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]

Wordlessly Corrival picked up the whiskey bottle and put it down on the coffeetable beside Ghastly's armchair. He didn't take a seat himself. It wasn't exactly that he didn't dare, or that he didn't feel like he'd earned it, but more a combination of the two. Most generals he knew sank down into their chairs like their strings had been cut at bad news.

That wasn't Corrival. It wasn't that he thought he couldn't sit down until things were fixed, because then it would never happen. It was more that he shouldn't. That was the moment when a leader had to be strongest, not in terms of pretending strength for the sake of their subordinates but being strong for the sake of themselves, and the best way of being strong was to not give in to the lack of hope and therefore to not sit down. Besides which, the people under him usually pulled more than their fair share of weight, and if they were going to be delivering news like this it meant they'd gone through hell and they deserved the chair more.

Especially Ghastly, right now. Skulduggery's best friend. Lord Vile's best friend. Corrival was surprised the tailor hadn't done anything more than break the skeleton's jaw.

So Corrival left the bottle there so Ghastly could either refill his glass or drink straight from it, and then turned to move toward the bar. He didn't pick anything up or set anything down; he just needed a bit of space. Part of him still felt weak inside from the shock, but it was easing into numb disbelief and his orderly soldier mind was able to take proper stock.

Now he knew why Ghastly had been rambling. A bit of context. Put like that, entwined with this sort of news, the presence of an Archangel was more believable--or at least the news of a benevolent, greatly powerful being. Like the Faceless Ones, except not evil. At least, not apparently evil, but definitely with ulterior motives, if he was interested in keeping Skulduggery--Lord Vile!--alive and well. After turning it over in his head, Corrival found it was something he could stomach for the moment. The details of this other dimension and Gabriel's home dimension didn't matter at this juncture. Just that he existed, and was powerful enough to put a leash on Skulduggery.

A leash that wouldn't last, but they could deal with that in a moment. Of more importance was the immediate affects.

"Witnesses?" Corrival asked, his tone business-like. "You, Sorrows, Crux, Gabriel, presumably Valkyrie Cain. Who else saw and knows?"

And was likely to go off half-cocked before they could control the situation? How, exactly, they were going to control it Corrival didn't know, but without any kind of blinding realisation, without anything but resigned acceptance, he knew that he wasn't going to let this get out. Not to Guild. Not to the public. What he was going to do with it, he didn't know yet, but it had to be kept from getting out.

[skeletonenigma]

There. That was what Ghastly needed. A plan of action from someone who understood, who'd been there, whose orders Skulduggery would listen to and follow. No offense to God, but Ghastly didn't think Skulduggery would listen to much from Him, and certainly not without questioning everything first.

"China won't tell anyone," said Ghastly firmly. "Binding promise to an Archangel. Even she's not that reckless. Crux is insane. Broken. He looked comatose when I left."

Now that he was able to remember clearly again, Ghastly couldn't help but wonder - what had they done about Crux? They wouldn't have just left him there, not if there was even the slightest threat he might wake up and talk. If not for Gabe, Ghastly would have assumed Crux was dead, but the presence of an Archangel might have muddled up Skulduggery's usual way of doing things. Did they have Crux locked away somewhere?

Ghastly poured himself some more whiskey and sat back, closing his eyes. "Witnesses. Skulduggery, Gabriel, Valkyrie, Tanith Low, Fletcher Renn, China, Crux." And someone else... "Prave," Ghastly remembered with a sharp intake of breath. "He was there when we arrived at the church. A priest of sorts. I have no idea how long he stayed or if he saw anything, but he wasn't around when I left."

And if there was one person who probably would spread the news until the Sanctuary got a hold of it, it was Prave.

[impudentsongbird]

'Binding promise to an Archangel.' Part of Corrival very much wanted to ask for details about that, because if there was anything that could secure China Sorrows' unbreakable bond Corrival wanted to know what it was. That was something relatively trivial compared to the rest, of course, but still.

Of more interest was the way Ghastly spoke. As if it was accepted that Gabriel was actually everything he said himself to be, and not just a false demi-god like the Faceless Ones. Not only that, but as if China accepted Gabriel as everything he said he was, which was a feat even more difficult given how she'd turned her back on said false demi-gods. The part about Crux? Not encouraging. Mentally Corrival made a note that 'Gabriel' might be more akin to the Faceless Ones than Ghastly was aware, if his presence could break Crux utterly and make both Ghastly and China Sorrows accept things so readily.

Each of the rest of the names were members of Skulduggery's little band, or associated enough with him that they weren't likely to go off half-cocked. Most likely they were waiting for Ghastly himself to make the choice. Prave ... was a concern, but one easily confirmed.

"I know Prave," Corrival told Ghastly without thinking, and then paused as he remembered exactly how he knew Prave. The old soldier had the grace to look slightly embarrassed as he moved to his phone. "It was Erskine's idea last time he came up," he said gruffly, picking it up and dialling. "The man was Bored with a capital 'B' and he needed something with which to occupy himself which didn't include destroying my house."

Someone picked up. Corrival put it on speakerphone and set the handpiece down. "Hello?"

"Hello, dear," Corrival said, leaning on the counter with his arms folded, his glass still held loosely in one hand. He spoke in a breathless, wispy voice more suitable to a grandmother with a serious smoking problem. "How are you today?"

There was a pause, and when Prave spoke next his tone of voice gave the impression he had consciously straightened up with supercilious dignity. "Ah, Carey. How are you today, my dear?"

Corrival heaved a sigh which could have meant anything. "Oh ... My son's off gallivanting again. Why, the little darling gave me such a nice letter from Burma just the other day! I do think he's making headway. He's sold at least two boxes of biscuits since he's been gone!"

The pause, this time, was greatly pregnant. "Ah, Carey, I don't suppose you recall that little conversation we had earlier?"

With a tilt of his head, Corrival flashed a wink to Ghastly. "Which one would that be, dear?"

"The part about, ahem, biscuits. And Faceless Ones. They don't ... they don't really mix."

Comically Corrival's eyes widened. "Oh, are you sure, dear? From what you've said we're in such dire straights, you see, and churches do so well in funding themselves with biscuits."

"Yes, but ..." Prave's voice seemed to fail on him. There were some mumbling sounds, but it was difficult to hear them through the static. Even so, a few were audible--'deal', 'today', 'awful'.

"What was that, dear?"

"I said, ahem, Carey, this really isn't a very good time ..."

