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

[peacefullywreathed]

"You know Him," Solomon whispered, and his fingers clenched in the bedcovers as if that would stop them shaking. It didn't. "You know Him."

He closed his eyes, tried to swallow and failed; his mouth was too dry. He tried to breathe instead, and although he couldn't calm his heartrate down, he managed to keep it somewhat under control.

Father O'Reilly's question made his opened his eyes again, and they were wider than they should have been; wide in a grey face, and filled with fear. Yet, behind that, there was something else. Awe. Curiosity. A yearning for something not even Solomon had quite pinpointed yet.

"I saw Him," he said, and his voice tremored. "I was in pain and delirious and I looked up and I ... I saw light and energy, and movement--as if a wellspring of all things around it. Then I blinked and He was--just a man." He snorted and then laughed, and the sound was breathless but less hysterical than it should have been. (But still hysterical, it has to be said.) "A sailor in a cowboy hat, laden with teddy-bears. I ..."

His voice failed on him then, and he looked automatically to the plastic cup the nurses had left him. He'd never be able to pick up it without dropping it. Not with how his hands were trembling.

[skeletonenigma]

A sailor in a cowboy hat.

Laden with teddy bears.

Father O'Reilly couldn't help it; he laughed, suddenly and not much more quietly than Solomon's hysterical bout from before.

Didn't Solomon and that boy - Renn? - didn't they say Saint Gabriel was disguising himself as an American cowboy? Still in a fit of laughter, Father O'Reilly conceded that on the surface, it all made perfect sense.

But by Solomon's own admission, he was delirious at the time. Far be it from Father O'Reilly to claim someone believing they'd seen God was wrong, but he had no wish to act like a revelation had occurred when there was a strong possibility it hadn't. Although it was strange that he was willing to believe Saint Gabriel had a personal interest in Solomon Wreath, but not God Himself.

The laughter died down fairly quickly with that humbling thought, and Father O'Reilly followed Solomon's gaze to the plastic cup. A little more practical now, though he still shook his head in lingering amusement. "Would you like some help?"

Without waiting for an answer - because Solomon obviously did - the priest rounded the bed, picked up the cup, and held it out so the sorcerer could drink from it without needing to use his hands.

[peacefullywreathed]

Somehow, Solomon wasn't sure how, Father O'Reilly's laughter was like a dash of cold water. It wasn't that it was mocking, precisely, though it could well have seemed so if Solomon had been more self-possessed than he was right now. The fact was, he almost preferred being insane. And he wasn't entirely sure he wasn't.

But it was a dash. It reminded him that he was Solomon Wreath, and he didn't particularly like being laughed at. It reminded him that all these events were as alien and nonsensical to Father O'Reilly as the Church was to Solomon.

The priest's offer of aid came too quickly for Solomon to move much beyond that. The matter-of-factness of the mortal's actions--as if he'd done this before, frequently, for others--somehow helped even more. Calming. No need to think. With a deep breath Solomon managed to prop himself up a bit higher, even slanted as the bed was, and drank without shame. There was no place for pride when possessed of such injuries and potential insanity; if he'd ever thought so, that foolishness was gone. And it gave him the chance to pull in, to bring himself under some veneer of control.

At least he felt better in control now, even though sitting up, and then down again, even that little made his knee throb and his body complain. It also made the teddy-bear tilt over, falling onto his lap and staring at him with its tiny button eyes.

For a moment Solomon stared back, his throat and chest tight but feeling less as if he was about to crumble. Well. A little less.

"You don't believe me," he said, and his voice was rough, but controlled. Mostly. He reached out with a shaking hand to pick up the bear. It was amazingly soft. Softer than he thought it would be.

God had asked Valkyrie to give this to him. God, Himself.

For a moment the sorcerer's expression flickered, verging on that shattered controlled once again. "I wouldn't believe me either. I would have thought it a dream. Except that He was with someone whom I know, and my own student delivered it into my hands on His behalf, and ..."

His voice cracked as he turned over the label, staring with a shaking hand at handwriting which looked exactly like his own. "And it shares the name my father gave me. The name no one, but myself and one other, knew before yesterday."

Him, Skulduggery ... and God.

[skeletonenigma]

It wasn't that Father O'Reilly didn't believe Solomon. Just because someone had been delirious didn't mean whatever they thought they saw wasn't very real for them. This wasn't about belief, or even about trust; this was just about helping Solomon back down to a level of anxiety his body and mind could handle.

There were dozens of reasons Father O'Reilly should still be dubious - chief among them that delirium. And there wasn't one single reason that discounted all of them. There were several.

