42 THE NECROMANCERS

      reath found them waiting for him in the cemetery above the Temple, dressed simply in their dark robes and talking among themselves. He strode to them, his boots crunching on graveside gravel, his finely tailored coat flapping gently in the breeze. He had never had any time for the false humility the robes represented, a laughable idea that all Necromancers were pure of heart and mind and purpose. He liked nice clothes so he wore nice clothes. In his opinion there was nothing as pure and honest as that.

      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 need for subtlety. “She knows about the Passage?”

      “Pleasant backed me into a corner,” Wreath admitted. “It was either tell her or risk losing her.”

      “I remind you, Cleric Wreath, that we do not all share your conviction that she is the one we’re looking for. She’s far too young for a start.”

      “She’s a natural, your Eminence. She’s taken to Necromancy faster than anyone I’ve seen since Vile.”

      “Not auspicious company,” muttered Quiver.

      “Maybe not,” Wreath said, “but she has the potential to surpass even him. She’s the one we’ve been waiting for. I’m sure of it.”

      “His Eminence is quite correct, however,” Craven said, finding his voice again after far too short a time. “She’s much too young. Plus, she’s entrenched with the skeleton detective. Do you really think you can pry her from his side?”

      “Not easily,” Wreath said, “but it can be done. Skulduggery Pleasant is a fantastically flawed individual.”

      “Much more than even you know,” Tenebrae said. “We will need to meet with her, of course. Our encounters in the past few months have been too brief, and we need to accurately form an opinion of her ability.”

      “Of course, High Priest.”

      Quiver spoke up. “If she is suitable, she will have to be monitored closely to be kept on the right path. History cannot be allowed to repeat itself.”

      “Agreed,” said Wreath, then hesitated. “Your Eminence, if I may return for a moment to the delicate subject of Lord Vile…”

      Tenebrae looked displeased, and Craven stood at the High Priest’s elbow and copied the look remarkably well. Nevertheless, Wreath