let me be the one you call / if you jump I'll break your fall

[impudentsongbird]

Book Four: Dark Days
1 | into the breach
2 | finding skulduggery
3 | retreat to the tunnels
4 | into the cacophony
5 | sanctuary in the cathedral
6 | reuniting old friends
7 | kenspeckle's new patient
8 | holy water and disinfectant
9 | objecting to china sorrows
10 | the roadtrip
11 | baffling guild
12 | shenanigans at the safehouse
13 | reassuring fletcher
14 | valkyrie's intervention
15 | solomon's revelation
16 | visiting the edgleys
17 | recalled to the sanctuary
18 | guild's confusion
19 | gabe is busted
20 | the psychic tattoist
21 | envisioning the cacophony
22 | angel's first migraine
23 | the morning after
24 | china and solomon
25 | detectives' council of war
26 | china's foolishness
27 | the collector dethroned
28 | finding crux
29 | skulduggery's vileness revealed
30 | sorrows in aftermath
31 | finding equilibrium
32 | the devil's number
33 | at the carnival
34 | meeting authorities
35 | solomon's confession
36 | the stray soul
37 | sanguine unsettled
38 | solomon's choice
39 | a cowboy underground
40 | in scarab's basement
41 | striking midnight
42 | craven contested
43 | emergency services
44 | on your feet
45 | and don't stop moving
46 | easy recognition
47 | a deuce of an evening
48 | engines roaring
49 | compromising judgements
50 | solomon's conflict
51 | axis turning
52 | thinking circular
53 | blasting the past
54 | reviling vile

Book Five: Mortal Coil
55 | sanctuary unsanctified
56 | shudder unravelling
57 | catching an angel
58 | layering dimensions
59 | dead men meeting
60 | when it rains
61 | power plays
62 | sing on gold
63 | the valley of death
64 | grand aspersions
65 | no evil feared
66 | new days rising
67 | angelic neuroses
68 | step-brothers working
69 | the many sorrows of china
70 | peacefully wreathed
71 | tarnished gold
72 | the secret in darkness
73 | magical intent
74 | scars worth keeping
75 | benefits of a beau
76 | grand magery
77 | lighting the darkness
78 | old dogs and new tricks
79 | flouting traditions
80 | drawing lines
81 | brothers and sisters in arms
82 | channelling angels
83 | return of the carnies
84 | the death bringers
85 | meriting agelessness
86 | knick knack, paddy
87 | give a dog a bone
88 | americans propheteering
89 | the right side of honour
90 | tailored shocks
91 | hosting angels
92 | elders anonymous
93 | rediscovered strays
94 | changings and changelings
95 | a state of reflection
96 | adding hope
97 | the devil's truth
98 | dead mens' hospitality
99 | lives half lived
100 | next to godliness
101 | devilish plans
102 | beached angels
103 | lights of revelation
104 | heroes worshipped
105 | new devilries
106 | angels under the yoke
107 | brains frozen
108 | father, mother, daughter
109 | parental guidance recommended
110 | driven round the bend
111 | ongoing training
112 | privileged information
113 | reasonable men
114 | passing the buck
115 | gifting magicks
116 | strengths and weaknesses
117 | immaturity's perks
118 | priests and prophets
119 | scaling evil
120 | blowing covers
121 | marring an afternoon
122 | lie detection
123 | five-dimensional pain
124 | reliving nightmares
125 | taking stock
126 | sampling spices
127 | sleeping prophets lying
128 | rueful returns
129 | dead men reunion
130 | medically-approved hugs

The life of an angel was a contradiction in changes and stability. On one hand, they understood very well the way the cosmos was shaped by events within it. On the other, they stood at one step apart from it—or at least had, for a very long time, up until their Master's recent wager with Lucifer. Changes in the recent past had, even for angels, been fast and turbulent, but there were none that concerned Raphael more than Gabriel's abrupt reserve.

In the aftermath of the wager Gabriel had been almost the only one to know where their Lord was at any given time, a fact which had put the Archangel very firmly under Lucifer's radar. Raphael had joked that Gabriel ought to arm himself with more jokes or worse clothes to drive the fallen angel away; Michael had offered the peace of the Garden Coast. (Rafe thought his idea was better.)

Either way, even though their Master was fair hidden, every angel knew that they had only to ask Gabriel and the Archangel would pass on a message.

Then Gabriel had simply blipped off the radar himself. Poof! Gone! No one had noticed at first, because, well, they weren't exactly in constant connection. It was just when Raphael had taken a whim to seek out his younger brother that he'd noticed it, and let it be, because there was absolutely a reason for it. Gabe did not just off and vanish, except that once with his self-exile, and that didn’t count.

But when Gabriel had come back, he had been strangely agitated and yet close-mouthed. The younger Archangel had vanished off to wherever their Master was hidden for a long chat Raphael was dying to have listened into, and yet couldn't (but only partly because it would have been rude). Now he was here, floating among the stars and examining a black hole with unnerving intensity.

For a time Raphael watched without letting on that he was there, but eventually Gabriel spoke. “I’d rather you came to join me instead of lurking, brother.”

Absolutely refusing to feel chagrined, Raphael let himself manifest with an arm around Gabriel’s shoulders and ruffled the younger angel’s hair. Gabriel threw a fond, longsuffering glance up at him, but there was something in his eyes, something distracted and sharp, which indicated that Gabriel still wasn’t truly present. Raphael only wished he knew where the other Archangel was.

“Just wondering what you’re doin’ all the way out here,” he said teasingly. “There’s a party going on down there on Earth, Gabe.” There was always a party going on down on Earth. “You oughta be down there bobbin’ for apples and switching up party-hats!”

“I can’t,” Gabriel said quietly, with a sort of seriousness Raphael had, for all Gabriel’s literalness, rarely heard from him. So Raphael fell into the same seriousness, lost his playful accent, and spoke directly.

“Why not, brother? You’ve been reserved of late. I conf—I’m worried for you.”

For a very long time Gabriel said nothing and stared into the slow-turning swirl of the black hole. Raphael waited patiently, his arm still companionably across the other Archangel’s shoulders. Eventually Gabriel spoke. “Did you know, Raphael,” he said, “that the universe you see around you here isn’t the only one our Master has created?”

Raphael was so startled that he couldn’t answer. That wasn’t what he was imagining. He hadn’t been sure what he’d been imagining, but that wasn’t it. “I’m not sure what you mean, Gabriel,” he said after a moment. “Our Lord told me the story of Creation not all that long ago, and he never mentioned anything of the kind.”

Gabriel nodded. “He told me that story as well. And then He asked if I really wanted to know details.” He hesitated. “I … admit, I declined. It’s something He said—about faith. I decided I didn’t need to know details. But it’s true, nevertheless. Just beyond this …” The Archangel reached out his hand and touched that gossamer and unbreakable fabric that supported reality. “There are other universes, even with different versions of us.”

“Different versions of us?” Raphael repeated, appalled and uncertain and entirely confused. How could that be possible? What could their Master want with more than one of any of them? What was going on? Where had Gabriel gone in that time he’d vanished? Then something occurred to him and he smiled with relief. “This is a joke, right?”

Gabriel looked up at him and smiled back with such a gentle understanding that for a moment Raphael felt very small indeed. “No, Rafe. I’m not joking. It was a shock to me too. That isn’t the point, though.”

“Isn’t it?” Raphael asked, feeling as dazed as an angel possibly could, especially when he wasn’t even inhabiting an actual physical body.

“No.” Gabriel returned to watching the black hole intently. “I met some people from other realities. One of them is in a kind of Hell, and he very much does not deserve it. I promised him that, if I could, I would save him from it.”

Which did not in the least explain why Gabe was staring at a black hole, let alone a million other questions Raphael would have liked to ask and for which he couldn’t find the words. Finally he found one. “How?”

“First,” Gabriel said with a sort of tranquillity Raphael had heard in his brother’s voice a million times but never after delivering so turbulent a piece of news, “I’m going to jimmy open a crack in the door through this hole.”

Raphael stared at Gabe, and then at the black hole, and then back at Gabe. He opened his mouth to ask whether their Master knew he was planning this and then closed it, because that was a stupid question. He opened it again to query if Gabriel had asked whether he could go around lifting the sheets and then realised that was also a stupid question, because whether he had or not, their Master probably would have told him to do what he felt was best.