Even delirious, Solomon wasn't the type of person to accept something at face value. He hadn't believed in God before setting eyes on Saint Gabriel, and a part of him probably hadn't even considered the Lord's existence beyond that until later. Solomon Wreath was a sorcerer, hundreds of years old, born and named long before even Father O'Reilly's grandfather was born. He wouldn't be exaggerating about the number of people who knew his original name. There was someone else, probably the girl the nurses mistook for Solomon's daughter - Valkyrie Cain, the priest remembered belatedly - who'd seen.

And there was not only precedence, there was even reason. With Saint Gabriel apparently embroiled in whatever events were taking place, it... it made sense.

Father O'Reilly found that he couldn't take his eyes off the stuffed bear.

"Well," he said after a moment. "Do you still think you aren't worth it?"

[peacefullywreathed]

Up until now, the idea of 'worthiness' hadn't been included in Solomon's reactions. At least, not consciously. He simply knew he'd been terrified and fascinated in not-quite-equal amounts, given how much the fascination had terrified him further. There hadn't been much room in Solomon's mind to question why.

Now the question was asked, it startled a short bark of laughter out of him, this one filled with a tumult of emotions--but at least not hysterical. Bitter, afraid, chagrined, sardonic, disbelieving, yes.

"Doesn't your God kill with kindness?" he asked, his voice still rough. "This feels more like punishment than absolution." The truth was, he felt more like he deserved punishment than he had in O'Reilly's church, for one reason. One reason only. "I don't think any man is worthy when they've been using their own--father's soul to fuel their power for centuries on end."

His voice cracked and he didn't dare look up, in the manner of a man who'd made a crushing realisation not too long ago. The bear trembled and the tag slipped out of his fingers. What did it mean, he wondered, that the tag was written in his writing and not his father's? What did it mean, that God should have given it that name at all? Even though Solomon had all but given it up, it felt like a censure to have it given to something else. Like salt in the wound.

No. Solomon had no such faith this was meant to be a comfort.

[skeletonenigma]

He'd felt it before; he'd been numb and lost for words before. Possibly more times in the last few days than ever in the rest of his life. This was really nothing - should have been nothing - but another reminder of how far out of his depth Father O'Reilly was.

But it felt like much, much more than that.

It felt like a test. A test of Father O'Reilly's ability to help. Or, if not a test, then... an expression of faith in that same ability. Not on Solomon's part, but a vote of confidence nonetheless. Trust. A responsibility Father O'Reilly had felt and embraced in his work before now. There was absolutely no reason for that to change, apart from his own shock and misgivings. And those should not have been a factor.

It didn't take Father O'Reilly a while to answer this time. He answered slowly, but almost immediately, operating as much on his own instincts as he could, and doing his best not to overthink the words.

"I... can't comment on that, other than I doubt that it was intentional." A symptom that Solomon, if his reaction just now was any indication, hadn't even been aware of until today. "Killing with kindness is a little harsh. Don't think of religious faith as some sort of solution, one way or the other. The only one who can change your life is you. And that certainly can't happen until you believe that change is something you want and something you deserve. Faith and belief can be a way to do that, but it shouldn't be where you stop. And having that faith doesn't necessarily absolve you."

He took a deep breath, and tried to imagine the conversation from a more analytical and practical viewpoint - from Solomon's viewpoint. "Your life is still yours. Your choices are still yours. No one's going to do the work of changing for you, not even our Lord. That's the sanctity of the free will we're blessed with."

He picked up the teddy bear to set it gently on the small side table under the window, positioning it so that it faced Solomon. "I don't see this as absolution, or as punishment. I see it as a gesture of support. God will not abandon anyone who does not want to be abandoned, but the rest is up to you."

[peacefullywreathed]

Father O'Reilly was correct on that score: it hadn't been intentional. But intentional or not didn't change that Solomon had pained the person he'd loved most in the world, for centuries. 'I didn't know' wasn't a good enough reason or even excuse in light of that. Especially with how Solomon had broken his promise to his father, from then until yesterday.

The sorcerer didn't look up at O'Reilly. He stared wordlessly down at the bear, up until O'Reilly took it from him. Then, Solomon let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes, letting himself sink back into his bed. He didn't relax, quite, but he relaxed more than he had been.

"Are you certain you're a real priest?" he asked with something near to a quirk of his lips. "That isn't anything I ever heard from religion." He looked away. "It sounds very pretty, I admit. But God has no reason to care about me. Why would He?"

Solomon didn't expect Him to, just as he didn't expect it from anyone else. Not any more.

