Then let’s get started,” Ghastly said, and took up his place at Ravel’s side.

Illori looked at them all before speaking again. “The Irish Sanctuary has been at the forefront of the battle against oppression and tyranny for the last six hundred years, ever since Mevolent’s rise to power. We recognise that, and we appreciate that. Until recently, your Council of Elders was the most respected Council of any territory in living memory.”

Ravel nodded. “Until recently.”

“That’s no secret, surely. The death of Eachan Meritorious was a great loss to us all, but for Ireland it signalled the beginning of a rapid slide into uncertainty, aided no doubt when Thurid Guild’s brief time as Grand Mage ended with his imprisonment. Again and again, the Irish Sanctuary has been battered by enemies from without and within.”

“And again and again we have triumphed,” said Ghastly.

“Indeed you have,” said Illori, “thanks to some exemplary work by your operatives. But your Sanctuary has been weakened. When the next attack comes, you may not be strong enough to prevail. So I have come to you with a solution, should you be agreeable.”

“This’ll be interesting,” Ravel muttered.

“Before the Sanctuaries, there were communities. Each of these communities was ruled by twelve village Elders. Each of these twelve would oversee a different aspect of village life, but, when the time came to make important decisions, all twelve votes were counted equally.”

“We know our own history,” said Ravel. “We also know that when the Sanctuaries were established, the unwieldy twelve was cut down to a more practical three. Even the communities that are around today haven’t kept up with the old ways.”

“Even so,” Illori said, “lessons can be learned. We propose the establishment of a supporting Council of nine – five mages of our choosing, four of yours – to help you in the running of your affairs. This would leave you with a majority of seven to five, and it would mean you had more sorcerers, more Cleavers, and more resources. Your Sanctuary would remain under your full control and it would be returned to its former strength.”

Ravel looked at her. “I’m curious as to why you think we would possibly say yes to this.”

“Because it’s a fair proposal. You retain full control—”

“We retain full control now,” said Mist. “Why would we change?”

“Because the current situation is not acceptable.”

“To you,” said Ravel.

“To us, yes,” said Illori. “There are members of the Supreme Council who view you as dangerous and reckless and they continually call for action against you. Every mage paying attention is expecting war to break out at any moment. Why would you risk hostilities if the situation can be resolved amicably?”

“There’s not going to be a supporting Council, Elder Reticent.”

“Why not?”

“Because the Supreme Council does not tell us what to do.”

Illori shook her head. “Is that what this is? A matter of pride? You won’t accept our terms because you don’t like being told what to do? Pride is wasted breath, Grand Mage Ravel. Pride is you putting your own petty concerns over the well-being of every sorcerer in your Sanctuary. More than that, it’s putting your petty concerns over the well-being of every mortal around the world. If war breaks out, it’s going to be so much harder to keep our activities off the news channels. If that happens, it’s on your heads. But we can avoid it all if you’d just listen to reason.”

“The Supreme Council has no right to dictate to other Sanctuaries how to conduct their business,” said Mist. “In fact, the Supreme Council itself may even be an illegal organisation.”

“Ridiculous.”

“We have our people looking into it,” Mist said.

“Don’t bother,” said Illori. “We’ve already had our own experts combing through the literature. There is no ancient rule or obscure law that says Sanctuaries cannot join forces to combat a significant threat. It’s what we did against Mevolent, after all.”

“We are a significant threat, are we?” asked Ravel.

“You might be,” Illori answered, then shook her head. “Listen, I didn’t come here to threaten you. We are standing on the precipice and the Supreme Council isn’t going to back away. They’re angry and they’re frightened, and the more they think about this, the more angry and frightened they become. They’re hurtling towards war and you’re the only ones who can stop them.”

“By agreeing to their demands.”

“Yes.”

“We’re not going to do that, Illori.”

“Do you want war, Erskine? Do you actually want to fight? How many of us do you want to kill?”

“If you’re looking to calm things down, calm down those making all the noise. We will not be intimidated and we will not be bullied.”

Illori laughed without humour. “You keep painting yourselves as the aggrieved, like you were just minding your own business and then the Supreme Council came along and tried to steal your lunch money. You are at fault, Erskine. Your Sanctuary is weak. You’ve made mistakes. We are not the bad guys here. We have gone out of our way to treat you with respect. We released Dexter Vex and his little group of thieves, didn’t we?”

