Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 1 - 12. Derek Landy

were names he’d completely made up. Valkyrie didn’t mention it though.

      “What are you looking for?” he asked absently.

      “There’s a Remnant inside Kenspeckle Grouse and we want to get it out.”

      “Ah. You’ll need China Sorrows and her symbols, and a few other bits and pieces. How long has it been inside him? If it’s possessed him for more than four days, I’m afraid that means it has permanently grafted itself to its host. It couldn’t leave even if it wanted to.”

      “It hasn’t been four days.”

      “Well then, you should be fine. It’s all in those notes.” He looked up. “Do you hear that birdsong, the particularly sweet one? That’s a Wallowing Twite, if I’m not mistaken.”

      “Is there anything you don’t know, Gordon?” Valkyrie asked as she flicked through.

      “Nothing of any importance.”

      She sighed. “I can see why you and Skulduggery got along so well.”

      “Planet-sized egos do tend to form an orbit around each other. So what does that make you, I wonder?”

      “I have no ego.”

      “Then you’d probably be a moon.”

      “I’m not a moon.”

      “Maybe even a gaseous giant.”

      “And I’m not gaseous. I’m the sun, how about that? The pair of you can orbit around me for a change.” She closed the notebook. “Thanks for this, Gordon. I’ll come back when I actually have time for a chat, OK?”

      “I’ll look forward to it. Take care of yourself, Niece Number One.”

      “Always do.”

      

      hey had Kenspeckle tied to a chair in the middle of the room. His wrists were shackled behind him, and Skulduggery was securing his arms and legs with a thick rope. Kenspeckle was grinning at them.

      The Remnant inside him wasn’t bothering to hide any more. Dark veins spread beneath Kenspeckle’s suddenly pale skin, turning his lips black and his gums grey.

      “You’ll never get him,” Kenspeckle said in a voice that was not his own. “He’s mine now and I’m not giving him back.”

      Skulduggery didn’t answer. Kenspeckle’s eyes flickered to Valkyrie and he leered at her. Spittle flecked his chin.

      “You’ll release me,” Kenspeckle said. “Won’t you? After everything I’ve done for you? All the times I’ve helped you?”

      “Kenspeckle helped me,” she said. “Not you.”

      “I am Kenspeckle,” he said with a little laugh. “I have all of his memories, don’t I? I might not be the Kenspeckle you knew, but I am Kenspeckle. Valkyrie, please. I’m your friend.”

      “We’re getting rid of you,” Valkyrie said. “There was barely enough room in Kenspeckle’s head for himself – there’s certainly no room for a lodger.”

      The smile turned to a growl. “I’m going to kill you.”

      “That’s 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.

      

      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