[skeletonenigma]

"For fourteen years now," Father O'Reilly answered with a wry smile. "Long enough to know that redemption is possible. Long enough to have seen it."

Long enough, now, to know that there was far more to the world than he ever thought possible. And yet, that even in magic and sorcery, some things would always hold constant. Stubbornness. Love. Family.

"Because," he said softly, "you are just as much His son as you are the son of your father. And if I were your father, Solomon, I'd be proud of what you've already managed to accomplish."

It wasn't in the nature of a father to give up on their children. It was normal to want to; it was sad when it happened. But it was also noteworthy for the simple reason that it didn't happen very often. Father O'Reilly didn't have any biological children, but he considered all of his congregation his children, and he couldn't imagine giving up on any of them for any reason. Least of all Solomon Wreath.

And just like that, something clicked.

It was exactly like what Solomon had described, but Father O'Reilly assumed it only happened for sorcerers. That click, that jolt, that sudden knowledge. He leaned back against the table in surprise, eyes wide and unblinking as he tried to make sense of what just happened.

Which was when the door opened and a tall man, all bundled up like it was freezing, stepped in. "Solomon, what was the last thing I told you to do before I left?"

It was a familiar voice. It was the voice of the man who'd been with Renn two nights ago, the last time the teenager appeared out of nowhere asking for more holy water. He'd looked amused, but otherwise stayed quiet - for the most part. And at the time, Father O'Reilly hadn't wanted to ask who he was. He'd figured it wasn't his place to know.

[peacefullywreathed]

Solomon was listening. Silent, but listening, staring into space. Even if he'd wanted to answer, he wasn't sure he'd be able to. His gut had tightened and yet his chest felt warm, uncertainty and hope in equal amounts. His eyes were even burning slightly. He wasn't sure if he should believe it. What was there to be proud of? This was just a practical measure, for his own survival. An ... well, Solomon had never really considered himself an honourable man. More honourable than some.

But a man could be honourable and still not be good.

And he wasn't sure what to do with such a firm and steadfast assertion that God had something in him of which to be proud.

For a long moment there was silence except for a shocked, in-drawn breath. With a blink Solomon turned to look at the priest, frowning slightly as he registered O'Reilly's shocked expression. What could possibly have caused that, given the man's words just a moment ago?

Solomon was about to say something when the door opened, and the sorcerer closed his eyes and mouthed something that could have been either a curse or a blessing. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough," said another voice, another very familiar voice, quiet but warm with something Solomon didn't dare believe was pride. A chill ran all through him, but not a chill either--something in-between, not entirely unpleasant, that made his skin goosebump. He swallowed hard, drew in as much of his composure as he could, and turned his head to look at Saint Gabriel.

The Archangel had come in behind Skulduggery, still moving slowly, but his eyes were on Solomon and the way his face was lit up with his smile ... There was pride, Solomon realised with a jolt in his stomach. Pride and affection and a kind of everlasting joy that took Solomon's breath away. The sorcerer could see others behind the Archangel, but it was almost impossible to look away from that expression.

Saint Gabriel passed Skulduggery, leaning for a moment on the bundled-up skeleton before arriving at Solomon's bedside, the one across from Father O'Reilly. He took Solomon's hand, sat on the edge of the bed, leaned forward as if Solomon was the only thing that currently existed in his world. Part of Solomon wanted to pull away from that contact, from the expression on Saint Gabriel's face, partly because something like that hadn't been directed at him in centuries and partly because he still wasn't quite sure why the Archangel should even bother.

The rest of him wanted it, rather like he'd wanted, even in his terror, to reach out for God. In the end the sorcerer's hand twitched and then settled into the Archangel's grip.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come earlier," Saint Gabriel said. "I had to deal with a Remnant."

... Well. That would explain it. Solomon grimaced. "The world's better off with one fewer of those."

"No arguments here." Saint Gabriel's lips quirked and then eased, and even though the Archangel had stopped smiling his face still shone with that quiet joy. Mostly. Now that the Archangel had stopped smiling, now that Solomon wasn't in the middle of a breakdown, he could see the pain-lines around Saint Gabriel's eyes. And yet, at the same time, there was a kind of understated intensity there. A knowing. "Paddy's right, you know. It isn't over yet, but the steps you've taken are steps for which very few have any strength. Of course ..."

And here, while Solomon was still trying to figure out his turbulent reaction to this, Saint Gabriel threw an exasperated look over his shoulder. "Of course, if you're as much like Skul as I suspect you are, getting that through to you is going to take a bit of work. It's a good thing I'm so patient."

