Valkyrie had been to the Necromancer Temple only once before, to see her ring being forged in the shadow furnace. She had imagined, when told of the Temple, a vast building with spires and long narrow windows, of huge doors and possibly some dark and terrible towers. Her expectations were dashed when Solomon Wreath had led her through an old graveyard, to a crypt with rusted iron gates, overgrown with weeds and ivy. Beneath that crypt, however, the Temple lay – a cold and forbidding labyrinth, drenched in darkness.

It was at this rusted gate she found herself again, standing at Skulduggery’s side. Her heart beat fast. Not from nerves, or excitement, but simply because she was in a graveyard. She could feel the tendrils of death being drawn into the ring on her finger and soaking through into her body. The thought of it made her queasy, but the sensation was…electric.

The crypt door opened heavily and Solomon Wreath smiled at them, and said, “Suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.”

“How unique,” Skulduggery said without enthusiasm, “a Necromancer quoting Poe.”

Wreath’s smile grew wider. “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”

“Shakespeare is the happy hunting ground of all minds that have lost their balance,” Skulduggery responded. “Are we going to boast about how well-read we are all day or are we going to talk?”

“About?”

“Valkyrie.”

“I see. In that case, please come in.” The gate creaked open for him and they passed through. “How are you by the way? I hope that alternate dimension wasn’t too uncomfortable for you.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” Skulduggery responded. “It gave me time to catch up on some screaming.”

They followed Wreath down the stone steps, into the darkness.

“I believe I have you to thank for suggesting my own skull as an Isthmus Anchor,” Skulduggery continued. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be over there.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“Very well.”

Wreath laughed.

Now they were in the dark labyrinth, passing the chambers that were carved into the walls. In some of these rooms people in black robes raised their heads, lamplight catching flashes of skin against shadow. In others the dark-robed figures were too busy with whatever they were doing to bother looking up. Up ahead, people moved quickly.

“There seems to be a disturbance,” Skulduggery noted.

“Nothing to concern you,” Wreath said. “One of our trinkets has gone missing. We’re trying to find it. But enough of the everyday humdrum of Temple life. You are here to talk, are you not?”

“Valkyrie tells me she’s been taking lessons with you,” Skulduggery said, his voice loud in the cold silence.

“Indeed she has,” Wreath responded. “Would this be a problem for you?”

“Necromancy is a dangerous discipline. Not everyone is suited to it.”