“What does that have to do with us?” asked Ghastly. “Vex’s little group of thieves, as you call it, consisted of three Irishmen, an Englishman, an American and an African. It was an international group affiliated with no particular Sanctuary, who sought approval from no one before embarking on their mission.”

“An international group that was led by Dexter Vex and Saracen Rue,” Illori said, “two of your fellow Dead Men. They may not have told you what they were planning, but where would they have brought the God-Killer weapons had they succeeded in stealing them, except back to you?”

“Vex wanted them stockpiled in order to fight Darquesse.”

“A more suspicious mind than mine might wonder if Darquesse was merely the excuse he needed.”

“All of this is a moot point,” Ravel said. “Tanith Low and her band of criminals got to the God-Killers before Vex and she had them destroyed.”

“And you had her,” said Mist. “Briefly.”

“What was that?” Illori asked.

“You arrested her,” said Mist. “The woman who assassinated Grand Mage Strom. You arrested her, chained her up, and she escaped.”

“What’s your point?”

“There are those who say Strom’s assassination was the breaking point,” said Mist. “It was his death that has propelled us to the verge of war. He was assassinated here, of course, in this very building. For this, you blame us, even though Tanith Low is a Londoner. But when you finally arrest Miss Low, when you have the chance to punish the killer herself for the crime she committed … she mysteriously escapes.”

“Are you saying we let that happen?”

“It has allowed you to refocus your blame on us, has it not?”

“I haven’t heard anything so stupid in a long time,” said Illori, “and I’ve heard a lot of stupid things lately. We don’t know how she escaped or who helped her. The investigation is ongoing. There are those in the Supreme Council, by the way, who think this Sanctuary had something to do with it.”

“Of course they do,” Ravel said, sounding tired.

“They believe both Vex’s group and Tanith Low’s gang were taking orders from you,” Illori said. “Two teams going after the same prizes, independent of each other – doubling the chances of success.”

“Well,” said Ghastly, “it’s nice to see the Supreme Council thinks we’re so badly co-ordinated as to organise something as incredibly inept as that.”

“Illori, go home,” Ravel said gently. “Tell them you approached us with this proposal and we politely declined. Tell the Supreme Council that, before he died, Grand Mage Strom agreed that their interference was not necessary. He would have recommended no further action if Tanith Low hadn’t killed him. You and your colleagues have nothing to fear from us.”

“But that’s not strictly true, is it?” Illori asked. “You have the Accelerator. We’ve heard what it can do. Bernard Sult witnessed its potential. He saw the levels to which it can boost a sorcerer’s power. If you so wanted, you could boost the magic of every one of your mages and you could send them against us. Our superior numbers would mean nothing against power like that.”

“That’s not something we’re planning on doing.”

“Then dismantle it. I’m sure that would go a long way to placating the Supreme Council.”

Ravel shook his head. “The Accelerator is powering a specially-built prison cell – the only cell in existence capable of holding someone of Darquesse’s strength. We need it active.”

“Then give it to us as a gesture of good faith.”

“As a gesture of naivety, you mean. We’re not giving you the Accelerator. We’re not dismantling it. We’re not turning it off. We’re not even sure if it can be turned off. If that makes the Supreme Council nervous, then that is unfortunate. Please make it clear to your colleagues that we do not intend to use the Accelerator against them as part of any pre-emptive strike.” Ravel sat forward. “If, however, the Supreme Council launches any kind of attack against us or our operatives, and if we feel significantly threatened, then using the Accelerator to even the odds is always an option.”

“They’re not going to be pleased to hear that.”

“Illori, at this point? I really don’t give a damn.”

esmond Edgley threw back his head and sang, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, you look like a monkey, and you smell like one, too!” and laughed like a drain as Valkyrie blew out her candles. It had been the same lyrics every year since she was old enough to know what a monkey was. She had grown up and matured. Her father had not.

Her mum and baby sister clapped and Valkyrie sat back down, grinning. Faint trails of smoke rose, twisting, from eighteen candles, and were quickly dispersed by her mother’s waving hand.

“Did you make a wish?” her dad asked.

She nodded. “World peace.”

He made a face. “Really? World peace? Not a jetpack? I would have wished for a jetpack.”

“You always wish for a jetpack,” her mum said, cutting the cake. “Have you got one yet?”