The last was added with a flash of an impish grin, and despite himself, despite everything, Solomon laughed. And it didn't sound bitter.

[skeletonenigma]

"He's nothing like me." Unlike Gabe, or the priest, or even God, Skulduggery wasn't going to try and convince Solomon that what he'd done was good. Or noble. The guilt, he knew, was a natural part of the process that Solomon was going to have to work through on his own. Skulduggery would be there to help when he could, there was no denying that, but the ultimate achievement would mean absolutely nothing if Solomon didn't know, unequivocally and with no room for doubt, that he'd earned it for himself.

In that respect, the two of them were very alike. More than Skulduggery wanted to admit. But Skulduggery had already been through this, and he hadn't had an Archangel to help him out, either.

He stepped towards the foot of the bed as Valkyrie, Tanith, and Fletcher came into the room after him. Enough, as Gabe said. They'd heard enough for Skulduggery to know that Solomon had just broken one of the laws the Sanctuary enforced most. Not that Skulduggery would report it, of course, but the fact remained; as well as a Catholic priest might take the news of an Archangel, or of God's presence, he suspected a living skeleton would not go over nearly as smoothly.

"The last thing I told you to do before I left," Skulduggery stubbornly continued, "was to try and not tell anyone you're a sorcerer. It never ceases to amaze me how often people just don't listen to the perfectly reasonable things I say."

Valkyrie laughed. "Reasonable? Like when I was thirteen, and you wanted me to drive a van?"

Skulduggery glanced backwards. "Exactly. And look how well that turned out."

"Funny," Valkyrie muttered. "That's exactly what I was going to say."

[peacefullywreathed]

Saint Gabriel was grinning back over his shoulder at Skulduggery and Valkyrie, at the way they were bantering. In spite of everything, in spite of Low's tension and Renn's anxious smirk, the room felt lighter. Solomon could almost believe he had actually received a teddy-bear from God Himself and not feel like he was going to sink into a breakdown again.

What helped the most was Skulduggery's refusal to let go of his issue. The banter. The warm, dry arrogance.

"In my defence," Solomon demurred, "I told him before you said it. Yesterday, in fact." He shrugged carefully, even lying down as he was. "What can I say? I like acting pre-emptively."

Saint Gabriel laughed, and Solomon unexpectedly felt a glow of satisfaction. The Archangel squeezed his hand once and then rose. Solomon caught the wince, the way slight hiss as he moved--yes. Yes, he was injured. Well, that made two of them.

Still, Saint Gabriel made no other sound as he moved around the bed to hold out his hands to Father O'Reilly. "Paddy Steadfast," he said warmly. "It's my very great pleasure to meet you. I'm sorry I left you holding the bag, but unfortunately, I have to prioritise some things for a while. You handled things wonderfully, though. Thank you."

[skeletonenigma]

It hadn't taken Father O'Reilly long to remember Solomon's description of Saint Gabriel. He rather wished it had taken a lot longer, but... on the other hand, if it had, he would certainly have worked it out when Gabriel spoke directly to him, and then he'd be like a deer caught in headlights when he was supposed to be responding.

As it was, he was grateful for even the short amount of time he had while everyone else was distracted to adjust.

Paddy Steadfast.

It felt right. It clicked, just the way Solomon said it would. But that didn't mean Father O'Reilly understood it, and it didn't mean he'd quite accepted it. He'd had all of twenty seconds to try and accept a complete change of identity - he couldn't exactly be blamed. So it was startling enough when anyone else used it, even completely disregarding who was saying it.

He had bare feet. A blue t-shirt. Shorts. Black curly hair, almost exactly like - as Solomon had put it - a middle eastern exchange student. Because he did look young. University-age young. And yet, there was something about his face, something about his eyes, that spoke of experience. Wisdom.

Pain.

So Paddy had been right about there being an injured angel. He was just wrong about practically everything else.

"It's... no problem," he managed. "It's been my honour. You're welcome."

He knew about prayer, he knew the Bible. He knew the facets of his faith and how to comfort the grieving. He'd been through all the training, tried to be prepared for any situation. He felt like he'd been as prepared as possible for discovering and helping a Necromancer, and he felt like he'd managed admirably.

But he'd never been trained or prepared for this. And he'd certainly never been prepared for being praised, or personally thanked, by an Archangel.

[impudentsongbird]

There were a lot of revelations going on today, if 'today' still count as being within the last twelve hours. The ones from last night were enough, and too many, though only just so--and then only because it was Skul taking them. He had an amazing talent at adapting. The ones from this morning ... Well, Gabriel wasn't going to deny them.