It was equally clear that Gabriel very much planned to go through with this, no matter what Raphael said, and really, did Raphael have the right to object? Surely if this carried a risk, their Master would have already forbidden Gabriel from making the attempt?

“I’ll come with,” Raphael said at last, and this time when Gabriel glanced back the younger Archangel’s expression was startled. A moment later that expression shifted into grateful apology.

“I’m sorry, Rafe, but I’m not entirely certain I’ll make it through, and we can hardly leave Michael here alone.” He grinned. “Did you see what he was wearing last festival day on the Garden Coast? He hasn’t moved out of the eighteenth century yet. How would he possibly handle the rest of the world?”

Raphael laughed out loud, warm but startled, and the sound of it rang through space. Gabriel chuckled quietly beside him, and for a few minutes there was just companionable humour that faded into an equally comfortable silence.

Still, Raphael had a lot of questions. How did Gabriel plan to find his friend, let alone the universe he was in? How was he going to get back? What would he do if he met another version of himself? Or, worse, Lucifer? Finally the Archangel just asked, “Have you figured out how to crack open the door?”

“I think so,” Gabriel said, considering the black hole. “Once I figured out what to look for. I wouldn’t have gotten even that far if it weren’t for some things our Master said.”

Which meant that, in some fashion, this expedition was sanctioned by their Master, Raphael translated, and something tense in him relaxed. “Something do to with this drain here, I’ll bet,” he said, falling into his casual accent once more. “Gonna rip out the kitchen sink, li’l brother?”

“Just to see what’s hiding underneath,” Gabriel said with a grin.

“I’ll try’n keep it open for ya,” Raphael promised, and Gabriel sent him a smile which lit up the very space around them with its brilliance.

“Thank you, Rafe,” he said, and straightened. Raphael took his arm away as Gabriel lifted his hands, not exactly stepping back so much as giving Gabriel space. The youngest Archangel didn’t often reveal his power, but it was always a sight to see, a song to hear, when he did.

As it was now. Gabriel’s voice started deep, lifted high, split and wove and became more melodies than one would think a single being could possibly sing at once. The sound of it made Raphael’s heart soar, made him want to fly and laugh. It was so deep, so light, so resonating that it was physical; it touched the slow turn of the black hole and made it, for just the briefest of moments, still. In that moment Gabriel sent a carefully-aimed bolt of energy into the heart of it.

It was the kind of sight Raphael hadn’t seen in thousands of years, a play of physics and metaphysics which he hadn’t thought possible, let alone imagined. There was an eruption in the centre of the black hole, where gravity was condensed; the cascade of energy plumed upward and was dragged back down as quick, a tear in the fabric of the reality not allowed the time to widen or become a danger.

Raphael didn’t even know Gabe had moved until the younger Archangel was gone, he was so busy staring in awe. With a start the Archangel stretched out his senses and just barely managed to catch a glimpse of his brother shooting toward the hole at speeds few angels could have achieved through such a gravity well. Raphael certainly couldn’t have.

How, he suddenly wondered, was he meant to keep that open if he didn’t even have the speed of thought to track Gabriel’s movements through it?

Desperately the Archangel cast about for something to jam in the door, as it were. There was some dark matter nearby and with a thought he fashioned it into a spear and pitched it toward the centre of the black hole. It struck just as Gabriel flitted through the crack nearly wholly collapsed in on itself; the star’s gravity caught it, pulled it in, and plugged the opening like a metaphysical sink.

Slowly Raphael made every part of himself relax. For good or ill, Gabe was gone on this quest of his, and now Raphael should probably go and round up some of their younger siblings to guard the area. Just in case.


Book Four: Dark Days
into the breach | finding skulduggery | retreat to the tunnels | into the cacophony | sanctuary in the cathedral | reuniting old friends | kenspeckle's new patient | holy water and disinfectant | objecting to china sorrows | the roadtrip | baffling guild | shenanigans at the safehouse | reassuring fletcher | valkyrie's intervention | solomon's revelation | visiting the edgleys | recalled to the sanctuary | guild's confusion | gabe is busted | the psychic tattoist | envisioning the cacophony | angel's first migraine | the morning after | china and solomon | detectives' council of war | china's foolishness | the collector dethroned | finding crux | skulduggery's vileness revealed | sorrows in aftermath | finding equilibrium | the devil's number | at the carnival | meeting authorities | solomon's confession | the stray soul | sanguine unsettled | solomon's choice | a cowboy underground | in scarab's basement | striking midnight | craven contested | emergency services | on your feet | and don't stop moving | easy recognition | a deuce of an evening | engines roaring | compromising judgements | solomon's conflict | axis turning | thinking circular | blasting the past | reviling vile

Book Five: Mortal Coil
sanctuary unsanctified | shudder unravelling | catching an angel | layering dimensions | dead men meeting | when it rains | power plays | sing on gold | the valley of death | grand aspersions | no evil feared | new days rising | angelic neuroses | step-brothers working | the many sorrows of china | peacefully wreathed | tarnished gold | the secret in darkness | magical intent | scars worth keeping | benefits of a beau | grand magery | lighting the darkness | old dogs and new tricks | flouting traditions | drawing lines | brothers and sisters in arms | channelling angels | return of the carnies | the death bringers | meriting agelessness | knick knack, paddy | give a dog a bone | americans propheteering | the right side of honour | tailored shocks | hosting angels | elders anonymous | rediscovered strays | changings and changelings | a state of reflection | adding hope | the devil's truth | dead mens' hospitality | lives half lived | next to godliness | devilish plans | beached angels | lights of revelation | heroes worshipped | new devilries | angels under the yoke | brains frozen | father, mother, daughter | parental guidance recommended | driven round the bend | ongoing training | privileged information | reasonable men | passing the buck | gifting magicks | strengths and weaknesses | immaturity's perks | priests and prophets | scaling evil | blowing covers | marring an afternoon | lie detection | five-dimensional pain | reliving nightmares | taking stock | sampling spices | sleeping prophets lying | rueful returns | dead men reunion | medically-approved hugs

Comments

[impudentsongbird]

"Don't be so hard on yourself, pardner," Gabe said innocently, "'cos we like you anyways." He grinned at Fletcher and, although he was aware of the quiet, calm awe in Barney's soul, chose not to draw attention to the man. The Archangel had had ulterior motives other than proving to Fletcher the glory in stories told by a medium other than the television (although cinema had its own charm too, of course).

Barney Lachlan had earned some peace, some hope. And, as Skulduggery had noted inwardly, words were Gabriel's tool. If there was anyone who could make someone feel better just with them, it was him.

