Wreath 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.”