"Oh, you should have said so earlier. Tell Grandma Carey all about it, dear. Things are better off the chest, as it were. Why, that's why I stopped wearing a brassiere a few decades ago."

Corrival's straight face would have made Skulduggery Pleasant proud, but his eyes were full of suppressed laughter at the way Prave's voice seemed to fail again. Whatever Corrival said about all this being Ravel's idea, it was very clear the 'old warhorse' had joined in the charade with just as much fiendish delight.

Then, "Skulduggery Pleasant," Prave spat with all the venom of a garden snake. "And his band of cohorts. The church! My church! It's unconscionable, the way that man harasses us. We have rights! Here were are, trying to make a basic living for our small congregation any way we can and the law sees fit to persecute us!"

"That's awful, dear," Corrival said sympathetically. "Young hooligans have no respect for faith these days. Flaunting their weapons and leaving nightclub pamphlets lying around the way they do ..." He tutted.

"If only that was all they'd left," Prave mumbled, and then stopped short as if he'd just realised what he'd said.

Corrival gasped and whispered with an old lady's horror, "Condoms. Oh, you poor man, imagine cleaning up after that! Youths today, going out and having sex all willy-nilly!"

Contrary to 'her' words, 'Carey's voice was oddly relishing, and there came a strangled sound on the other end. "A body! It was a body. They came in here looking for a member of the, ahem, congregation. I trusted that as members of the law they would comport themselves with dignity and left for a hardly a few minutes, and before you know it I have a dead body on my hands! What am I going to do? It's a set-up, that's what it is. Any moment now they'll come busting in here with arrest orders and take me into custody and there goes the church! They're afraid of me, you see." The last was said in a hushed voice. "The government is always afraid of faithful believers."

"How awful," Corrival murmured, and his gaze met Ghastly's. "We can't have that. I'll tell you what, dear. One of my other sons is right now here with me. You toddle off to get yourself a nice calming nightcap for an hour, or two, and we'll take care of it all."

"Well ..." Prave sounded torn. On one hand, here was an answer to all his problems. He obviously had no idea that the elderly and gullible Grandma Carey was anything but the elderly and gullible Grandma Carey. On the other hand, he'd already left the church and come back to a dead body once today.

"Go on, dear," Corrival coaxed. "No one can be expected to not need a little pick-me-up after the day you've had, and you've been so very kind to me."

"Alright. Yes," Prave said abruptly. "I'll go. I'm going. Good night, Carey."

He hung up before Corrival could respond, and without looking down Corrival turned off the speakerphone.

"Well, so much for my nightcap," he said resignedly, and knocked back the whiskey in his glass before setting it down on the table with a thud. "I'd better go get changed into something more suitable for body-snatching."

[skeletonenigma]

There were times when Ghastly really regretted his curiosity. And there were times when he really didn't.

He... wasn't yet sure which category this fell into, even after Corrival hung up and something continued to ring in the tailor's ears - possibly the mental image of Erskine as a 'little darling.' Somewhere in between? It hadn't taken long for Ghastly to be straining to keep his own straight face, and even then, his efforts were all for naught - unlike Corrival, Ghastly didn't have to keep up a vocal act. At least he managed to keep from bursting into laughter, although at the part about condoms he nearly had to leave the room.

"That," Ghastly said as Corrival made to leave, "was deplorable. I'm ashamed to be involved in this in even a minor capacity."

Which was true, of course, but it didn't stop the light of laughter in Ghastly's eyes, which was just as strong as it had been in Corrival's. Leave it to Erskine to come up with something like this. Leave it to Corrival to grudgingly join in, end up enjoying himself, and take the prank further. The Dead Men may have been an elite unit on the battlefield, but it was moments like this when Ghastly wondered how any of them ever inspired any fear. Or, indeed, implied even a basic level of maturity.

"I'll wait out here then," Ghastly agreed. At some point during the conversation, he'd gotten up off the couch. It was difficult to remember exactly when, or even why, but somehow he still wasn't worried as he wandered over to the fireplace.

With control over his face back, Ghastly set the whiskey down on the mantle and turned around. "Don't take too long, Grandma Carey."

[impudentsongbird]

Corrival gave Ghastly a stern look which was utterly belied by the gleam in his eyes. "You have your orders, Bespoke. You can deal with them or have the phonebook thrown at you." His expression broke slightly with a snort of laughter as he turned away, but he covered it with a cough and called over his shoulder, "Don't test me, sonny-boy. I can still bend you over my knee and give you a hiding."

He vanished through the door, padding quietly down the halls. Every scrap of clothing he owned was made by Ghastly, and not all of it was for wealth and leisure. Some things, some things in the back of the closet, were throwbacks to the days of the war. Quickly Corrival changed into black slacks, blue shirt and a thick jacket, and brown leather boots which he'd owned for well over a century. They were remarkably unstained, for how often he'd walked through blood.

It was the boots that did it, that broke Corrival's calm. He managed not to sit, but he leaned back against the bureau, taking a few deep breaths and staring at those boots. He'd worn those boots all through the war. He'd worn those boots the one single day the Dead Men had allowed him to go out onto a still-active battlefield.

The day Ghastly's mother had died.

"He tried to take on Vile alone," Erskine said quietly as they trudged across the field. There was still fighting over in the east, still close enough for Corrival to hear the shouts and the screams and the roar of magic. He didn't look. Instead he pulled his coat tighter around him against the chill that had nothing to do with the air and looked ahead to where the figures of the other Dead Men waited. Blood and body-parts squished under Corrival's boots as they walked. Some of them because of Lord Vile. Some of them because of those he'd reanimated.

"We haven't been able to get him to talk. Or move." Erskine's voice was dull. Frighteningly so, but not unexpected. Not anymore. It had been happening a lot since Skulduggery had been presumably killed in action.

Ghastly Bespoke sat cradling the body of his mother, staring wordlessly into the distance with tears making tracks down his scarred, grimy face. The Dead Men were strung out around him, not exactly huddled but close in and yet turned outward. Other members of Meritorious's army were nearby, cleaning up, marking the dead. They kept throwing glances over, but no one dared approach. Not with the Dead Men making grim faces like that.

Each of them, Corrival noticed, were white-faced and exhausted. Anton was trembling with fatigue. How many had his Gist killed? No wonder he'd called himself Shudder. Dexter kept wiping a sleeve across his face. It was hard to tell if he was wiping sweat, grime or tears.