"I spy," the Archangel announced, "with my li'l eye, somethin' beginnin' with ..." He let his gaze travel around the car and its exterior in such a way as to not draw attention to anything. "D."

~~~

"That's right, you've met Gabe, haven'tcha?" Dad said sanguinely and with a broad smile, entirely unsurprised by Guild's assumption or his confirmation of it. "He's a good kid. Kinda lacking in the initiative sometimes, but a good kid."

His smile and tone turned proud, His eyes shining, demeanour entirely unaffected. No one looking at Him could claim His love for His son wasn't genuine. "Taught 'im everything he knows an' he took to it like a dolphin to water." Which did not, of course, answer the question except by implication. "Taught all my kids everything they know, but Gabe's the one who took to this whole thing the best."

[skeletonenigma]

The letter had scarcely left Gabe's mouth before Skull cut off the end of it with his guess. "Detective."

"How can you tell someone's a detective just by looking?" Barney asked with a curious glance around the pedestrians dodging traffic as they tried to cross the road. Most of them wore coats against the chilly weather, and none of them particularly looked like they worked for the Dublin police force.

"Oh, I don't," Skull failed to explain. "I could. That man there is a Detective Inspector, for example. Probably not a very good one, though. Not too thorough."

He was pointing at a man on the corner of the sidewalk who didn't look any different from any of the other pedestrians, save for a brown weathered hat. Barney frowned, suddenly reminded of cop shows where the main characters could tell everything about a person with a glance. Good fun, but... not something that happened in real life. Skull was probably just having a laugh at Barney's expense.

"But I was referring to myself in this instance," Skull continued with what sounded like a smile. "I work as a detective. When I'm not working for the carnival, which, believe it or not, can get rather dull. It's how I afford my car. And it's almost definitely what my friend's word is, unless he's picked up a thing or two from me."

Barney shook his head in wonder. Did he somehow stumble right into a new television show? This whole ride was turning into a perfect story for his daughter.

~~

"Daddy!" Guild's daughter tugged at his arm one more time. "I really, really, really want a pony backpack! Please?"

It was easy to see Guild's inner turmoil on his face. The desire to make the little girl happy, and the duty to discover all he could about the man standing in front of him. Just go get the backpack, Ghastly silently encouraged him. You really don't want to know.

"I don't suppose I could get an estimate on how long I'll have to deal with you or your son?" Guild was back to his gruff self, and fortunately about to bring the conversation to an end. Even if he'd phrased his question in the absolute worst way possible. "Or whether I'll have to deal with any more of you in the near future?"

[impudentsongbird]

"Ain't you!" Gabriel sang out, grinning smugly. He reached out to whack Skul's arm. "And I'll have you know I learned misdirection from my Daddy, not from you."

Because that was precisely what he'd planned: to lead them on with a theme. Words were so easy to misdirect with. "Think I'm insulted, by the way," he added, "that you actually thought I was that predictable. Know I can be sometimes, but seriously, Skul, that predictable?"

The Archangel scoffed, and if he hadn't still been grinning it might have almost looked indignant. Almost. "Keep guessin', pardner."

~~~

"Aw, you ain't really dealing with us anyways," Dad said comfortably. "Well, not Me. Can't speak for Gabe." For reasons Guild wouldn't be able to understand but Ghastly might, those words only made His smile broaden and the gleam in His eyes strengthen.

Then He sighed, and something in His face turned careworn and sad. He was almost as expressive as Gabe in His own way--less so, on a scale, but somehow more genuine than most other people managed to be. "Can't speak for the others either. Some of his older brothers have been justifiably protective lately, but one might come along just to give him grief. You know how it is with kids." This last He murmured sombrely. "There's some y'just can't teach."

Then He shrugged. "Leastways I'll still be around if he gets here and starts gettin' too outta hand."

[skeletonenigma]

Skulduggery shrugged as he searched outside the car. "Funny, that. Because you weren't very manipulative when we first met." Granted, there was every single extenuating circumstance in existence, but Skulduggery liked to think he'd had something to do with Gabe's constant free will struggle. "It was worth a try, anyway, predictable or no. Driver. Darkness. Decklid. Dublin."

"Hey!" Fletcher objected. "Come on, you've got to let us have a go!"

"And where in the rules does it say that?" Skulduggery asked with overly-mock curiosity.

"It..." Fletcher's defiance deflated, if not quite his passion. "It doesn't, but seriously. You're better than us, and everyone knows that, and I think we should get a handicap. Just let us have a guess each."

Skulduggery cocked his head backwards to make it clear he was giving Fletcher a Look. "No."

"Dashboard?" the cabbie asked, apparently completely unaware of the conversation up to this point - at least until his tired face creased into a frown. "What the hell's a decklid?"

~~

It was, without a doubt, the most casual discussion of Lucifer Ghastly had ever had the unique pleasure of participating in. And yet, he couldn't help having to stifle another dry laugh, which made Guild turn to look at him with scathing confusion. Oh, if only the Grand Mage had any idea who Dad was really referring to. Forget God and Gabriel; Satan was on his way here.

It was difficult to remember, sometimes, that Satan had been an Archangel once himself. The most beautiful of all the angels in Heaven, if Ghastly remembered correctly. And not just an Archangel, either; one of God's children. Kids, as Dad so succinctly put it. Brothers with Gabe. There had probably been a time when they all joked around together, before Lucifer Fell. Now, with the way God had just been so brazenly free with information - because He could afford to be, obviously, and no one without the proper context could even begin to understand - and especially with the way He referred to Lucifer as a child? Ghastly didn't think he was ever going to be able to forget.

The casual discussion didn't help, though. Even Dad basically promising them He would be here to help... didn't really diminish the fear Ghastly felt at the prospect of having to deal with the Devil. Not one iota. Which probably meant he was actually adjusting extremely well.

Guild's eyes had narrowed. "As long as your family squabbles don't interfere with any of us, or with Ireland, in any way, shape, or form. Can I trust you, Bespoke, to come straight to me if they do?"

Ghastly nodded. He didn't speaking would be the best plan, at the moment. Guild had no idea. It was almost amusing, how much idea he didn't have. How he didn't know that it was those exact family 'squabbles' that made existence possible - if not in their own dimension, then at least in another one.

The Grand Mage sighed. "Of course I can't. Why do I even bother? Let me give you some fair warning: I will be keeping an eye on you. All of you."

[impudentsongbird]

"I chose not to be," Gabriel said with great dignity. "Besides, took you a while before you figured out I was lyin' about my name." Even though it wasn't exactly a lie--it was the nearest stranger-safe wording he had. He hadn't been lying about his name, but his identity, and once it 'came out' that he was an 'Ancient', Skulduggery had seemed fairly satisfied.

"Nope." The Archangel shook his head. "Nope, nope, nope." Then, finally, he laughed. "Think in this case Barney's better, seein' as his single guess was right. A decklid's the boot-lid, by the by. Just a fancy-schmancy name real hardcore car-fans use."

He winked at the man in the mirror, tilting his head in such a way as to indicate Skulduggery at 'hardcore car-fans'.

~~~

Really, there was no reason not to believe God was always free with information. It was just that people so rarely listened or, if they heard, understood. In any case, Ghastly's image of 'His boys' laughing together before Lucifer's Fall made the Old Man chuckle to Himself without explaining the context to the others.

"Can't really promise that, I'm afraid," God observed calmly. "Been a long time since the boy in question listened to anythin' I ever said, and of course I ain't gonna stop the others from tryin' to keep him on a leash if they wanna. Lucky they're pretty good at that."

He smiled agreeably. "'Course you will, if it'll help y'all fall asleep at night." He dipped His hat at Miss Guild once more. "Been a pleasure, little lady."

[skeletonenigma]

"That's because you weren't lying," Skulduggery reminded him. "Just stretching the truth slightly. There aren't many people who would take the leap from there." Especially if they weren't religious, and never had been religious, even when being faced with the Faceless Ones themselves.

The cabbie's name, however, was apparently Barney, judging by the doubletake of their driver when Gabe used it. For a split second, Skulduggery was worried that the Archangel might have let something slip, but of course not. That was ridiculous. The name would have been written somewhere, as was the case in most cabs. 'Barney' might just not be used to anyone taking note of the name, much less using it.

Barney laughed a moment later regardless, and Skulduggery returned to looking out the window, worry abated. "That so?" Barney thumped the steering wheel idly with his fist as they slid into the Dublin suburbs and out of the worst traffic. "Well, then. I spy something beginning with T."

~~

The little girl was beaming, even if she didn't respond. She gave them both a short, very enthusiastic wave and tugged her father off towards the stalls, causing him to stumble and the glare he'd been shooting towards Dad to dwindle in effect. Ghastly waved back despite himself, partly because the little girl had grown on him - at least as much as a person could in the space of a few short minutes - and partly to make Guild glare again. It was oddly fun.

This whole afternoon had become oddly fun.

"Where to next?" Ghastly asked without a trace of the hesitation or awkwardness from before. Or even realising that there wasn't a trace of the hesitation or awkwardness from before. The boxer was currently walking around with three teddy bears under one arm and two more in his other hand, and he found that the more stares he received, the more comfortable he was. Besides, ever since getting the pink pony backpack, God had been the one attracting everyone's attention.

[impudentsongbird]

"Still counts as a manipulation," Gabe pointed out. "So I can too be manipulative. I just choose not to be." He frowned. "Why am I even arguin' this point? Ain't a trait to be proud of ... most of the time." The last was an addition in afterthought, a smile at Skul escaping him--the rueful sort that came out before its owner was aware.

Then the Archangel laughed. "T's getting a work-out today," he said, his gaze already travelling around the car. "Let's see now ..."

