So it was entirely possible that Skulduggery ending up here was not, as he initially thought, a big misunderstanding. In fact, this might not have anything to do with the Faceless Ones at all. A reality and/or prison where nobody was supposed to end up, nobody belonged, and mortal wounds were treated as nothing more than a slight inconvenience in the grand scheme of things. It was more than he'd known a minute ago, but didn't quite classify as knowledge. Not yet.

More than human. This woman certainly loved to be cryptic, but Skulduggery couldn't blame her this time. Nobody understood what he was, or how he could exist. Still, the skeletal frame his consciousness inhabited had become such a part of his life that now, being alive again, felt wrong. Not just strange, or unfamiliar, but completely out-of-place and unacceptable. He almost felt better knowing that someone, somehow, could still see a fraction of the truth. It meant he hadn't been brought completely back to life, as eerily similar as his current state might seem.

But then what did he call himself? Dead? Partly alive? Not-quite-alive-but-close-enough?

Those thoughts were almost immediately forgotten the moment the woman mentioned powers being weaker than they should be. Skulduggery held up his right hand and snapped the fingers, but there was still no magic, no spark, no heat. "Yes," he said with a nod, "how exactly does this mysterious captor do that?"