None of them looked at him as he passed between the equally silent Larrikin and Shudder, and Erksine took up position behind him to seal the break in the circle. For a moment Corrival stood beside Ghastly, staring down at him. His heart was breaking, but he couldn't let himself feel it. Not yet.

Not with Ghastly's shattered on the ground.

"On your feet, Bespoke," he said abruptly. Ghastly's head moved slightly, but he said nothing. That was okay. Corrival didn't wait for a response. "The war's not over yet. You've made promises, and you're still under my command. You don't get to get out of keeping them just yet. And you damned well don't get to toss yourself to the dogs until I tell you to. So on your feet, Bespoke."

His voice became gentler. "On your feet, Ghastly, and don't stop moving 'til it's over. Until we make the son of a bitch pay."

Quite suddenly, Corrival found himself on the floor, the handles of the drawers pressed into his back and his trembling hands pressed to his face as he took deep, shaky breaths.

Skulduggery Pleasant. Lord Vile. Murderer--of millions.

Dead Man. Friend.

Family.

It took a long time before Corrival returned downstairs, and when he did he was tight-lipped, red-eyed, and wearing his boots. "Let's go," he said abruptly without fanfare, taking his keys from the counter and moving toward the garage door without even glancing in Ghastly's direction. In spite of his appearance, his stride was even, confident. Driven. "We've got some work to do, Bespoke. On your feet."

On your feet, and don't stop moving 'til it's over.

[skeletonenigma]

Laughter. Teasing. Normalcy.

Was that what Ghastly had wanted? Why he'd come to Corrival Deuce, instead of going straight back to talk to Skulduggery?

Because if it was, it backfired. Ghastly smiled at Corrival's retort, but the instant his old general disappeared down the hallway, the smile dropped. The silence in the living room became stifling, and the only noise that broke it - the ticking of an old antique grandfather clock in the corner - felt like the countdown before Ghastly broke down completely.

He was only barely holding himself together, and he knew it. Ghastly only managed to get this far because of God. He couldn't plan ahead, he had no idea where he would be this time tomorrow, or how he would feel, and it... it reminded him too much of the war. The war, and how little control they had over anything that happened. Friends dying. Villages burning. Chaos and destruction.

Friends disappearing to become mass murdering Necromantic sociopaths.

Slowly, stoically, Ghastly walked back by the phone to the whiskey bottle. Too late, he remembered that he left his glass back on the mantlepiece, and after a moment's debate, decided the walk was too long. He drank straight from the bottle, and sank slowly back down onto the couch.

It didn't make any sense. Even apart from all of the obvious ways, it didn't make any sense. What caused the change? Why did Skulduggery disappear? Why could he use Necromancy? Why had he gone on to join Mevolent? How the hell could he justify any of it, even if he wasn't trying to anymore? But really, the only thing Ghastly truly wanted to know, wanted to hear from Skulduggery's own mouth - or jaw - was what had brought him back. What was powerful enough to stop him, when nothing else had.

Ghastly didn't know how much time had passed, marked out by each long tick of the infernal grandfather clock. It was only when Corrival arrived back, fully dressed, that he even turned his head to look up.

It took him a moment to respond, and when he did, it was with the same abrupt tone as Corrival's. "On my way." Ghastly pushed himself back up onto his feet, and put the bottle back down onto the side table. He never in a million years would have believed that he and Corrival would cover up a crime committed by someone like Vile, and yet... what else could they do? Corrival knew as well; they couldn't let any of this get back to the Sanctuary.

Corrival's final words rang in Ghastly's head and he stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the sidetable, hissing with pain as the sharp corner dug into his side.

The pain, though, actually helped. Before the numbness could settle back in, Ghastly straightened up and let the pain in, let it flood. He didn't say anything - didn't know if he would have to or not, but he didn't nonetheless. He couldn't.

"What are we going to do with it?" he asked instead, rubbing his side. He assumed the body was Crux; Gabe would never have let Skul finish on China. Maybe the man had simply died of a heart attack, but Ghastly didn't hold out much hope. Not with Prave's phrasing - 'leaving' the body behind.

[impudentsongbird]

"We'll bring it back," Corrival said simply as he strode through the door, leaving it open for Ghastly to follow in his wake. No time for weakness, now. Not for Ghastly, not for him. The minor breakdown had taken him by surprise, but the very moment it had started to ease Corrival had very firmly set it aside.

Later, he promised himself. Later, after he and Ghastly covered up a crime for a friend.

For a killer.

It was inconceivable, how a single man could be separate in any way in Corrival's mind, and yet it was the only way the sorcerer had been able to stand up and keep moving. This, right here and now, wasn't about Lord Vile. This was about Skulduggery. Lord Vile was a remnant of the war, of five years of the war. He appeared and he'd been gone just as quickly.

Not completely. Not completely, but ... enough. Ghastly had implied that Skulduggery had been tortured while in the other dimensions, if not by Faceless Ones then by someone else. Maybe he was right. Maybe something had broken the skeleton's control. It didn't matter.

Corrival wasn't doing this for Vile. He was doing it for Skulduggery. For the moment, it was enough.

He unlocked the car and opened the garage-door with the remote, yanking open the passenger seat door as he went simply because Ghastly had looked well on the way to being four sheets to the wind by the time Corrival had reappeared downstairs. "In," he ordered, making his way around to the driver's seat and obeying his own command. "Buckle up."

Simply commands. Step by step. With an unnecessarily loud rev of the engine, Corrival made sure Ghastly was well situated and then pulled out of the garage to make for the Church of the Faceless Ones via backstreets and alleys.

[skeletonenigma]

Corrival didn't have nearly the kind of efficient control over his car that Skulduggery had over his Bentley, but they still made record time, particularly with a minimum of traffic lights. Ghastly passed it by staring blankly out the window, trying to do what Skulduggery did and notice the small things about people walking by. A mismatched coat here, a couple arm in arm over there. A woman on her mobile while she pushed along a child in a pram. A man in a bowler hat and a coat, standing idly at a bus stop.

How many of them would Skulduggery know more about, just with a single glance? Ghastly found, with a start, that it wasn't quite as hard as he thought. Now that he was using it as a distraction, now that he was trying desperately hard not to think about something else... it became less of an admirable but out-of-reach feat, and more of a necessary game. A man who'd either slept in, or was colorblind. A man who'd just proposed to a long-time girlfriend. A working mother being chewed out by a boss. A businessman whose car was in repairs, and he either didn't have the money or the patience for a rental.