~~~

Dad was laughing as Miss Guild dragged her father away, waving cheerily after them both just as Ghastly did. "Next?" He grinned and turned to the tailor, shifting His own burdens so He wasn't quite hugging the bears in His arms (but that was certainly the impression one got at a glance). "Next we're gonna go make a delivery, boyo. I'm thinkin' the city hospital. Kid's ward. Kids can always do with cheerin' up."

After all, He had one more teddy-bear than Ghastly (obviously, Missy Guild's didn't count). Therefore it was His choice. "You might have to direct Me, 'course," He added innocently as he turned toward the general direction of the exit. "It's been a while and all that."

[skeletonenigma]

"It's not traffic again, is it?" Fletch asked with a frown at the rearview mirror.

"Nope." Barney chuckled. They didn't really take him for a tired old geezer, did they? "Not traffic, and not teenager. This is a new one."

"Tree?" Fletch suggested as the roads they drove along became lush with greenery outside of the city proper. "Or, ooh! Tank. Like the petrol tank on a car."

Barney grimaced as he shook his head. "No... good guesses, though."

"Tsetse fly."

Barney, for about the umpteenth time that fare, turned to stare at the man they called Skull. He was definitely an interesting bloke, in more ways than one. Probably had to have a lot going for him, what with the family in the back, and there was definitely a sort of classy gentlemanly charm around him. But some of the things he said were just... so far out there. "Tsetse fly?"

Skull gave an overpronounced shrug through the thick scarf draped around his shoulders. "Probably quite a few around here. And you might have better eyesight than we do."

Barney slowly shook his head. "Uh, nope. Not a fly. It's quite a bit bigger than that."

~~

Ghastly was tempted to ask just how long it had been, but decided he didn't really want to know what the answer was. He'd always thought the longer lifespan in sorcerers was a burden that the culture as a whole had adapted to, each individual in their own way. Gabe had been jarring enough; Ghastly didn't want to know about someone older than the universe itself. Than any universe.

"A delivery sounds grand," he agreed quietly, falling into step beside Dad. "Nearest hospital isn't too far away, either. We could walk it."

While carrying a boatload of teddy bears. Ghastly suppressed a sigh. As if the rest of his day hadn't been interesting enough.

[impudentsongbird]

'So far out there' was a matter of opinion. Gabriel, for his part, was giggling silently in his seat, one hand over his mouth and trying to turn them from giggles into something else. Words, maybe. "Too bad," he managed after a moment, swallowing his amusement to sit up, arrange a deadpan look on his face, and point outside the window. "There's one just there."

It wasn't, after all, his fault the rest of them were blind in comparison. Even though technically speaking it wasn't eyes he was using to 'see' the fly in question. "Betcha it's a telephone pole."

~~~

"Nothin' wrong with walkin'," Dad said, ambling along at a steady but relaxed pace. The way he held his bears, it was almost like they were kids themselves. "Rushin' about like a chicken with your head cut off ain't no fun. Ever been to the kid's ward in a hospital, lad?"

The question, as with many of God's comments, undoubtedly seemed right out of the blue.

[skeletonenigma]

Barney couldn't stop himself from looking for the fly, even though he obviously didn't see it. Because it was a joke. A sort of 'made you look!' type thing that he'd completely fallen for like an idiot. "It's not a telephone pole," he replied with a mischievous grin. "You guys don't need a hint, do you? I thought you were supposed to be a detective."

"Oh, I know what it is," Skull assured him. "Truck. Presumably the one that's been following us for the last five minutes."

Barney couldn't help it; he stared.

~~

Ghastly hesitated. One of the reasons it was so hard to take God seriously was because He certainly didn't act all-knowing. "Once. A while ago. Skul had a case involving triplets, and he needed some help."

In fact, now that Ghastly thought about it, he hadn't set foot in a mortal hospital for a long time. There had never really been a reason to. Aside from the triplets, the last time he remembered was back during the war - they'd just repurposed a whole hospital to take care of some of the wounded civilian sorcerers, and Ghastly had spent most of that time marveling at how slow mortal medicine was, and yet how effective.

[impudentsongbird]

"Now who's showin' off?" Gabriel asked in pure good humour from where he leaned on the shoulder of the front passenger seat. His tone was entirely unsurprised by the guess in such a way that implied he, also, knew what it was and had been avoiding the guess just like Skul had been.

He tilted his head in an uncanny (and possibly deliberate) imitation of Skulduggery himself. "Then again, spottin' a truck ain't hard detecting, pardner. I think you're just trying to boast. That's a sin, y'know."

The Archangel nodded solemnly, and yet there was really no mistaking the mischief in his eyes which completely belied the accusation.

~~~

"Triplets," God said reminiscently. "Got a few sets of them Myself. How'd this case go, laddo?" Somehow, it was difficult to tell just how through all the teddy-bears, He managed to reach out and clap a hand to Ghastly's shoulder. "Tell Me a story while we walk, Bespoke."

They were just approaching the carnival gates. A story, even a short one, ought to take up the time to the hospital.

[skeletonenigma]

"I don't show off," Skulduggery responded using a tone that wasn't quite seriously arguing with Gabe's, but not quite whimsically amused either. Because he didn't show off. He didn't have to. "I merely display my abilities at opportune times. I do boast, though," he admitted easily. "Only way to get a real reputation, boasting. And if I was already on my way to hell, I doubt one more small sin in the pile is going to make much difference."

The expression that crossed poor Fletcher's face was something between concern and worry, but the teenager didn't try to say anything. Not in front of Barney. The words hadn't really been directed at him, but the expression still tugged at Skulduggery, and the detective wasn't quite sure why. All he knew was that he suddenly felt something very close to gratitude for how Fletcher had reacted to everything within the past few hours. The Teleporter knew what was at stake here, even if he didn't quite understand. And he was still here. Here and worried.

Never in a millennium would Skulduggery have predicted an outcome like this to a situation like that, even disregarding the Archangel. Although it was probably thanks to Gabe that Ghastly hadn't torn Skulduggery apart limb from limb.

[peacefullywreathed]

"You show off," Gabriel contradicted, and then grinned--not that the grin had ever completely left. The humour in his face had rarely left through the whole drive. "But it's okay. It's funny most of the time. 'Specially seeing people react."

Gabriel wasn't looking at Fletcher, but he felt the sudden alarm in the Teleporter's soul and turned the grin on him instead. It was accompanied by a roll of his eyes. "You'd be surprised, pardner. You'd be surprised. Or, you've already been surprised, but you're gonna be again."