“No,” he said, “but you need to use up a lot of wishes to get something like a jetpack. On my next birthday, I’ll have wished for it forty times. Forty. I’ll have to get one then. Imagine it, Steph – I’ll be the only dad in town with his own jetpack …”

“Yeah,” she said slowly, “I’ll be ever so proud …”

Her mum passed out the plates, then stood and tapped her fork against a glass. “I’d like to make a toast, before we begin.”

“Toast,” said Alice.

“Thank you, Alice. Today is a big day for our little Stephanie. It’s been a big week, actually, with the exam results and the college offers. We’ve always been proud of you, and now we’re delighted beyond belief that the rest of the world will be able to see you the way we see you – as a strong, intelligent, beautiful young woman who can do whatever she puts her mind to.”

“Toast,” Alice said wisely.

“You’ve been in our lives for eighteen years,” her mum continued, “and you have brightened every single day. You’ve brought joy and laughter to this house, even when times were tough.”

Her dad leaned in. “It is not easy being married to me.”

“And today is also the day that Gordon’s estate passes into your name. You are now the sole custodian of his books, the owner of his house, and the spender of his money. And even though you’ve known that this was coming since you were twelve years old, you never slackened off. You never took anything for granted. You finished school, you got excellent results, and you made sure you faced the future on your own terms. We couldn’t be prouder of you, honey.”

Before her mum could start crying, Valkyrie’s dad stood up. He cleared his throat, pondered a bit, and then began. “It is no secret that I always wanted a son.”

Valkyrie howled with laughter and her mum threw a napkin at her husband, who waited until things had calmed down before continuing. “I thought that having a daughter would mean there’d be pink everywhere and I’d have to take her to ballet lessons and when she was old enough to have a boyfriend I’d be really weird around him. Thankfully, none of this turned out to be the case.”

Valkyrie blinked. “You were extraordinarily weird around Fletcher.”

“No, you’re misremembering. I was cool.”

“You kept touching his hair.”

“I have no recollection of that ever happening.”

“Des,” her mum said, “you were really, really weird to that boy.”

“Can I be allowed to finish my speech? Can I? Thank you. So, to recap, I never wanted daughters. But when Stephanie was born I looked into her big eyes and I was so overcome by both her cuteness and the baby fumes that I decided to let bygones be bygones, and start over. It was a noble and selfless act by me, but you were only two days old so you’re probably too young to remember it.”

“Probably,” said Valkyrie.

“And now look at me!” her dad said. “Eighteen years on and I have two daughters, and the smaller one can barely walk in a straight line, let alone do ballet. What age are you, Alice? Four? Five?”

“Eighteen months,” said Valkyrie’s mum.

“Eighteen months and what have you to show for it? Do you even have a job? Do you? You’re a burden on this family. A burden, I say.”

“Toast,” Alice responded, and squealed as her dad scooped her up and did his face-hugger walk round the kitchen.

“I’m pretty sure that when that speech started it was about you,” Valkyrie’s mum said, “but then he kind of got distracted. Des. Des, don’t you think it’s time to give Steph her birthday present?”

“Present!” Alice yelled, as her dad held her over his shoulder by one ankle.

“Fair enough, wifey. I suppose it can’t be put off any longer. Steph, now that you have large sums of money, you can of course buy one of these brand-new if you so wanted. But I like to think that a second-hand one, bought by your parents, would have a sentimental value that you just wouldn’t be able to get in a—”

Valkyrie sat up straight. “You got me a car?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She stood. “Oh my God, you got me a car?”

“Again, I didn’t say that. It might not be a car. It might be a drum kit.”

“Is it a drum kit?”

“No. It’s a car.”

“Toast!” Alice yelped.

“Ah, yes, sorry,” Valkyrie’s dad said, setting his youngest daughter back on the ground. She wobbled and fell over and started laughing.

“You are so dumb,” her dad murmured.

Valkyrie ran to the front door, yanked it open, and froze. There, in the driveway, was a gleaming Ford Fiesta. And it was orange.

She’d been in an orange car before. One of Skulduggery’s spare cars had been orange. But this … this …

She couldn’t help herself. “It looks like an Oompa-Loompa,” she blurted.

“Do you not like it?” her mum asked at her shoulder.

“I asked for the colour specially,” her dad said. “The salesman said it wasn’t a good idea, but I thought it might be extra safe and there was a possibility it could glow in the dark. It doesn’t, though.” He sounded dejected. “If you want a different colour, we can take it back. I mean, the salesman will probably laugh at me, but that’s OK. He was laughing enough when I drove off in it.”