Ghastly didn't know how much of that was actually the truth, but that wasn't the point. He suddenly understood why Skulduggery had such a reputation, how he'd gotten so good at this. It was practice, that was all. A way to control your mind, repeatedly, over and over again.

He didn't have any sudden aspirations to become a detective, but Ghastly could appreciate why Skulduggery had found the work such a necessity. It wasn't just about redemption.

Ghastly didn't realise that he had his hands clenched into fists in his lap until the church came into view. With a slow exhale, he unclenched them and spread his fingers out over his legs. In another pitched effort not to think about this morning, Ghastly started wondering what else might go wrong with this plan. What if Prave caught wind of what was really going on? What if a Sanctuary official was following them? What if, as they were transporting the body, Corrival was pulled over by a mortal cop?

They were ridiculous and mundane questions, and Ghastly just managed to stop himself from asking them out loud. Instead, he moved on to something a little more immediately urgent. "Can we be sure that Prave has left already?"

[impudentsongbird]

There was a tiny, dingy side-alley Corrival knew where his car just barely fit. Unlike Skulduggery's Bentley, Corrival's car was small, for several reasons. One, he didn't want to waste money on petrol when he could waste it on other things. Two, a big car demanded more attention, sort of like a demanding cat, and Corrival preferred to waste his time on other things. Three, it meant he could do things like this and park in places like this, where a Bentley would be eminently noticeable.

He turned off the engine and for a moment there was deep silence.

"No," he admitted, "but he's never not left before when Erskine and I have done something like this." He managed to crack a smile. "Last Christmas we left a box of spiked biscuits in exchange for a doom-and-gloom sermon. The sad thing is, I'm not sure if Prave even noticed the 'spiked' part."

It was an average, ridiculous mundanity, an immaturity, that somehow only highlighted the gravity of the circumstances. The Dead Men were never mature in the face of danger. Why should that change now? And yet, it just made everything about the circumstance more obvious.

Corrival stepped out of the car, pulled his jacket close, and moved to the back-door into the house, glancing around. Just like the other times Grandma Carey had suggested a surprise visit, it was unlocked. Waiting for him. When Corrival paused, door slightly cracked, to feel the air tumbling under his fingers, it took only a minute or so to determine the church was empty. With a nod at Ghastly, Corrival slipped inside, leaving the door open.

The church wasn't a place where footsteps echoed. It was too dim, too burdened by the dinginess of the house, to do anything but muffle sound. Usually, Prave left the things he believed his 'congregation' wanted in one of the rooms behind the church, just down the hall from the back way. Corrival intended to go there and nowhere else. Just there.

He reached the door and his last footstep was heavy. Through the doorway leading into the church proper, he could see wooden debris. Pews, maybe. Something made of timber, something Prave had been trying to clean up. Evidence of a battle.

Resolutely Corrival turned away and entered the little room off the hall. Slumped in the corner, as if Prave had dragged it there and thrown a hasty sheet over it, was the shapeless figure of a covered body. There was enough light still that Corrival didn't need to make any of his own; he just went to the corpse and pulled down the sheet covering the face.

"It's Crux," he called to Ghastly, and pulled the sheet down further to determine where the wound was, where the blood was, and how they'd have to carry the body to ensure they left no evidence behind.

The more the sheet uncovered, the more Corrival's frown deepened. There wasn't a mark on the man. "What the deuce? How did this man die?"

[skeletonenigma]

Ghastly shook his head sadly before getting out of the car. If he'd known his friends were so depraved and so bored recently, he might have made an effort to join up with them and steer them into less pathetic waters. On the other hand, he'd probably just end up spiking the biscuits for them, so... it was probably best this way.

Entering the church through the back had the added benefit of distracting Ghastly from what happened there earlier in the day. Entering from the back meant he could imagine he wasn't walking into the Church of the Faceless. Entering from the back meant he could believe that he'd had an unfortunate lapse in judgment and agreed to help Corrival and Erskine with another prank. It wasn't until he reached the end of the hall that Ghastly stopped, and all the pretense faded.

He could remember, in vivid clarity, exactly how he felt. Where he was standing. The pain in his fist after he'd cracked the bone of Skulduggery's jaw, pain which was still ebbing slowly away in his knuckle. He could remember which pew Skulduggery - no, Vile - threw him into, and he could remember numbly watching Gabe practically repel the shadows as he stepped forward and crashed them both into the altar.

The altar itself lay in a ruined heap on the floor at the front of the room. Someone, probably Prave, had tried to clean it up. Ghastly avoided looking at it. He avoided looking at the wall where the two different images of Skulduggery had risen, because he could also remember - all too well - feeling like he'd been slammed in the gut when he realised what they were, and what they meant.

The confirmation. That was the worst part.

Corrival turned away after only a few moments, but it took Ghastly a while to do the same. And disturbing as it was, he was actually happy for the body as a distraction, whether it was more evidence of the earlier crime or not.

"I don't know," he murmured, stepping over to see for himself. No wounds, no blood. Vile had been able to kill people - able to kill whole armies - seamlessly like this, just by standing near them, but that was Vile. That was Lord Vile at the height of his power. Skulduggery had been Skulduggery when Ghastly left; of that, he was sure. Besides which, Skulduggery didn't have the armour. He didn't have a way to channel all that Necromantic energy. Even a sharpened shadow would have left a wound.

"Crux was utterly broken," Ghastly reminded Corrival. "It's possible that he died of a heart attack, or something similar." He hesitated. "But that's a little too much of a - "

- Gabriel.

Was that considered a mercy killing, in an angel's eyes? Did Gabriel simply look at Crux, and cause Crux to collapse? He was an Archangel, and he could read souls. As an angel of the Lord, wasn't part of his duty to ferry souls? Ghastly didn't know much about this, admittedly, but somehow he didn't think releasing someone's soul from their body was too hard a task for someone like that.

All of which - even as he tried to fight it - heightened Ghastly's wariness of the Archangel.

He'd been wary before. He'd been flat-out terrified the first time Gabe so much as raised his voice. But this was the first time Ghastly had a concrete ability to be terrified of.

"Gabe was with them," he remarked, as evenly as he could. "Maybe Crux was too far gone for a binding promise."