The grin turned reassuring for Fletcher's sake, and the Archangel reached out to squeeze the teen's hand. Just in case. They weren't ignoring him, promise. It'd be okay.

~~~

High Priest Tenebrae was getting pushy. Solomon was beginning to wish that they had never taken to cellphones even in the somewhat limited manner they had, because he had message after message demanding he return to the Temple at once. That was something which, now more than ever, the Necromancer wasn't willing to do.

His palm hadn't stopped prickling since he left China's apartment. Nor had his back. His heart hadn't stopped that slow pound of adrenaline. His cane was cold, cold in a way that made his mouth dry--cold with a kind of sharpness Solomon had long been used to. Right now, that sharpness felt like a scream. (The sound of it reverberated in his memory.)

Solomon was, quite plainly, terrified. He was terrified of death. Terrified of Saint Gabriel. Terrified of Necromancy. Terrified of the doors before which he stood. Doors he hadn't been through in centuries.

Church doors. Silently the Necromancer looked up at them, his face impassive but sweat on his lip. The church was a nice one; small but well-equipped. It even had a stained-glass window--just one, right over the door. An image of a man that was probably Jesus looked down at him, smiling, holding a cross and one hand uplifted.

The image made Solomon's stomach turned over. Pausing to gather his nerves had been a mistake. He couldn't go back, but now he couldn't go forward. So he stood, absurdly paralysed in a way he should not have been. A Necromancer's fear was conquered through faith, but Solomon didn't know what to have faith in anymore. No faith left, which meant he had to rely on logic.

China Sorrows is a broken woman, he reminded himself. Broken because she tried to go up against God Himself and His chosen angel. It's only logical to get as much information as possible, and a priest is the most logical source.

With that reprimand, Solomon forced himself to move through sheer force of will, stretching out a hand to push open the doors and stride through, his movements quick and sharp to hide the fact that he trembled.

[skeletonenigma]

"This is it," Barney announced as he brought the cab to a stop in front of a dilapidated looking house. He frowned with sudden curiosity as he took in the sagging porch from inside his taxi, wondering if he should stick around for a bit. This wasn't exactly the best of neighbourhoods. "You folks sure this is the place?"

"It is." Skull pushed open his car door and turned as he stepped out. "How much do we owe you?"

"Sixteen point twenty-four euros." That was promising. Barney had begun to wonder if these people had any money on them at all, let alone enough for a decent tip. He'd pretty much given up on the tip, but it would be nice not to have to explain a free cab fare. Because honestly, Barney didn't feel like kicking up too much of a fuss; these were some of the most interesting people he'd ever met.

"Fletcher, would you mind?" Skull stepped back. "Run inside and grab my wallet. Should be on the table in the front room."

Barney had to stare again. They lived here? But... temporarily, right? He thought they were carnie folk.

~~

The church was usually clean, and Father Patrick O'Reilly wasn't usually too concerned about constantly keeping it that way. Other things were far more important, such as spreading the message of the church, or planning the local events they were known for. Up until yesterday, Father O'Reilly had been busying himself with making sure they had enough volunteers to hold their monthly homeless dinner, as well as the necessary funds. Volunteers were getting hard to come by, unfortunately, even from his own congregation.

And then yesterday, about mid-afternoon, while Father O'Reilly was alone in the back trying to work up the suddenly required permit for the public space they would need, he'd heard a sudden stumbling and cursing from the chapel. And when he went to go investigate, ready to scold a couple of teenagers for their rowdy behaviour, he'd been greeted instead by something he still couldn't quite believe.

A pair of angels.

A pair. Of angels.

He'd said as much, and they hadn't exactly confirmed it, but they didn't deny it either. And really, what else would look so unnaturally beautiful? Or, no. Not unnatural; more natural than anything Father O'Reilly had ever seen before.

They'd asked for holy water. Two whole barrels of it, and Father O'Reilly didn't ask why. He'd asked if they needed help carrying it, stood confused at their laughter, and then watched in stunned awe as they both disappeared with the barrels into thin air.

A few hours later that evening, they'd returned. Breathless and scared, looking much more like normal humans, politely asking for a whole set of barrels of holy water. By then, the priest had put two and two together - an injured angel. He'd been only too happy to help, and even managed not to be too surprised when the male one laid his hand on only one of the barrels, and they all disappeared.

Would they come again today? Father O'Reilly didn't know, and he'd spent most of the morning flitting from pew to pew in the empty chapel, absentmindedly cleaning that which didn't need to be cleaned. He was ashamed of it, when he realised what he was doing. He'd just started to work on the permit again when he heard the chapel doors open.

He couldn't stop his heart from sinking when he walked out and saw a middle-aged stranger standing there, rather than the two young-looking angels. With a mental slap to snap himself out of it, Father O'Reilly smiled gently and stepped forward. The stranger looked uncertain and, in a way that the priest was very familiar with, moving forward like he needed to avoid touching anything.

A person on the verge of conversion. The smile grew even more gentle. Father O'Reilly knew how important and delicate this process was, and how vital it was that he didn't push. "Can I help you?"

[impudentsongbird]

"Looks can tell a lot," Gabriel told Barney, opening his door and swinging his legs out. He peered past the door to the house and sighed. "Then again, sometimes takes lookin' past that to see what's goin' on. Welp." Carefully the Archangel levered himself upright and stepped away from the car, closing the door firmly but without a slam.

Angels didn't get stiff with inaction, but Gabe still moved carefully, slowly, limping a bit. If Barney hadn't seen it before, if he watched now he'd definitely be able to tell that Gabe was injured in some fashion. Since Fletcher was dashing up the path and around the back (the front door looked rather disused), Gabe leaned on Skulduggery's arm instead. (Without permission, but it was a given.)

Gabriel tilted his head to look at Barney through the window and gave him a friendly grin. "Thanks for the ride, Barn. It was a good one."

~~~

For a moment Solomon didn't know whether to be pleased or not that the priest had been there, and had greeted him so quickly. It was just as well; the Necromancer wasn't entirely certain his determination wouldn't have petered out halfway down the aisle. His heart was pounding so hard in his chest he half expected it to explode through his ribcage.

There were several reasons he'd chosen this church: It had a good record for being open-minded. The priest was considered a helpful man (if not the congregation). And said priest had implied some sort of recent revelation. No details had been given; it had been more in the man's demeanour when he spoke to some of his colleagues to ask some rather strange questions last night and this morning. About angels. And visions.

Solomon, with context, could put two and two together.

He wasn't blind. He saw the way the man's face fell, just slightly before he mustered himself with admirable graciousness. Almost dryly Solomon wondered to himself just how many people Saint Gabriel had revealed himself. With controlled motions (consciously controlled, in a way he shouldn't have needed) Solomon stopped just level with the last pew and set his cane to the carpet.

His palms still hadn't stopped tingling.

"Father," he said graciously, inclining his head in greeting. "My name is Solomon Wreath. If you have some time this afternoon, I have some ... questions I'd like to ask." He paused for a moment, abruptly realising that he'd spent so long working up his nerve that he'd forgotten to think of exact questions to ask. Ah, well. Honesty, it appeared, got a better response than manipulation--if China Sorrows was anything to go by. He managed to draw up a smile, a calm, wry smile which nevertheless held an edge. "About God, although I imagine that much is obvious."

[skeletonenigma]

"Yeah, no problem." Barney tore his eyes away from the house to see Gabe using Skull as support, and an unwarranted smile flickered over his face before he turned away. "Thank you for that game. Most of my fares don't say anything. It can get lonely."

"Most cab drivers don't respond too well to questions," Skull replied. "And I had one verbally attack me a while back because I forgot the tip. Little too busy chasing a criminal, unfortunately. I like you, Barney."

Barney blinked. "Uh, thanks. I like you guys too." He shifted uncomfortably for a moment, and then added, "maybe I'll see you at the carnival?"

"The carnival. Yes. Perhaps. Ah, thank you, Fletcher. Sixteen euros?"

Fletcher had, as far as Barney was aware, suddenly appeared at Skull's elbow. Blimey, the kid was fast. Barney hadn't even seen the teenager run back up the path. "Yep. Sixteen euros and twenty-four - "

"Here you go." Skull pushed a single note into Barney's hand. "Keep the change. Use it to buy something for your children at the carnival. They probably need it."

"My children?"

"Yes. Unless it's just one child, which does make more sense. Oh, come on," Skull continued, probably in response to the expression on Barney's face. "Why else would you go to a carnival? And working as a cabbie isn't exactly lucrative. Consider it a gift for a thoroughly enjoyable ride. I wish you the best of luck."

It wasn't until the three of them were halfway up the path that Barney, stunned and confused, glanced down at the note in his hand. Fifty euros. Fifty euros... he made a noise he couldn't quite identify, bit it back down, and swallowed past the sudden dryness in his throat.

Allie would love to hear about this. The crazy trio of generous carnie folk who moonlighted as detectives and happily involved complete strangers in their games. Maybe Barney could try to weave a story out of it. Or, more likely, his daughter would.

The fifty-euro note still clutched in his hand, Barney put the car in gear and slowly drove off, feeling very different in a way he couldn't even begin to describe. More... hopeful?

~~

For a moment, the permit swam into the priest's mind, but he impatiently dispelled it. Someone going through a crisis of faith would always take priority over paperwork that shouldn't even need to be done in the first place. "I have as much time as you need," he assured the man - Solomon. If the name was anything to go by, Solomon Wreath's parents had believed, or at least knew something of the Bible. That probably meant Solomon had just been through some personal trauma, likely involving a death, which left him with nowhere else to turn to.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Father O'Reilly began. "Having questions is something I'm certain a lot of people can say. It's only natural, and it's the first step in any process. Would you like to take a seat?"

[impudentsongbird]

"That was well done, Skul," Gabriel said quietly as they made their way to Myron Stray's door, a smile still on his lips. He was leaning on the detective, but the Archangel's other hand rested on Fletcher's arm now as well. "He needed that money."