Valkyrie walked up to the car, traced her fingertips along the side. The interior was dark green. Just like an Oompa-Loompa’s hair. She looked back at her parents.

“You got me a car. You got me a car.”

Her mum dangled the keys. “Do you like it?”

“I love it!”

Valkyrie caught the keys and slipped in behind the wheel. Her car had a very nice dashboard, and a very nice smell, and her car was very clean. She adjusted her rear-view mirror in her car and slid her seat back in her car and it was her car. It wasn’t the Bentley and apart from the colour it wasn’t very flashy, but it was her car. “You are the Oompa-Loompa,” she said, patting the dash, “and I love you.”

She put on Pixie Lott as she got ready, sang along as she danced round her bedroom, doing the hip-grinding thing in the mirror whenever the chorus popped up. The white dress tonight, she reckoned, laying it out on the bed. Tight, white and strapless – her dad was going to have a fit when he saw it. But this was her night, and she was going out with her friends, and she was going to wear whatever the hell she wanted. She was eighteen, after all.

As she sang into the hairbrush, she realised that she was actually looking forward to spending time with Hannah and the others. A girls’ night out – the first girls’ night out since school had ended. It was going to be fun. The fact that she had butterflies struck her as weird, though, until she tried to remember whether or not she’d actually met all of her friends, or if some were friends the reflection had made and then simply transferred the memory to Valkyrie’s mind. She laughed at the oddness of her life, and then her phone rang and she paused the music.

“Happy birthday,” Skulduggery said.

“Thank you,” she grinned. “Guess what my parents got me.”

“An orange car.”

Her grin faded. “How did you know?”

“I’m looking at it.”

“You’re outside?”

“We got a call. You’re not doing anything, are you?”

She looked at her dress, at her shoes, and felt the butterflies slowly stop fluttering. “No,” she said, “not doing anything. I’ll be out in a minute.”

She hung up, and sighed. Then she tapped the mirror in her wardrobe and her reflection stepped out.

“I know,” Valkyrie said. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”

“You deserve a different kind of fun,” the reflection said.

Valkyrie pulled on her black trousers, hunted around for some socks, and grabbed her boots. “It’s fine. Most of them are your friends anyway. I’ve never talked to them. What would I even say?”

“You’re really going to use that excuse?”

“I’m going to use whatever excuse I have to. Where’s my black top?”

“I put it in the wash.”

“It was clean.”

“It had blood on it.”

“Yeah, but not mine.”

The reflection held up a spaghetti-strap T-shirt.

“That’s pink,” said Valkyrie.

The reflection pulled it on. “It looks cute on you.”

Valkyrie raised an eyebrow. “It does look cute on me. Wow. I look hot in that. Where did I get it?”

“I bought it last week,” the reflection said, giving a twirl.

“OK, you’ve convinced me.”

The reflection threw it to her and Valkyrie put it on, then zipped up her jacket.

“Do me a favour, OK?” said Valkyrie. “Have a good time tonight.”

“I’ll do my very best,” said the reflection, and smiled. “You try to do the same.”

Valkyrie opened the window. “I’ll be with Skulduggery,” she said. “No trying involved.”

She slipped out as Pixie Lott started playing again, and she jumped.

Right before they reached the hotel, Skulduggery’s gloved fingers pressed the symbols on his collarbones, and a face flowed up over his skull.

Valkyrie raised an eyebrow. “Not bad.”

“You like this one?”

“It suits you. Can you keep it on file, or something?”

He smiled. “Every time I activate the façade, the result is random, you know that.”

“Yeah, but you’ve had it for a few years now. It might be time to start thinking about settling down with something a little more permanent.”

“Are you trying to make me normal?”

“Heaven forbid,” she said, widening her eyes in mock horror. He opened the door for her, followed her through. They walked into the lobby, passed the reception desk and went straight to the elevators. Skulduggery slipped a black card into the slot, and pressed the button for the penthouse. The doors slid closed.

“So …” said Valkyrie.

“So.”

“It’s my eighteenth.”

“Yes it is.”

“The big one eight. I’m an adult now. Technically.”

“Technically.”

“It’s an important birthday.”

“Well, you’re doing fine so far.”

She laughed. “Did you … y’know … Did you get me a present?”

Skulduggery looked at her. “Did you want me to get you a present?”