[impudentsongbird]

The way Ghastly abruptly stopped, the way his eyes widened with realisation, put paid to anything Corrival had been about to say in immediate response. The tailor paled a little, Corrival was sure. In spite of the words and the fact they were talking about an angel, there was something about Ghastly's tone, about its controlled nature, which sent a shiver down Corrival's spine.

He looked back down at Crux. He'd seen post-mortem heart-attacks before. The signs didn't match. There was no flushing of the skin, no swelling around the jugular, no cyanosis. There was no pain on Crux's face; his eyes were closed, fortunately, but though not pained, his expression wasn't peaceful, either. An autopsy would tell for sure, but even still, Corrival was all but certain this had been no heart-attack. Yet Crux was entirely uninjured.

Which meant Ghastly's implication was the most likely cause.

Which meant that this angel, this demi-god, this being, had killed a man without leaving a trace.

It wasn't a unique skill. Necromancers of great enough power could do it. That still didn't keep Corrival from erupting in goose-bumps at the thought. No one knew if the Faceless Ones were capable of such a thing. If they were, they chose to kill in other ways. Not that that was any less terrible, but there was something viscerally terrifying at the idea that someone could kill you with a thought and leave no evidence at all. At least Necromancers could theoretically be killed--even ones as powerful as ... as Lord Vile. In contrast there was only one known thing to kill a Faceless One.

What would kill a being suitable to call an angel?

"I see," Corrival said equally evenly. "Well, if need be we can ask Kenspeckle Grouse for a hand. In the meantime, Bespoke, get his feet. If we fold him up he'll just fit in the boot."

Corrival had parked the car backwards precisely for this reason, to put the boot in easy access. Not that either Corrival or Ghastly made a habit of grave-robbing, but it said something about how well the two of them knew each other, and in what circumstances, that they could fit a body into a car-boot half its size--particularly one wrapped in a sheet--with as much ease as they did.

[skeletonenigma]

So not covering up a crime for Vile, then. Instead, Ghastly and Corrival were cleaning up after an Archangel.

It felt, in a lot of ways, almost worse.

The body miraculously fit in the boot of the car, after a little silent coordination between the two of them, and within minutes they were back on the city streets, zipping along towards Corrival's house once again. Ghastly idly hoped that Corrival had a freezer somewhere at least the size of the car boot, but the man probably wouldn't have suggested this if he didn't.

All of which gave Ghastly more unwanted time to think as they drove, and the thought that almost immediately occurred to him was why didn't Gabriel do the same thing to Vile?

No matter how powerful Vile was, and especially since he was nowhere near where he'd been during the war, an Archangel with the ability to kill like that should easily have been able to neutralise Vile as well. Guarantee everyone else's safety. It probably wouldn't have meant much to Gabe, either, since he could visit and be with whoever he wanted - dead or no.

But he didn't. He stopped Vile. Brought Skulduggery back. Helped Skulduggery get control back.

Far be it from Ghastly to assume the Archangel would take the easy way out, but... had this ever happened before? A legitimate relationship, a bond, between an angel and a mortal - an angel who hadn't Fallen, anyway? And, technically, Skulduggery wasn't a mortal. Not anymore. Technically, he would 'live' forever, as long as he wasn't reduced to piles of dust in the meantime.

And even then, couldn't Gabe just... put the skeleton back together?

Ghastly sighed and leaned back against the leather headrest, letting his eyes close. "How much more of that whiskey do you have?" he asked. Ghastly's earlier plans for getting drunk had been rudely interrupted, and then fallen by the wayside. It was about time he spent the night not thinking, and somehow he doubted Corrival would object.

~~

"Hate these things," Billy-Ray told his father with a visible shudder. "You shoulda heard them when I cracked the door open, swarmin' and whisperin'. Gave me the creeps."

"Your sacrifice," Scarab told him with just about the most obvious verbal eyeroll ever, which Billy-Ray didn't appreciate, "is duly noted. Go check on the other prisoner now. I can't figure him out, and that worries me."

Billy-Ray hesitated. "You sure you don't want me to...?"

"You don't want to watch this any more than I want you to be here, Sanguine. Now go. He's much too cheerful."

Billy-Ray didn't try to hide the relief that flooded him. He didn't like Remnants. The thought of them was all well and good, and the thought of one finally being able to fix his stomach wound and give him his magic back using Kenspeckle Grouse's body sometime in the near future was wonderful. But the fact remained - they were dark and evil little ghosts. Purely chaotic. Destructive and dangerous if you didn't handle them carefully. And Billy-Ray didn't really relish the thought of coming back to find that it had possessed Scarab instead of the doctor.

A thought he did relish was forcing Gabe to watch the possession. Unfortunately, without knowing the extent of Gabe's Adept abilities, that was a no-go. Billy-Ray was just going to have to settle for taunting.

He paused a few metres away, cleared his mind, let an easy smile fall into place, and sauntered up to the cell door. "Ran into your skeleton friend just now," he said through the bars at the top. "Left him fightin' a pack of bloodthirsty zombies. Think they can kill something that's already dead?"

[impudentsongbird]

Corrival wasn't as good a driver as Skulduggery. He wasn't nearly as good a driver as Skulduggery. Right now, however, he came exceedingly close, pressing the boundary of the speed-limit and the car's endurance and suspension if only to give himself something to think about other than the angel who could kill with a thought.

Were they even sure 'Gabriel' hadn't come from the same dimension as the Faceless Ones? he wondered. Were they sure there was no relation? How many absurdly powerful beings could there be out there, completely unrelated?

Ghastly's question was very much what Corrival needed, and the old soldier cracked a rueful and grim smile. "A bar-full, Bespoke. A bar-full."