It was a statement, more than an explanation. Skulduggery had probably been able to tell enough just from the things in the car. The picture half-hidden by the dash, where a passenger in the front seat would have trouble seeing just how many people were in it. The state of the man's clothes. The way he'd spoken of the carnival. The pale band of skin on his finger where he'd only recently stopped wearing a wedding ring.

"I think we should go to the carnival," Gabe continued, and while there wasn't an order in his words, his tone was firm. He wanted to go to the carnival, not just as some time off, or for nostalgia, but because he knew now there was someone there whom he could help without using his powers at all. "Not now, but when we can. Better, if we can time it when they're there. I like them, and they can use some hope."

They came to the door, but Gabe paused before actually standing on the stoop, glancing at Fletcher and then back at Skulduggyer. "When this is all over, we'll go. All of us. Okay?"

~~~

This ambivalence was growing far beyond frustration. Solomon wasn't used to being uncertain, wasn't used to having to tread water. He was used to being decisive, to knowing precisely what he wanted, where he stood, and that people like this priest were as delusional as they believed him to be. Everything, but everything, contributed to one single goal. Now he no longer had that.

You could have a goal, whispered part of him, deep down, which had seen fit to notice the value on his Christian upbringing enough to see it in Necromancy as well. You're just too afraid to.

Amazing, how fear now paralysed him, where before it had galvanised him.

Solomon sat, slowly and looking around the church, trying to take things in to give himself something to stabilise himself. He still couldn't help amusement from flitting across his face at the priest's words. Nothing to be ashamed of. If only the man knew what he had planned, that most 'decent' people on the Earth would consider it pure evil.

The Necromancer turned from that idea and spoke instead.

"You say that as if I'm looking for a process," Solomon observed, his gaze trailing across the altar, the cross, and the pews. "I'm seeking answers, not a conversion." Although at this point he was reluctant to deny the latter might happen, if the answers were right. Then again, perhaps it wouldn't. Could it count as a conversion when he knew the truth, but had no faith? Solomon doubted it. Valkyrie knew the power of Necromancy, and had no faith at all. That hadn't bothered Solomon. Her powers were a tool, as all Necromancers' powers were tools, to avoid death itself.

And yet. And yet now it was Solomon without the faith. Could he still use the tools?

The Necromancer's gaze finally landed on the priest's face. Even though the whole scanning action had been entirely casual, as calm and indifferent and merely curious as Solomon could have wanted, he already knew, somehow, that Father O'Reilly knew Solomon had been avoiding the contact. The question Solomon himself was asking was why. He was here for logic. For answers. For facts. Why should he fear this so? He only needed to go where the logic went. He always had, even in his faith.

Start with those facts. The supposed facts. "He's omniscient," Solomon said. "Omnipotent. And omnipresent. Correct?" It was more a call for acknowledgement than a request for explanation. If Solomon stopped now, he might not keep going later. "How do you know that He's there at all?"

No, that wasn't quite what he wanted to ask. Solomon knew God existed. China's reaction told him that much. He didn't need to hear about a priest's hollow explanations of faith, even one who may have seen a real angel. It was no help at all to define a fact Solomon already knew.

The Necromancer frowned. What he wanted to ask was ... was ...

How do you know He's as benevolent as the Bible claims?

How do you know He'll really forgive you like the Bible says?

How do you know He won't turn around and punish you anyway?

Why do you believe it at all?

Why would He forgive someone like me for the things I've done and the things I've planned to do?

A medley ran through his one, a medley of all the questions Solomon had wanted to ask as a child, never been able to as a teen and finally never felt the need to as a man. It was the last question that leapt out and made his mind freeze, the question he had, all this time, been avoiding and could no longer. There it was, wasn't it? The reason he was so afraid. The acknowledgement that this wasn't like Necromancy. If God existed, it meant that Solomon's own actions would indeed be judged as evil, not by other mere men of lesser power, but the Almighty. That Solomon would be punished, because there were no tools Solomon could use against God. And that he couldn't avoid it. He would never be able to avoid it. Even if he went through the Passing.

The Necromancer found himself staring down at his cane, almost fascinated by the fact that his hands were, very visibly, trembling. He tried to still them and couldn't; not even pressing the cane into the floor helped stem the tide of adrenaline and nerves. His throat was dry all over again and his blood rushed in his ears, except that it sounded like an endless scream.

For some long moments, Solomon wasn't aware of the church around him at all. Just of the Scream, and the power in his cane, and his own terror at what it meant for there to be an Ultimate Power he couldn't even begin to touch the way he had touched death. Then, not exactly abruptly but with a slow-burning dizziness, the Necromancer felt separated from his body and mind and heard himself asking with a weird sort of icy calm, "How do you know He's actually omnipotent at all?"

Surely there was a way. Surely ...

[skeletonenigma]

"I know," Skulduggery agreed quietly. Barney did need the money. A lot more than someone who had no use for food or air conditioning did, that much had been obvious. Whether Gabe read the information in the man's soul, or was alerted to the same clues Skulduggery had been, it was clear Barney's situation struck a ringing chord with the Archangel. Not that there was any reason it wouldn't.

"I wouldn't mind going to a carnival," Fletcher piped up, trying a little too hard to sound completely casual. "Just, you know. To see Barney again, and have a little fun. After dismantling bombs, of course."

Skulduggery sighed. "If by 'all of us,' you mean those who are still speaking to me in some capacity when this is all over, then I don't see why not." The detective let a quiet moment go by, then added in a deadpan tone before knocking on the door, "I will not be dressing up, particularly if what you have in mind involves a wig."

~~

It was an easy question to start with. Easy because it was asked so often, not necessarily because the answer was simple or readily acceptable. Father O'Reilly slowly sat down on the pew next to Solomon as he thought about the best way to proceed, watching the man's furtive looks around the church with a genuine interest.

"I don't," he decided at last. "God's existence, and His omnipotence, cannot be proven. That would defeat the whole purpose of faith, wouldn't you say?" There was a reason Father O'Reilly hadn't asked the angels about Him, after all. Knowing for sure would undermine everything the priest had ever worked towards, and given him definitively selfish reasons for performing the same acts of kindness as he'd always done before.

That was, perhaps, the hardest thing for newcomers to accept, especially those who'd come from atheist or scientific backgrounds. Asking them to believe in something they didn't have and would never have any proof of was a nigh impossible request for many.

[peacefullywreathed]

"But the carnival is perfect for dressing up," Gabe said innocently with wide eyes, aside from the flash of a wink he tossed toward Fletcher. "No one's going to look twice at anyone dressed weirdly there. And I'm sure it'd entertain Allie."

Her name has resonated so loudly in Barney's soul it was really rather impossible not to see it. "But yes." He grinned at Fletcher, squeezing his arm again. "After dismantling bombs, we can all go. It can be a celebration."

And that was when the door opened.

~~~

Then why do you believe in Him? Solomon almost asked, except the words drowned before they reached his lips. He knew. He knew because, like Father O'Reilly, he had been just as faithful. Because he had believed in something wholeheartedly, something for which he needed no proof. That's what faith was.

It had taken an angel, and Archangel, to uproot Solomon's own belief. A real angel. That was the concept that filtered through Solomon's detachment, through his semi-awareness. It wasn't as if he had no control over his body; it was more that his mind had decided to separate from his consciousness and work of its own accord.

"I saw an angel last night. An Archangel. Saint Gabriel," Solomon said with that same fragile calm. "He told me I should think hard on the path I was on. I'm still not sure why I wasn't smote, to be honest, but he said smiting wasn't really his thing." He was staring at the cross, past the cross, through the cross. "It wasn't a vision. It was too real. Too ... painful. He's very bright, you know. The shadows he casts are brighter than the physical light around him."

And then the Necromancer laughed, a strange, brittle laugh. "I stopped believing in angels a long time ago, and now suddenly I find they're real. Is it possible to be faithful when you have proof? Does it count? I doubt it."

There was resignation in his voice. He was doomed.

[skeletonenigma]

Myron Stray was not a man who liked to be bothered.