Especially since it sounded as though his Master had made Himself known.

The Archangel had known, with complete faith, that He was here. Gabe didn't know where, but he knew it, and that was enough. To know He was so nearby, and willing to give the people about whom Gabe was beginning to care so much a little prod, had only made the Archangel beam to hear it. (A beam which hardly dimmed when Skul opened the door and Gabe had realised he shouldn't have been letting them all listen to such a private conversation. Oops.)

Paddy's revelation was probably the weightiest, and although he was handling it well, Gabe could see in him that he could use some help to pull himself together. Ergo, a distraction.

So he squeezed the priest's hands, his smile taking on a faintly mischievous caste. "We're here for a rescue. Sol can't stay here; it isn't safe, and we know someone at another location who'll be able to heal him more quickly than the doctors." He made a face. "I'm not up to snuff right now, though. I could use some help getting him upright and mobile while the others keep an eye out for the staff. Would you mind helping? You're allowed to say no."

The last was added on almost in afterthought and with another squeeze, to reassure Paddy that there was no shame in that refusal.

[skeletonenigma]

You're allowed to say no.

Fear over any implied repercussions of refusing to help the man he'd just sworn to help no matter what was the last thing on Paddy's mind. He glanced at the group of people behind Gabriel, but when none of them seemed about to say anything, he decided to take it upon himself.

"That - that didn't even occur to me," he said evenly and with barely a hint of a stutter. As well as, to his knowledge, truthfully. "With all due respect... with all due respect, I am aware of what I'm allowed. I would like to continue helping Solomon Wreath, with or without permission. If you're not 'up to snuff,' then there's absolutely no chance I wouldn't offer to help, or to refuse, even if I wanted to."

He hesitated, and in the near complete silence following his words, was immediately aware of what that must have sounded like. Arrogant, maybe. Assuming. Pretentious. But he didn't back down, and he didn't take it back, because he knew it wasn't arrogance at all. The simple fact that Gabriel gave him the option to refuse made that clear, even if receiving the option felt almost offensive and condescending. "And I don't," he added as his own afterthought. "I don't refuse to help. Just in case that wasn't clear." Finally aware that he'd accepted the Archangel's proffered hands at some point, Paddy cautiously squeezed back. "It really is an honour to meet you."

After another moment of near-silence, the teenage girl spoke. "I like him."

The tall man who was all bundled up chuckled. "Well said. Good job." Paddy couldn't tell if he was directing that towards the girl with him, or towards Paddy himself. The man barely moved his head; it was impossible to tell where he was looking beneath those giant sunglasses. "Well, you both should have a lot to talk about. Lifetime of religion and all. So we'll just keep an eye out for now."

[impudentsongbird]

There was a tiny smile on Gabriel's face as Paddy spoke. It wasn't that the Archangel genuinely believed the priest would take him up on that offer; on the contrary, he'd known before asking what the answer would be. The name the man had just taken said that loud and clear. But there was a difference between something being known and something being established.

This proved to the others that Paddy could be trusted. It solidified to Paddy himself what his intent was. This was his choice, and now it truly was; in contrast, Gabriel's assumption of his aid would forever, in everyone's minds, have held the connotation of a 'what if'. Even more, it proved to Paddy that he could speak his mind and not be censured for it--something Paddy had always believed, but in his awe might have forgotten without it being established from the off. Now he would not forget.

"Solomon isn't the only one of whom to be proud today," he said softly, so only Paddy could hear him. Then, with another smile, Gabe released Paddy's hands to turn toward Solomon's bed. The sorcerer was already upright--mostly; he'd just realised what he was wearing and was plucking at the hospital gown with abject distaste.

Solomon sighed and threw a look at Skulduggery. "All I ask is no pictures. And for someone to help me get my coat on."

At least it would be long enough to maintain the bounds of decency.

"We weren't expecting you to have a visitor, either," Gabe admitted, putting an arm around Solomon's back to help him up more easily. With the creases around his eyes and the paleness of his face, his knee was hurting. A lot. "I don't think we can just disappear you out of the room anymore if we don't want to get Paddy in trouble--but I'll leave those details up to the experts."

At his last words he glanced with amusement at Skulduggery and the others.

[skeletonenigma]

"Why not?" Skulduggery asked.

"Because we're trying not to get Paddy in trouble," Valkyrie added, in a tone bordering on the exasperated air she hadn't once used since Skulduggery last saw her a year ago. It was a comforting tone. Familiar. Ignoring it was just as comforting and familiar.