And he would not mind in the least if it was empty by morning, as long as he helped to empty it.

~~~

Kenspeckle had wound down sometime not too long in the past. He still muttered, occasionally lifting his voice pointedly at Gabriel, but mostly there was a weary sort of expectation while the professor waited for Gabriel's escape plan, whatever it was, to see its way clear.

Gabriel sort-of missed the running commentary, even though he was only half-aware of his surroundings. He had just about finished mapping the castle, now, enough that he was now mentally exploring the inner grounds. At least, he was, before Sanguine returned. Before the darkness of a damned and twisted soul roiled through the corridors, audible as a Scream.

It was only a damned soul. 'Only'. Only, but in the way that damned souls have been twisted by Hell, blessed--or cursed--with powers of their own.

Gabriel shuddered his way back into his physical body, quick enough to hear the resonances of Sanguine's voice in the walls. It still took him a few moments to answer, to open his eyes, to sort through his brewing headache and looked evenly back. "Fancy that," he murmured, still trying to fight off the prickle in his being and feathers that was the Scream. "Think zombies will care about somethin' that has nothin' on it they can eat?"

[skeletonenigma]

"Ya know..." Billy-Ray paused and cocked his head, as if he was giving the question some serious thought. (He was.) "Ya know, I always wondered if they even ate the bone, but maybe they don't. Doesn't matter. They would eat that Teleporter. Fletcher Renn? Wasn't lookin' too good when I left."

He hadn't been, either. He'd been Teleporting around the room in a panic with a zombie's hand on his shoulder. A zombie whose mouth had been perilously close to the boy's throat.

But, the good guys also had an annoying run of good luck when it came to things like getting eaten alive. The living skeleton was a case in point. Billy-Ray honestly wouldn't be surprised if they'd both survived and left the hotel by now, ready and willing to continue upsetting plans. Of course, he conveniently left that bit out.

"How long d'you think it would take the Professor to fix it?" Billy-Ray mused out loud. "The Engine, I mean. The Desolation Engine. Pleasant tell you about that? I'm guessin' Pleasant told you about that."

[impudentsongbird]

For a long moment Gabriel looked at Sanguine silently from where he sat cross-legged against the far wall, for all the world as if he'd been enjoying the tranquillity in meditation. For all the Texan's outward confidence, he was pale and his face was lined with pain. "Are you serious, Billy-Ray?" he asked sardonically. "Tryin' to get me worried when you need my door to stay upright? How far'd your plans have to go south before you bailed?"

He wasn't even going to comment on the implication that Skulduggery hadn't told him anything.

Especially because, in Sanguine's tiredness and quips, his frustration at the way his plan changed and satisfaction that he pulled it off anyway, his excitement at the nearness of the fulfilment of those plans, the Texan's soul was clear. Well, clear-ish. Clear in the sense that the plan was no longer hidden. Gabriel felt a chill and he sent a part of himself back into the wall, saturating the stone and the foundation and the earth around it to map the last of the grounds and fine the contours of the earth. There wasn't any more time to waste. Not with what they were planning. "And here I thought even the bad guys had some measure of standard sometimes," he said slowly, his gaze not leaving Sanguine. He hadn't even blinked. "Guess you've proved me wrong, huh, Billy-Ray?"

Another shiver ran through the angel, nearly painful with its iciness, as he felt souls approach. Sanguine's was awful. Dusk's was worse. Neither of them were as bad as what they bore into the dungeon now--though Dusk's came close. His soul, what there was of it, mingled with the chill of the damned in such a way that his Scream was heightened.

The footsteps became audible a few moments later; there was an order for Kenspeckle to stand back, and a waspish, barbed response as Kenspeckle obeyed. Gabriel rose without breaking his stare, approaching the door.

"Professor?" he called.

"That rescue would be good now, Gabe," Kenspeckle called back, and there was an edge to his voice. He didn't quite know what was going on, yet.

Gabriel nodded slowly, as if the professor could see him. "On it's way, professor."

If Skulduggery and Fletcher had managed to escape the zombies yet. If Fletcher had visited anywhere nearby. If not, it could still take hours. But at least Kenspeckle would be alive when they got here. Gabe could take care of the rest.

Kenspeckle heard the unspoken words. "Far be it for me to disbelieve you, Gabe," he said with asperity, "but when?"

"In the nick of time," Gabriel murmured, and then finally blinked just once as the offshoots of his consciousness snapped back to himself. The message he sent to Skulduggery had no words.

It was just a location. A location the detective would know very well.

Serpine's castle.

[skeletonenigma]

Billy-Ray frowned. This guy was harder to rattle than he'd appeared to be, down in that dungeon. A few thoughts about murder, and Gabe had practically fallen apart. Something down there broke through the wall he had up now, that was for sure.

And Gabe wasn't wrong, either, about what happened earlier. Damn mind-readers.

Still, Billy-Ray had to admit that he was a little unnerved by how calm Gabe was right now. It wasn't the kind of calm you had to force when you didn't know what might happen to you, and it wasn't an affected kind of calm meant to annoy anyone else. It was the calm of someone who knew exactly what was going to happen to them, and knew without a doubt that it wasn't anything bad. Nothing more, nothing less.

They'd prepared for a mind-reader, but Billy-Ray had never even thought to check if telepathy was part of that ability. Normally, it wouldn't be, but when you were dealing with someone who came from the dimension of the Faceless Ones...

... Skulduggery might be on his way here now. Billy-Ray should probably warn Scarab about that.

His scowl became a smirk, and it slowly grew. "Now this is gettin' interestin'. Want to warn him about what's goin' to happen, Gabe? I don't mind if you do. I won't stop you. Might even be more fun that way."

They probably only had a few hours, at the most. If the Professor couldn't fix the Engine in that time, they were going to need to move - and seriously, the Professor may have been a genius, but no one could fix and create a whole new piece of such destructive technology in less than a day. The thing was, Billy-Ray didn't really care anymore. He'd only ever been in on this little plot to get his revenge on Valkyrie Cain. And he still wanted that - almost burned with that desire - but he no longer thought that this was the way to get it.

Besides which, Gabe the faux American cowboy was fascinating. If he wasn't the ticket to Valkyrie, he'd at least be a lot of fun on the way.

[impudentsongbird]

"Warn me about what?" Kenspeckle demanded, given Sanguine's voice was loud enough for the professor to overhear--by design or otherwise. Gabriel didn't get a chance to answer, though; he heard the faint echo of Scarab replying, and then Kenspeckle's response to that.

The professor's voice was filled with fear. Not uncontrolled, but terrified nonetheless.

"No. Never."

"Then you don't leave us much choice, do you, professor?" Scarab said with a sigh. Gabriel heard the scrape and thunk of something in the door being opened, Kenspeckle's shoes on the stone as he pulled back.

"Gabriel!"

The plea, the terror, in the professor's voice cut straight to the Archangel's heart. Without his meaning to, Gabriel found himself pressed up against the door, biting his lip and trying to see past Sanguine's laughing face.

"I can't," Gabe called miserably. Kenspeckle knew he couldn't. He couldn't afford to reveal too much of his power, and that's what it would take to spare Kenspeckle this. Gabe couldn't. He could only wait for the opportunity to exorcise the Remnant, the damned soul, they intended to put inside him.

"If it makes you feel any better, professor, it won't be in you for long," Scarab told him. "You're just an old man whose mind we need, after all. Your friend over there is younger, stronger, and a mind-reader to boot. I'll give you a moment to say your goodbyes now."

A fission went through Gabe--of awareness, of irony. He almost smiled. As it was, he was caught by Sanguine's face on the other side of the door's barred window, very near, and couldn't be sure the man missed the sudden relief in his eyes. There was an equally heavy pause down the corridor.

"You've--promised it Gabe?" Kenspeckle's voice was strangled. Only by virtue of the fact that Gabe could sense the man's soul did he know that the professor was trying not to laugh with a hysteric sort of relief and irony in turn. He was still going to suffer; he was still going to build the weapon he'd sworn he never would.

But he'd be free, afterward. Even if they killed him, he'd be free.

Gabe ducked his head to hide the twitch of his lips at the professor's sudden, intense curiosity to see something being smote. After a moment he looked up again into Sanguine's gaze, his expression carefully blank and yet unable to suppress the ironic humour in his eyes.