He used to have a hand in everything important occurring in the world of sorcerers, used to be one of the first people anyone would come to for information. He used to be a man respected. And then he'd made a stupid mistake, which - coupled with a piece of rotten luck - ruined not just his career, but his whole life.

So people didn't generally just come calling on him anymore. And when they did, it was usually for the wrong reasons. Myron had taken the habit of fleeing before most people had a chance to meet him face to face; and as such, he was usually out the back door a good few minutes before they knocked, if they even got that close without alerting him. The only thing that stopped him from bolting this time was a teenager appearing by the back door, and Teleporting an instant later.

Wary and tense, Myron crept over to the cracked living room window and glanced out. Skulduggery Pleasant's unmistakeable tall and hatstand-like form bent near the taxi window. Myron let out a slow breath and felt himself relax. Not because Skulduggery was a friend, particularly, but because Myron knew the detective wouldn't ever use his true name against him. Skulduggery had made a promise, and Skulduggery didn't go back on his promises.

Still. It was good to see him back, anyway. Even if Myron didn't want him specifically here, and certainly not with unfamiliar companions. The girl called Valkyrie Cain wasn't among them.

"Skulduggery." Myron gave the man a short nod as he opened the door. "You haven't darkened my door in an age."

"I've been away."

"I heard." Myron let his gaze linger on the Teleporter - last of his kind, or so the rumours said, and only a teenager to boot - and a man he knew absolutely nothing about. A common feeling nowadays, unfortunately. Barefoot, though, with black curly hair and clothes not really suitable for the chill in the afternoon air.

Myron made a halfhearted attempt not to let his look darken before he turned away. "Come on in."

~~

Father O'Reilly blinked. "You saw an angel?"

He was very, very careful not to let his face or his voice betray anything more than an intent to listen without judgement, but he wasn't certain he succeeded. He didn't mention that he knew exactly what Solomon meant; he still wasn't sure of what those two angels asking for the holy water meant, after all. He was only guessing at an injured angel, and it wasn't a suspicion he'd shared with anyone for fear of being wrong.

But then... Saint Gabriel? Father O'Reilly openly watched Solomon even when the man had finished speaking, struggling to understand. And to be able to answer, despite the uncertainty.

"Saint Gabriel," he started with barely a falter, "serves as a messenger to humans from God. While I imagine he can be a warrior, he isn't referred to as such. With that in mind, I understand why he would say smiting... isn't really his thing."

But if he'd appeared to Solomon, a man who apparently was brought up in a religious household and rebelled early, what did that mean? What was Solomon destined for?

"And yet," he answered Solomon's question in lieu of satisfying his own curiosity, "you find your faith in question. You have no proof of God, and that's what you're craving now. So yes, I'd say it's still possible to be faithful, if that's really what you're seeking." He paused, and then decided to risk it. "What else did Saint Gabriel say?"

[impudentsongbird]

When Myron Stray opened his door Gabe smiled. It was an automatic smile, but not a fixed one; automatic only because that was what the Archangel did when he greeted people. His smile was warm and gracious.

A moment later the Archangel had to fight to keep it there, or at least fight not to have his expression fall into ... he wasn't sure what. Shock. Horror. Dread. He'd been so focussed on Barney and Skulduggery and Fletcher that he'd forgotten to extend his senses past the door to feel out Myron Stray before the sorcerer answered the knock. Gabe didn't quite manage it; his face didn't contort, but it flashed quickly through various emotions before settling on a shocked sort of pity.

Myron Stray's soul was in tatters. There was still a core of him--a chipped, stained kernel of his Self that no one had bothered to break. Why would they? They had all the power. Myron had none. He wasn't enough of a threat to destroy so completely.

The rest of him was ... like a dissolving pill in water. The center of him still mostly-solid, but fizzing, only half-there and half-formed, stable only because of the outside influence of the water itself. When the melted edges of that soul brushed up against Gabriel, he could feel the fragments of everything that Myron should be, ought to be, now debris.

Myron turned away, and only then did Gabe shudder. Neither Skul nor even Fletcher would be able to miss his reaction, either. "Thanks," he said, and even though his accented voice was mostly calm there was still an undefinable undercurrent. Maybe it'd help if he borrowed Skulduggery's method of using humour instead. "I'm Gabe, by the way. Just came into the country. I'd like to say Skul's told me all aboutcha, but he'd turnin' forgetful in his old age."

~~~

"You have no proof of God." Before he could stop himself Solomon laughed, and there was an edge of hysteria in that laugh which said, perhaps, otherwise. He hadn't seen God personally, no. But China had, and in her state, China couldn't have lied.

"Apparently," he said, still in that very distant sort of tone, the one that hid an abruptly very close and present hysteria, "Saint Gabriel had cocktails with Him just a few days ago. If an angel says He exists, is it true? Must I trust him because he's an angel saying it? That's why I came to you, you know."

It was an abrupt change in topic, related but tangential. Solomon's thoughts and mouth were scurrying everywhere, and he let it go where it wanted because the topic on which they'd been on was only pushing him closer to that cliff-edge. If Solomon started laughing again, or crying, perhaps, he wouldn't stop for a long time. (Part of him already knew he wasn't going to be able to stave it off forever. He'd always known a proper meltdown was going to happen sometime. Just not when.)

"I heard you talking about something you'd seen last night. Angels. I wondered, and thought that at least this would seem the least insane to you. That perhaps you'd have some advice more directly relevant to my ... situation."

His situation of having spoken to an Archangel, sent a woman up against that same Archangel, and come away with the knowledge that she had looked upon the presence of God Almighty Himself.

The Necromancer didn't answer the priest's question just yet. There were a lot of things Saint Gabriel had said. Things which had sent Solomon into a panic-attack on the spot. Things which he knew, he knew, would tip the balance here and now if he brought them up again. A distraction, yes, but he was scrambling, half-panicked and half detached--pale, trembling minutely, his face drawn and eyes lost somewhere between hysteria and an awful, crushing weight of knowledge.

[skeletonenigma]

Myron scoffed. "Either that, or he didn't think I was important enough to talk about."

"That's probably it," Skulduggery agreed with a nod and a look at the man who called himself Gabe. "I'm certainly not getting forgetful. That would just be silly. How have you been, Myron?"

Myron reached the fridge in his tiny kitchen and turned back around, his eyes narrowed. Something was very wrong here, but he just couldn't quite put his finger on what. Something about Skulduggery, and his whole demeanour. In fact, why wasn't the girl purported to always be by his side here right now? "I fail to see the joke. Or if I do, it isn't very funny."

"No joke," Skulduggery shrugged. "Just an honest question. How have you been?"

Whatever they'd come to ask him about, it must have been pretty damn important. Myron had never known Skulduggery to be polite when the detective had no reason to be. It was a trait they shared, and the main reason neither had many close friends, although Skulduggery was willing to play politics in several situations Myron had happily insulted his way throughout. But Skulduggery and Myron had never liked each other, never truly gotten along, and they both knew it. Myron had been expecting a sarcastic remark, possibly about the squalid state of his house, or something else equally dry. Not... small talk.

"Swell," he finally answered, tone a little less scathing than it might otherwise have been. "As I'm sure you can see," he added with a broad gesture around their surroundings. "I'd offer you all a beer, but..." he glanced from the living skeleton, to the underage kid, and finally to Gabe. Myron didn't quite know why, but something about the strange American guy already rubbed him the wrong way. "Well, maybe you want one."

~~

Cocktails.

In the end, Father O'Reilly decided to let that go by without comment. Anything he might have said wouldn't be particularly helpful, and Solomon may have simply been exaggerating. Besides, what was said next immediately took up his undivided attention.

"You were worried another priest might have dismissed you?" he asked with a smile. It was, in a way, relieving to talk to someone who knew about the angelic experience without Father O'Reilly having to explain. Someone who'd experienced the same thing for themselves, even if they were still trying to believe it; partly because of a different viewpoint from Father O'Reilly's own, and partly because of whatever Solomon's curious tone hinted at.

His tone, and the way he'd hesitated before saying 'situation.'

"Solomon, why do you believe he should have judged you on the spot?"

[impudentsongbird]

"As opposed to you just playin' the mysterious stranger?" Gabe said dryly. He felt calmer. Sort of. More in control, at least, even if not precisely calm at all. There was nothing to be calm about here--not truly. The Archangel's gaze travelled around the rooms even as he spoke, in that way of a person who didn't look like he was looking around even though he was.

The state of Myron's house ... the outside was awful. The inside spoke of a man bereft of hope or purpose. Something in Gabriel tightened, lurched. Myron's end wasn't likely to be anything good. He'd completely given up, and there was almost not enough of him left to truly say where he ought to go at a glance.

This was wrong. It was all wrong.

Myron's attention to him made Gabe focus back on the sorcerer, and he summoned a quirk of a smile, convincing enough for a layman. "Could use somethin' to steady my nerves after all Skul here drags me into. Thanks."

His tone was light, teasing, pointed toward Skulduggery. (He was still leaning on the detective. using his soul. Borrowing his humour. This place was a hell of Myron's own making.)

