Erskine was right. It was the skeleton. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back with a sigh, then shook it. "I can't think of anything. Besides, my poking finger's tired."

Skulduggery wouldn't die. That was the important thing. And it didn't matter if the Necromancy would always be a factor, because the soul-leash Gabe kept talking about was meant to help with that. A backlash would probably be bad, but they'd dealt with Vile before. They could deal with Vile again.

Especially now that they knew Lord Vile could be defeated with hugs.

Erskine's phone rang while he was examining the ceiling of Corrival's office. It took a lot of convincing for Tipstaff to let them keep their phones while they were in the Sanctuary - apparently there was something about magical means of communication being faster, more reliable, and more secure - but Erskine wouldn't have any of it. All it took was for Corrival to step in, and suddenly there was a hasty footnote to whatever silly law Tipstaff had referenced saying that phones for personal conversations were, of course, entirely welcome.

Honestly. Sorcerers could be old-fashioned to the point of lunacy.

Erskine flipped the phone open up near his ear after glancing at the caller ID. He barely needed to glance at the caller ID. "I was wondering when you were going to call."

"Erskine, no one else is answering their phones. Not going to lie, I'm getting a mite bit worried here." The voice on the other end of the line was quiet for a moment, and then it added in a lower tone: "And stop trying to pretend you have my magic."

"I'm not. Let's see. Ghastly and Skulduggery won't be answering because they're both busy."

"For the last few days?"

"Yep. Dex isn't answering because he's Dex, probably also busy with something. Corrival's the new Grand Mage, he doesn't have time for phones anymore. And Anton might be feeling slightly hurt over the fact that you've apparently known about Skulduggery since we first met you, and never saw fit to tell anyone. Except for Hopeless, but it's not like he counts."

"Knew about Skulduggery? What are you talking about?"

The voice, now full of a wary sort of confusion, belonged to a sorcerer called Saracen Rue. He was a late addition to the Dead Men, and one of only two members that didn't have any combat-based magic. Saracen's magic involved simply knowing things. Random things, as far as anyone could tell, but things that tended to be immediately helpful and then weren't worth anything. With a few notable exceptions. He was one of the bravest men Erskine knew, and a very good friend besides, but Erskine understood how Anton felt right at that present moment in time. "You know exactly what I'm talking about," he said - stopping just short of snapping. "You know. Why else would you be calling the moment you hear the news of Lord Vile attacking the Sanctuary?"

Saracen didn't say anything for several long moments, and then Erskine could practically hear him giving up the charade for gone. "How is he?"

"Still dead. It wasn't him. The armour reanimated on its own."

"It what?"

"It's a very long story, and it's not one for over the phone. Where are you?"

"Sydney." Now that Erskine was listening for it, he could hear the low rumble of airplanes on a tarmac. "I can be over there tomorrow."

"Or we could have a Teleporter go and pick you up," Erskine suggested, glancing meaningfully at Corrival. "He just started working for the Sanctuary. Bright kid. Anyway, I happen to know he's been to Sydney many times."

Saracen's tone was startled, and held the hesitant gratitude of someone who really wasn't sure what there was to be grateful about, given that the destination wasn't going to be much fun. "Thank you."

"What are friends for?"

"You mean aside from dressing each other up in crazy costumes with heavy make-up? I have no idea."