"I'll see you later, professor," Gabe promised.

"After you've strained yourself and need my expertise all over again, no doubt," Kenspeckle muttered, still afraid and yet inexplicably--to Scarab and his people--calmer than before even in the face of what they'd do to him. "Well?! Are you going to torture me with loss of my own mind and body or not? Let's get this over with; I haven't got all day!"

Maybe it was inappropriate. Maybe not.

Gabriel still laughed.

[skeletonenigma]

Billy-Ray looked over to see his father smile at Grouse's blustery command, tip what could only have been the Soul Catcher in through the door, and then slam the bars closed again.

This far down the corridor, it had been hard to make out the Soul Catcher at all, let alone have any idea of what was happening inside the cell. But Billy-Ray could imagine it; imagine a dark, evil shadow flitting to all the corners of the room. It would probably try to escape before it even advanced on the Professor, and the thought made Billy-Ray smirk. Prolonging Grouse's suspense, and, therefore, Gabe's. What would happen was inevitable, and yet Professor Grouse would probably still be vaguely hoping for a miracle before the Remnant possessed him. Most people still had an inexplicable flicker of hope, even in the face of impending doom. It was unbelievably fun to squash that hope out.

Billy-Ray didn't know how Remnants possessed people. He didn't pay much attention to history; all he knew was that before the Remnants were locked up in the Midnight Hotel, they'd taken over an entire town. So he wasn't quite sure what to expect, and the gagging sound that echoed down the stone hallway came as a surprise - more of a surprise to him, Billy-Ray suspected, than to Gabe.

"You know what we want," Scarab said at the door. He hadn't opened it quite yet. "And you also have the knowledge of the man you're wearing like a bad suit. Tell me; can he do it?"

Billy-Ray couldn't hear the response, and to be perfectly honest with himself, didn't much care. He turned back to Gabe and grinned. "So. Gabriel, huh?"

[impudentsongbird]

The sound wasn't unexpected, no, although Gabriel wasn't paying attention to it. His brow was furrowed, his eyes distant but flickering with distress, his head tilted as he gazed into the stone wall as if he could see through the stone and the cells separating his with Kenspeckle's. He felt it was the Remnant tried to escape. Felt Kenspeckle's panic and terror as it overwhelmed him, possessed him.

Something turned over in Gabe's stomach as he realised that the Scream in it was tuning itself to Kenspeckle's soul. Or trying, at least. The attempt was only disrupting the professor.

It was a slow process. It would take hours, days, at least.

But Gabriel knew that once it was over, metaphysically they would be so entwined as to be nearly inseparable. His Master could do it, certainly. Could Gabe, after that time? Could Michael, or Rafe? For a moment Gabriel ignored Sanguine's comment, focussing on that echoing Scream and the way it adapted.

... Yes. Yes, they could. They'd need to work in unison; Gabriel, to parse the melodies and nudge them back to what they should be, and either Rafe or Michael to heal the soul of wounds or destroy the Remnant's Scream. But it could be done. Even by some of their brothers, with the right skills. It could be done.

The Archangel was still pale, and there were still tears in his eyes, when he finally dragged his gaze away from the wall to look at Sanguine. "Ain't any worse than 'William-Raymond'," he pointed out. "'Specially the 'Sanguine' part. Think you're playin' for wishful thinking on that score."

Down the hall, he heard Kenspeckle's voice. At least, it should have been Kenspeckle's voice. It was distorted on a level few others could hear, and it made him shudder, as did the smile of delight and knowingness in his tone.

"Oh, yes. Oh, yes, most definitely, he can do it."

It was something about the glee in his voice. With another chill that made Gabe's eyes widen, the Archangel abruptly realised what that melding of souls meant. That the Remnant knew what Kenspeckle knew. That the Remnant knew what Gabriel was.

"That ain't good," he mumbled.

[skeletonenigma]

"Never said it was a bad name," Billy-Ray muttered with a one-shouldered shrug. "Just a weird one."

It was a name from the Bible, that much he remembered. Made sense. Escaping from the Faceless Ones and ending up here, discovering a religion with a benevolent god, suddenly in need of a name that could actually be pronounced by people here. Unless that whole 'completely different language' thing was a myth, which would be sorely disappointing. Billy-Ray had been looking forward to finding out that Gabriel's name from before was actually a wiggle of the ears, or a pheromone, or something.

The fact that Gabriel knew his full name, Billy-Ray took in stride without faltering. Either Pleasant had mentioned it, or Billy-Ray had been thinking about it. It really didn't matter.

"And I'm sure you remember what your reward will be," Scarab said to the Remnant, just down the corridor. He'd opened the cell door now, and stepped over the threshold to disappear from sight. His voice still carried, despite it being weakened with age. "How long would it take you?"

Billy-Ray should really warn him that Pleasant might be on the way, but something else innocently took up the Texan's full attention. Nothing about this situation was 'good' - at least, not for Gabriel or Grouse - and Gabriel didn't strike him as the kind of guy who would state the bloody obvious so late without a reason. Gabriel had known exactly what would happen. Whatever calmed Gabriel down before wasn't quite working now. (And no matter how many times Billy-Ray used it, the name 'Gabriel' would never get any less weird.)

He gave Gabriel a sideways look, with one eyebrow raised. "What ain't good?"

[impudentsongbird]

"The price of crockery in China," Gabriel retorted without missing a beat, aware of the ridiculousness of Sanguine's thoughts but not, precisely, what they were except that they filled him with amused curiosity and anticipation.

Frankly, the Archangel didn't really want to know.

"Oh, a few hours," said the Remnant carelessly--Gabe refused to think of it as Kenspeckle. It wasn't him. Even if their souls were tuned, it would never truly be Kenspeckle. "And then I get his ... friend, correct?"

It was practically quivering with anticipation, and Gabe felt his lip curl with disgust, even through an odd sort of relief. It knew what he was. He knew it knew. And it couldn't wait, because it genuinely, actually thought it had the power to take him over. It didn't understand anything at all; like every one of Lucifer's own, pride would be its downfall. "More the fool it," he muttered, and then glanced at Sanguine again. "Sorry, Billy-Ray, somethin' you were after, or are you just gonna stand there and stare? Realise I'm eye-catchin', but there's gotta be limits somewhere."

It said something about Skulduggery's influence on him that he was beginning to default to these sorts of things as a cover.

[skeletonenigma]

Okay. Fair enough. It was probably a delayed reaction to the Remnant, anyway. What did a Remnant's mind even feel like? The normal person's mind, but evil? Or something worse? Maybe it felt like chalk, or sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Or maybe the Remnant had other intentions that Gabriel wasn't going to reveal.

"Correct," Scarab answered. His tone was slightly disbelieving, however, and after a short pause he spoke again. "Only a few hours? Are you sure?"

Billy-Ray tuned them out. If it was only going to be a few hours, there was nothing for him to warn Scarab about, and that was all that mattered just then. "Nope," he told Gabriel with a deep and unconvincing sigh. "Just here to find out why you're so cheerful. Mission failure. And honestly, I really don't mind. Few more hours, and you might as well be dead, so it's been fun." He hesitated. "Don't suppose there's any chance you could call off your skeletal hound before you go? No? Okay." Pleasant would go after Scarab first, anyway.

[impudentsongbird]

"Oh, I'm sure," answered the Remnant, and Gabe could hear the smile in his voice without needing to read the confidence in the soul. "I'm a genius, after all."

Because, Gabe realised with a jolt, Kenspeckle knew exactly how to build the Desolation Engine. Because Kenspeckle had built it. That knowledge swirled in their combined souls, and where it had been hidden in Kenspeckle's alone the Remnant drew it out and revelled in that knowledge.

Still not good.

But at least Sanguine didn't even seriously wait for a response. Gabe still gave him a deadpan look, but it really wasn't necessary. He would have liked to say something witty. Would have liked to point out the irony, or maybe stupidity, of sending a soul which controls minds up against a mind-reader.

He didn't dare. In case Sanguine read something out of it. In case he was alerted, and they chose to double-cross the Remnant by leaving it in Kenspeckle instead. That act was something Gabe didn't dare risk. Instead he gave Sanguine one long, even look and turned away, padding barefoot back to the far wall to sit, cross-legged, and close his eyes again.

To wait.