"There's nothing stopping Paddy from claiming the room was empty when he got here," Skulduggery pointed out. "Who would accuse a priest of lying? Other than the evil ones, or the ones that are."

"That wouldn't work." Paddy, while they were talking, had stepped over to help Gabe gently prop Solomon upright, but he stopped and looked over when he spoke. "There are security cameras in the hallways. How would I explain all of you? Or the amount of time we spent in here?"

Skulduggery's voice grew sour. He was completely aware that it did so, and perfectly capable of keeping his voice free of those sour tendencies, but he didn't bother. "Ah. Yes. Video monitoring." He hesitated, and then cocked his head. "Would the hospital really kick up such a fuss over one missing patient? One missing patient whose name they didn't even know?"

"If there's evidence of kidnapping," Paddy replied, "yes. They would."

Damn it. Skulduggery glanced back towards the doorway. "And if the video cameras were tampered with? All they would have to go on is your word, correct?"

"Well... I suppose." Paddy stopped and looked over again. "But if you're planning on physically tampering with them, I'm afraid I can't just turn a blind eye."

"Why not?" Tanith wanted to know. "It's for the greater good. You're willing to help us kidnap Solomon, but not to cover that up so you don't get in trouble?"

"Helping a patient get the best medical care possible is one thing. Omitting the truth from my statement to protect the hospital from it is... not something I'm comfortable with, admittedly, but I'll do it. Purposely damaging hospital equipment used to monitor the safety of others is going too far."

"Then you can relax," Skulduggery told him. "I won't touch the cameras. I'll just step outside and remove my disguise. They won't believe anything the cameras have told them for the last day. Which is probably a very good thing, since we've all been coming and going for the last twelve hours."

Paddy frowned. "Disguise...? Why would removing that help?"

Tanith, despite herself, was giggling. Valkyrie shrugged. "Trust me," she assured him, "you don't want to know."

[peacefullywreathed]

The conversation was almost enough to keep Solomon's mind off the pain in his knee. Almost. When he moved, he could still feel that he was drugged; the world turned, and he was aware that his reaction times weren't the best, even leaving aside the way his knee radiated fire all the way up to his hip. (It was also enough to let him pretend he didn't see as Saint Gabriel slipped the teddy-bear into a coat-pocket.)

The former Necromancer kept an ear on that conversation while he concentrated on not passing out, throwing up, or otherwise letting go his composure. Saint Gabriel helped him into his coat and then pulled down the sheets, but Solomon, conscious of the Archangel's own injuries, turned toward Paddy's side so rely on the priest to take the brunt of his weight. Even that small movement made him have to take deep, slow breaths to avoid panting with the exertion, and his body was already sending him warning signals that he really didn't have the strength to spare for this.

Tanith Low's giggles were what made him raise his head. "Ah. Yes. I should introduce all of you. Paddy Steadfast--" He lifted a deadpan, but somehow knowing, eyebrow at the priest. "--you remember Fletcher Renn and Valkyrie Cain, I'm sure. Meet Tanith Low and Skulduggery Pleasant."

Solomon motioned at each of them as he said their names, gesturing so as to hide as best as he could the way his fingers trembled.

[skeletonenigma]

If the feeling of settling on a taken name had been overwhelming, it was nothing to the way everyone else now seemed to be using it like it was the most natural thing in the world. And that was nothing to the fact that Paddy seemed to be naturally referring to himself by that name as well, even in his own head. It hadn't replaced Patrick O'Reilly, exactly. But somehow, in the space of a few short minutes, it had become just as valid. If not more valid.

He nodded throughout the introductions, partly at each person in greeting, and partly in agreement with Solomon that he did remember Fletcher Renn and Valkyrie Cain. How could he forget them, or the names they'd apparently taken? Paddy was about to ask Valkyrie if she understood the connotations surrounding her chosen name, when 'Skulduggery Pleasant' found and alighted on the specific memory of his conversation with Solomon yesterday.

Skulduggery Pleasant. The living skeleton detective.

Paddy stumbled slightly and caught himself on the edge of the bed before he could drop the shoulder supporting Solomon. Yes, he told himself as he made a conscious effort to straighten back up, and stared at the 'disguise.' Yes, the hospital would certainly believe their cameras have been tampered with.

He tried to imagine nothing but a skeleton frame underneath the coat. He tried to imagine nothing but a gleaming skull under the hat, a jawbone under the scarf, or empty eye sockets under the sunglasses. Unsurprisingly, it didn't work.

