Skulduggery lifted the map, examining the spot where the knife had plunged. “This is it, is it?”
Finbar shrugged. “If that’s where I pointed to, that’s where the walls of reality are at their weakest. That’s where the gateway is.”
“Batu probably already knows the location,” Valkyrie said. “He’s had fifty years to find it.”
“But without the Isthmus Anchor and a Teleporter, that information has been useless to him.” Skulduggery folded the map. “Do you mind if I take this, Finbar?”
“Not at all, Skul-man.” Finbar stood on shaky legs. “Anything else I can help you with?”
“You’ve done more than enough.”
“That’s cool.” Finbar looked at Valkyrie. “Want a tattoo?”
“Yes,” Valkyrie said.
“No,” Skulduggery said. “We’re leaving now.”
Valkyrie scowled as she followed him out into the rain. “I could have just got a small one.”
“Your parents would kill me.”
“Being around you puts my life in constant danger. I’ve fought monsters and vampires and I’ve almost died twice, and you think they’d choose to kill you over a tattoo?”
“Parents are funny that way.”
Skulduggery’s phone rang and the moment he realised who was calling him, his voice went frosty. He made no attempt to hide his distaste. He hung up as they got to the Bentley.
“We have a meeting,” he said.
“Who with?”
“Solomon Wreath. He has some information he’d like to share.”
“Who’s Solomon Wreath?”
“The who is not important. It’s the what you should be worried about.”
“All right then – what is Solomon Wreath?”
“He’s a Necromancer,” Skulduggery said and got in the car.
The house they stopped outside was abandoned. The walls were defaced with graffiti, none of it any good. Skulduggery wrapped his scarf around his jaw and pulled his hat down low. They left the car and walked through the open door.
The streetlight shone through the cracked and dirty windows, enough to see by. The house had been stripped bare. There were remnants, here and there, of wallpaper. The floorboards were old, and they were damp. Valkyrie let Skulduggery go on ahead and wandered into the living room. There was no graffiti in here, as if the brave souls who had scrawled their slogans so inelegantly on the outside were not quite bold enough to venture indoors.
She turned to go and a figure stepped through the door, blocking her exit. Valkyrie looked at him. He didn’t move. It had got even gloomier in the room, like the man had brought a cloud of shadows with him.
“I’m with Skulduggery Pleasant,” she said, but got no response. Valkyrie took a step closer, as much to see his face as to indicate her desire to leave. His hair was dark, but his eyes were so bright they almost gleamed. He was dressed in black, a finely tailored suit that she couldn’t appreciate in this light. He held a slender cane in his hand.
“Are you Solomon Wreath?” she asked, refusing to be intimidated by his silence.
“I am,” he answered and gave a little bow of his head. “I’ve heard about you. You helped take down Nefarian Serpine and Baron Vengeous. You stopped the Grotesquery. Such talent. Such potential. Has he corrupted you yet?”
“I’m sorry?”
“He corrupts everyone he meets. Have you noticed that? Have you noticed how much you’re changing, simply by being around him?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“You will,” he promised.
He stepped into the room and she saw the shadows moving with him. She knew very little about Necromancers, but what she did know was that they preferred to place most of their power in objects or weapons. Lord Vile had placed his power in his armour. By the way the shadows were coiling, Solomon Wreath seemed to have placed his in his cane.
“This house has had a rather bland life,” he said. “It was built and people lived here. They ate here and slept here. They grew old. Someone, an elderly man, passed away peacefully in the bedroom, a little over ten years ago. A very, very ordinary house.
“Until two years ago. You may remember this from the news actually. Four people were murdered – three were shot; one was stabbed. Two people died here, in this room. The third was killed in the kitchen. The fourth in the hall, within arm’s reach of the front door.”
Valkyrie looked at him, noticing the way his eyes glittered as he described the scene.
“Who killed them?” she asked, determined to keep her voice steady.
He laughed. “Ah, you think all this is a preamble to me announcing that I’m the killer? I’m afraid not. I’m fairly certain that the police caught him, whoever he was, and put him in jail. But violent death lingers in a place.” He closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. “A murder can imprint itself on the walls. You can taste it, if you try. You can drink it in.”
Valkyrie stepped away, her mind conjuring images of all that horrible dark energy swirling around him. She knew she shouldn’t have been surprised. Necromancy was death magic, shadow magic – it was only natural that its practitioners would be drawn to places that reek of death.
And then, as if he was remembering he had company, Wreath stopped, opened his eyes and looked at her again.
“My apologies. For our first meeting, I should have chosen a more civilised spot.”
“Don’t feel too bad,” Skulduggery said as he walked slowly in. “Valkyrie is my partner. You can treat her like you’d treat me.”
“That’s a shame,” Wreath said. “I actually liked her.”
“What do you want, Solomon? Our time is precious.”
“All time is precious, but you’ll want to hear what I have to say none the less. Or maybe you would rather I go to Remus Crux with this? I hear he’s running all over town, desperate for something with which to impress the Grand Mage.” Wreath shook his head. “His actions are deplorable. As one detective to another, Crux is a man who values a progress report over actual progress.”
“If you’re hoping we can bond because we share a distaste for the man, you will be disappointed.”
“That’s not all we share actually. We have a common enemy.”
“Is that so?”
“Your investigation into the Teleporter murders, however unofficial it may be, coincides with