~~~

It was, Corrival found, somehow more difficult to move the body into his house than it was to move it into the car. He wasn't sure why. It wasn't like they had to worry about people seeing them once the garage door was closed. Then again, they had to get it down the stairs into his walk-in freezer. At least they could swear with impunity now, because as well-coordinated as the pair of them were, Corrival had never quite realised just how narrow some of his doorways were. They couldn't afford any marks on the body, in case Kenspeckle needed to autopsy.

He'd done this sort of thing before. In war, when they were burying the dead. Or when the body wasn't real, and they were using it as a test-subject or a prank.

Doing this in peace-time, with an actual body, was new. And it just figured it was because of Skulduggery.

When, finally, Crux was stowed away in the freezer (which had taken even longer when Corrival realised the space he'd been imagining wasn't quite large enough and therefore they had to shuffle around quite a few of his goodies first), the old soldier took a breath and brushed the frost off his clothes.

"I need a drink," he grumbled, shoving the door closed and locking it, and making his way upstairs again. He didn't look around to see if Ghastly was following.

[skeletonenigma]

Ghastly did follow, but not without a backward glance thrown over his shoulder toward the locked door of the freezer. So they had the body; what now? It wasn't like they could bring it anywhere without explaining to someone how the man had died, which would invite all sorts of awkward questions, most of which Ghastly believed he didn't know the answer to - and which would inevitably lead back to Lord Vile.

Yes, he did need a drink.

"You said a bar-full," he reminded Corrival as they reached the top of the stairs. "Did you actually mean a bar-full, or is one of us going to have to drive?"

And who else would they tell? Not Dexter; no one knew where he was, which was sort of the point. Dexter didn't want anyone bothering him for a while, so he'd gone out 'traveling' to undisclosed locations. Anton, too, had obligations - a hotel to run. But Erskine?

It was a well-known fact that Erskine Ravel had been Corrival's right hand man for the last sixty years or so. Partner-in-crime as well, if their prank calling hadn't stopped at Prave - and Ghastly was pretty sure it hadn't.

They couldn't not tell Erskine, but... how was he going to react? And if he was going to find out anyway, should they just tell him now and get it over with? Get him into Corrival's house and make sure he didn't do anything stupid before he'd calmed down?

[impudentsongbird]

"Would I have said a bar-full if I hadn't meant a bar-full, Bespoke?" Corrival demanded, and then waved a hand vaguely behind him. "Besides, you obviously missed the exceedingly full wine-wrack in the cellar on the off chance we run out."

Right at this moment, he had no intention of telling anyone else. Not even Erskine. It wasn't that Corrival didn't trust him; it was just that Corrival wanted his head on straight, wanted some kind of plan of action, before he went off half-cocked informing even other members of the Dead Men. Drinking might not help with that, per se, but it would sure as hell make him feel better.

At this time, that was all Corrival asked for. A little space, a little time, to go off his head before he had to be in command.

Which was why, when he arrived in the living-room, he pried off the boots, left his coat lying on the nearest chair, and made a bee-line for the bottle they'd left behind. There wasn't much left, so he downed it without the benefit of the glass, and then set it back down on the coffeetable--the first of many.

"Right, now," he mumbled, picking up their glasses and heading for the bar. "What shall we start with?"

It was a rhetorical question. The sorcerer picked something at random and poured them both a full glass, and thrust one into Ghastly's hands. "Bottom's up, Bespoke."

The contents of this glass vanished not exactly as fast as Corrival could make it, but faster than was appropriate for company other than a drinking buddy.