Her smile dropped. “Of course.”

The elevator stopped with a ping, and the doors opened. She was the first out, walking quickly.

“I see,” he said, following her. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“I think you know me well enough by now to figure it out for yourself.”

“You’re mad at me.”

“No I’m not.”

“Despite my handsome face, you are.”

She stopped before they reached the penthouse and turned. “Yes, I’m mad at you. People buy presents for people who are important to them. After all this time, I didn’t think I had to tell you to buy me a present.”

“And I didn’t think I had to buy you a present to prove that you’re important to me.”

“Well … I mean … you don’t, but … but that’s not the point. It’s not about proving it, it’s about showing it.”

“And a gift is an accurate measurement? Your parents got you a car. Does this mean you are as important to them as a car is? Do they love you a car’s worth?”

“Of course not. A birthday present is a token gift.”

“A token gift is like an empty gesture – devoid of any kind of value.”

“It’s a nice thing to do!”

“Oh,” Skulduggery said. “OK. I understand. I’ll get you a present, then.”

“Thank you.” She turned back, and knocked on the door. “Who are we here to see?”

“An old friend of yours,” Skulduggery said, and for the first time she noticed the edge to his voice.

She didn’t have time to question him further. The doors opened as one and Solomon Wreath smiled at her.

“Hello, Valkyrie,” he said.

Before she knew what she was doing, she was giving him a hug. “Solomon! What are you doing here? I thought you were off having adventures.”

“I can’t have adventures in my home country every once in a while? This is where the real action is, after all. Come in, come in. Skulduggery, I suppose you can join us.”

“You’re too kind,” Skulduggery muttered, following them inside and closing the doors behind him.

The penthouse was huge and extravagant, though Valkyrie had been in bigger and more extravagant when she dated Fletcher. Back then, he’d spend his nights in whatever penthouse suite was available around the world, and all for free. Such were the advantages of being a Teleporter, she supposed, though these days all that had changed. Now he had a nice, normal girlfriend and he was living in his own apartment in Australia. He was almost settled. It was kind of scary.

She glanced back at Skulduggery, who had already let his false face melt away. He took off his hat and didn’t say anything as Wreath came back with a small box, wrapped up in a bow.

“Happy birthday,” Wreath said.

Valkyrie’s eyes widened. “You got me a present?”

“Of course,” Wreath said, almost laughing at her surprise. “You were my best student in all my years in the Necromancer Temple. No one took to it quite like you did, and although we may have hit a few bumps along the way—”

“Like you trying to kill billions of people,” Skulduggery said.

“—you have always been my favourite,” Wreath finished, ignoring him. “Open it. I think you’ll like it.”

Valkyrie pulled the bow apart and the wrapping opened like a gently blooming flower. There was a wooden box within, and she opened the lid and raised an eyebrow. “It’s, uh, it’s an exact copy of my ring.”

“Not exact,” said Wreath. “Inside, it is different indeed. When students begin their training, they are given objects like the ring you have now – good, strong, sturdy, capable of wielding an impressive amount of power. But after their Surge, they need something stronger, something to handle a lot more power.”

“But I haven’t had my Surge yet.”

Wreath smiled. “I know, and yet you need an upgrade already. In this, as in so many other ways, you are exceptional, Valkyrie. Your ring, please?”

He held out his hand. She glanced at Skulduggery, then slid it from her finger and passed it over. As Wreath walked out of the room for a moment, she took the new one from the box, put it on.

Wreath returned, carrying a hammer. “Now for the fun part,” he said, and put Valkyrie’s ring on the table and smashed it. A wave of shadows exploded from the flying shards, twisted in the air and went straight for the ring on her finger. The ring sucked them in eagerly, turning cold, and Valkyrie gasped.

“Do you feel it?” Wreath asked. “Do you feel that power?”

“Wow,” she said, regaining control of herself. “I do. Wow. That’s … that’s …”

“That’s Necromancy.”

It was startling. It was distracting. It was amazing. “Thank you,” she said.

Wreath shrugged. “Turning eighteen is a big day for anyone. But I am well aware that you did not come to see me for gifts and hugs.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, getting her mind back on track. “Why are we here to see you?”

“Your unusually silent partner here has been in touch. It seems you’ve been investigating the events surrounding that Warlock trying to kill you last year.”

“He told us he was doing you Necromancers a favour,” Skulduggery said. “It was in exchange for information. A name.”