"No," Paddy said out loud, the word long and drawn-out in the manner of someone who was suddenly trying very hard to keep their own composure, in light of the man who'd just been stabbed in the knee relying almost solely on them. "Back in the church, you... you had skin, you had a face." You were normal.

"I did," Skulduggery confirmed. "Both a recent addition. Courtesy of the Archangel standing next to you there. Solomon, is there anything you didn't say?"

[peacefullywreathed]

"I enjoy being thorough," was Solomon's reply as he laid a hand on Saint Gabriel's shoulder, still concentrating on his breathing. Most of his weight was still on Paddy, but Paddy seemed to be having a bit of trouble, so Solomon wasn't going to deny Saint Gabriel's aid.

"And in my defence," he added obliquely, looking up at Skulduggery with a quirk of his lips to try and cover the sweat beading his brow, the pain in his eyes, "I was in shock at the time. Apparently that tends to lead to a lack of barriers between mind and mouth."

"Are you certain that's the best idea?" Saint Gabriel asked Skulduggery, his brow wrinkled. "If they won't take their cameras seriously, they might overlook something important with one of the other patients. If that's the case, then we may as well have tampered with them mechanically. Can't we just sign him out with a waiver? He's awake and cognizent, and it means we can get him a wheelchair to sit in."

[skeletonenigma]

"We need a doctor's discharge for that, though," Tanith said. "Don't we? What doctor in their right mind would agree to let Solomon go right now? He may be cognizant, but he can barely sit up on his own."

"Actually..." Valkyrie mused with a finger on her lips. "We can technically leave against medical advice. Kenspeckle told me that once. There's just a form you have to sign." She looked at Gabe. "A waiver."

"Do we really have the time to argue with doctors?" Tanith asked. "Scarab still has a Desolation Engine, and he's still planning to set it off, and we still have no idea when. Or where."

That was a mystery Skulduggery had been mulling over silently for the last day, ever since discovering Scarab's plan had been for two Engines all along. One of them, pretty obviously, had been meant to go off in the Sanctuary. That was Scarab's ultimate goal; destruction of the authoritative body who had him put away without a trial. And no matter how elegant his overall plan was, Skulduggery knew that need for revenge. Not just a desire, not just a passing fancy, but a real and pressing need. Part of that plan would not be elegant - it would just be a bomb set off in the depths of the Waxworks Museum. Nothing more, nothing less. Destroy as much of it as possible.

But now Scarab only had one left, and 200 years of stewing in that need for revenge would have given him ample time to think. He'd be putting that overall plan above such petty needs. Whatever he'd been planning to do with that second Engine, that was the only option left to him. And it would still, somehow, destroy the Sanctuary.

They needed to figure out the 'where.' Then they would have the 'when.' And Tanith was right - whatever the answer was, they were running out of time, which would have been bad enough if they knew exactly how much time they had to begin with.

But Gabe brought up a good point, too. Whatever they did with the cameras, it would endanger the other patients in this ward. Which meant they'd have to go about this the old-fashioned way.

"Tanith. Would you go ask for a doctor, please?"

Tanith stared. "You mean we actually are going to try and argue?"

"I'm very good at arguing. Five minutes, that's all I need. Gabe, while I admire your ability to melt all resistance with a smile, it's probably best for everyone here if you, for once, just let me handle this."

There was a choking noise which Skulduggery didn't have to look to know was Paddy Steadfast. It still amazed him that the living skeleton elicited more of a reaction than the Archangel - but then again, the man was a priest.

As for arguing... Skulduggery and Solomon used to be very, very good at double-talking unwitting victims into confusion. Granted, that was centuries ago, but there was no reason to believe that couldn't still be the case. Even with Solomon hopped up on drugs like he was. In fact, they could even use that to their advantage.

~~

It hurt.

Everything hurt. Ghastly was no stranger to hangovers, but God damn it, this one was a killer. He didn't even have to open his eyes to know that opening his eyes would be one of the worst ideas he ever had.

The world somehow managed to spin, even through the darkness of his eyelids.

Without even the strength to groan, Ghastly simply lay still and tried, through the haze of the hangover, to work out where he was. Why he'd been drinking. If he was in an especially embarrassing position, and if he was, who else was there.

He was lying on something soft, which was always good. Always preferable. But it wasn't anything soft he recognised, so he wasn't in his shop or on his own bed, which meant...

Corrival, Ghastly remembered with a head-sickening jolt. Corrival Deuce. He'd gone to Corrival yesterday for help. Why? Desolation Engine. No, no... it had something to do with Skulduggery.