~~~

That was ... not helpful. Not helpful and in a way it was. It wasn't a question of what Solomon was afraid of, which meant Solomon could, for the moment, avoid thinking about it. All he had to answer with was facts. Thus, his first impulse was to correct. "Not why I thought he should have. Merely would have."

He wasn't calm, exactly. His words weren't rehearsed, but they were the words of someone who knew them well nonetheless. He was still in a state of terrible fragility, still on the edge, but no longer teetering. For the moment.

"Because my philosophy and his are incompatible," he said. "Because I've plotted the deaths of others for the sake of my power." His gaze was drawn inexorably to his cane. His hands convulsed, his body torn between releasing it and being to afraid to do so; the result was the he kept it upright with two fingers only.

So preoccupied with that, the words were out before he could even consider stopping to wonder whether he should say them. "Because magic is real, and I am a Necromancer, and all that I am is against everything that he is. I looked on Saint Gabriel and my eyes bled. Then I looked at the source of my power ..." He turned the cane idly under his fingers, as if doing so would make it turn pale with the Scream. "... and I saw pain."

Well. He had begun to suspect there would be no answers in deception. He just hadn't anticipated such honesty. What else could he do? His walls were breaking. Now surely he'd be condemned. Either he could resign himself or seek another avenue, once he managed to regain control.

Solomon looked up at the cross, the image of Jesus with torment on his face. There was, in fact, not a lot of difference between that image and the Sceam, except the effigy was only wooden. If it were emotion, Solomon knew there would have been no difference at all.

That was significant somehow. Solomon didn't have the wits left to consider how.

[skeletonenigma]

Myron thought about tossing the beer, eyed the way Gabe was leaning on Skulduggery, shrugged and left it on the table for him. "New partner already, Skulduggery? You do go through them fast, don't you? Did Valkyrie Cain quit in time, or is she dead too?"

"She's not dead." The sharp reply came quickly, as expected, but it wasn't followed by an equally sharp rejection of the former option. Myron turned from snapping open his own beer to watch Skulduggery stand as impassively still as ever, offering no clues as to what he was thinking. "I can't speak as to her own personal choices at the moment," the skeleton added eventually, "but I'm sure I'll find out soon either way. Gabe isn't a replacement partner, he's a friend. He's helping out for the time being."

His voice didn't give anything away, either. Myron raised an eyebrow. A partner with the common sense to consider not being involved with the skeleton detective? That was definitely something. And even more interesting: Skulduggery had introduced Gabe, but not the Teleporter. As if he'd known Myron would know who the boy was, but not who Gabe was. Which, given that Myron was still something of an information broker, was a fascinating idea. "Helping out with what? What do you need me for?"

"You know, I am eighteen," the boy said reproachfully.

"Help yourself," Myron replied with a dismissive wave. "All in the fridge."

~~

Father O'Reilly's heart fell.

He'd been expecting just a little too much, of course. Like he always did. Expectations and excitement set just a little too high. The smile faded, but the kindness in his eyes did not, and Father O'Reilly put a gentle hand on Solomon's shoulder. "Saint Gabriel's words to you indicate that you're not completely lost, don't they? If you won't trust an angel's words, at least trust his judgment."

The crisis of faith, after all, wasn't fake. Solomon's increasingly obvious low opinion of himself and his fate was very much real, and Father O'Reilly would be doing him no favours by trying to break him out of his delusion now. That would be best left to the professionals. 'Magic.' And Necromancy? It tore at the priest's heart to hear that Solomon believed he was something so foul. Turning to God shouldn't ever be done out of fear.

"Solomon, there's somewhere I think you need to go before you try altering your whole life like this. You might find your answers there, in fact. The woman in charge is a very good friend of mine, and she'll take very good care of you."

Father O'Reilly would personally take Solomon there, as well. The damn permits (Father O'Reilly's policy on swearing had grown rather lax after hearing the two angels from before freely cursing at each other) could wait.

[impudentsongbird]

"Thanks." The table was near enough for Gabe to reach without having to move too far, but far enough to make the way he moved obvious. Stiff, limping, not exactly in full shape. The Archangel shot a sympathetic smile over at Fletcher, the teen's huffiness resonating. That was one of the nice things about Fletcher. He didn't really try to hide things, either inside or out.

"We were wonderin' if you knew where Scarab might be," Gabe said, opening the can. "Or Dusk, or Sanguine. Or anyone who'd be in on their kinda thing."

The Archangel's tone was much calmer, now, without hardly even the undercurrent. Gabe wasn't focussing on Myron unnaturally; casual, hopeful for aid, appreciative of the drink he knocked back without trouble, but no longer seeming affected by being in the house or seeing Myron.

He was, however, aware of the thought processes going on in the man. Or, well, not exactly the thoughts, but closer to being actual thoughts than in anyone else. Souls had a surface tension, and Myron's was broken. It made him and his mind more open, accidentally broadcasting, beyond what was usual. But the thought processes, while interesting and perhaps a bit concerning, also indicated something else: that there was enough of Myron left to give himself some cohesiveness.

He could be saved. Of that Gabe was sure now. And that fact made being in his presence easier.

~~~

Ah. Solomon smiled without meaning to, and there was something genuinely amused in the smile even though he didn't look around at the priest. He should have thought of that. Father O'Reilly didn't believe him. It was in his words, the way his tone turned careful again instead of excited and companionable. The companionableness of someone who knew.

The question was, did Solomon wish to give the priest the proof literally at the end of his fingertips? Technically just what he'd said was illegal. Proving it ...

What else could he do? Father O'Reilly was, right now, the only person who could help him. He was only human. Mortal. Not even a sorcerer. And yet he knew things, things Solomon had rejected long ago. Things that were now thrown in his face.

There was something else too. An ache in his chest Solomon didn't remember having, not since he was a boy and he'd realised his father would make him continue to go to church even though Solomon didn't believe. Not exactly betrayal, but a desire for someone to talk to who might understand. A desire to have someone to advise him.

A desire to not be alone.

It had been a long time since Solomon had felt lonely.

Solomon stretched out his hand and the shadows came to him like a tide, rushing up all over the church and gathering around them in a living gloom. The hand on his cane went cold and his heart suddenly pounded, his skin prickling with that same terror as before. Almost. It was subtly different. Less bright, more pervasively there. The church, similarly, seemed to press in on his shadows; they flickered and died, not burning away like with Saint Gabriel but dulling and finally simply fading away as if they were dust-motes.

Automatically Solomon looked up at the cross, and his throat closed, his eyes burning. The look of anguish on that face ...

The effigy didn't look like mere timber. If Solomon had had to swear, he would have said it was flesh and blood, living and breathing and pained. All of a sudden the sorcerer knew--knew--that it was the echo of this man's scream he heard resonating all throughout Necromancy.

Something warm hit Solomon's cheek and he could tell from the sluggish consistency and the smell that it was blood again. The church itself seemed to glow, a very faint but unmistakably there aura of power. It was like electricity, or perhaps--no. He couldn't compare it to Necromancy. Whatever it was, it infused the church, dim but unmistakeably present.

It could have been brighter, Solomon could tell. But it was bright enough still to cause him pain.

The sanctity of a truly holy church.

He should have thought of that too.

Solomon exhaled shakily and relinquished the power in his bleached-white cane, and watched as the effect of the lifestream ebbed from it until it looked like obsidian once again.

Then he remained silent. Staring. Waiting, while the blood congealed on his cheeks.