Skulduggery was in trouble? Lord Vile. Necromancy. Desolation Engine. Archangel. Why had there been drinking? If Lord Vile was back and planning on setting off a Desolation Engine and Skulduggery was somehow mixed up in all of this, then why wasn't Ghastly there? Why was he here, collapsed and useless, and - most importantly - nursing the mother of all hangovers?

"I figure that line depends on the person. We all got lines in the sand. Maybe sometimes they ain't where they should be. But it's something a man's gotta find out on his own, where his lines oughta be. Sometimes that means they gotta be adjusted. Takes a big man to admit his lines might be in the wrong place."

Whatever the reason was, it was big. Shattering. Something Ghastly knew, without a doubt, he didn't want to remember. But thoughts were a funny thing; they tended to gallivant off and end up wherever they wanted, regardless of whether you actually wanted them there or not.

"Course, it also takes a big man to see that kind of mess and go ahead to try'n untangle it. Can take a long time, that. Lotta effort. Hard to know if you're gonna see the end, or if your friend's line's just too knotty. And then again ... Then again, sometimes those knots never go away. Don't mean the line's not good and strong anymore. Just means it needs a bit more care in the handlin', instead of relyin' on a rod to do the work."

Tangled fishing line. Skulduggery was tangled fishing line. Why was Skulduggery tangled fishing line?

"He still doin' it behind your back? He still hurtin' people just for the Hell of it? When it came out, he lie to you or make excuses? Try to avoid responsibility? Try to pretend it was all okay?"

No. He didn't.

Skulduggery. Lord Vile. That's right. They were one and the same.

There was a groan now, although whether it came from Ghastly or somewhere far off on the other side of the room, he couldn't tell. His throat suddenly hurt, so maybe it was him. It hurt with a kind of scratched-up tension, like he was dehydrated, or like... like he'd been crying.

"Ain't gonna pretend it's easy. Never is, to know someone's gone wrong and you couldn't stop it. But the question I'd be askin' ain't why you didn't mean enough to him for him to trust you with what he did. What I'd be askin' is whether he means enough to you to go help keep savin' him."

Another groan. This one did sound like it came from across on the other side of the room, but if it did, Ghastly ignored it. His arms were wrapped around his head already, but he curled in tighter around the headache. Yes, he cared. He still cared, and he would always care, God damn it. But his head was pounding and he felt suddenly, violently sick. He was in no shape to run off half-cocked and try to help anyone when he could barely wake up, let alone stand.

"Then again, everyone's gonna be at the Stadium pretty soon; going there'd be like gettin' blasted... How 'bout that carnival there. Ain't even far. We could walk it, or take the bus. Carnivals. Ain't been to one of them in a while. One of my boys always used to go with me."

Ghastly's head pounded.

Going there'd be like gettin' blasted.

Getting blasted.

Ghastly shot upright. The pain in his head lampooned angrily forward, the nausea in his stomach broiled threateningly upwards, but suddenly none of that mattered. There was, fortunately, not much light in the room. One of them had the presence of mind to shut the curtains over the windows last night. If there had been blinding light, Ghastly might well have keeled over and not gotten up again.

"Look like you can use the downtime, boyo. Well, we'll take care of that. Stadium might be a bit too excitin' for you."

Damn it. Damn it. The entire time Ghastly was either drunk or reeling over the presence of God Himself yesterday, God had subtly been dropping hints. Hints He knew Ghastly wouldn't even begin to understand at the time. Hints He knew Ghastly would only realise now.

Because there wasn't a game at the stadium yesterday. But there was one today.

And killing 80,000 people live on air with a bomb that could only be described as 'magical'... if there was ever a surer way of destroying the Sanctuary completely, Ghastly had yet to see it.

He lurched awkwardly off the couch, the urgency of the situation sitting firmly and clearly in his mind. The urgency, but... not quite what to practically do about it. Did he have his phone? No, apparently not. Maybe he'd dropped it somewhere; maybe Ghastly left it behind on purpose. Either way, it was no use right now.

He had to find Skulduggery. Find Skulduggery and warn him. How was he going to do that, without a mobile?

[impudentsongbird]

Corrival Deuce had been awake for a while now. The night before was hazy, but not hazy enough that he didn't remember what had happened. Corrival Deuce very rarely forgot his benders, no matter how drunk he managed to get. So things were hazy, but memorable, and Corrival Deuce was very, very carefully not moving at all.

He was lying on a couch, in a position very unbecoming of a former general of the war, but given he was now a retiree he didn't much care. Which was why he also had a pile of cushions over his head.

Unfortunately, that didn't do much for the hangover. It was still better than letting thoughts of last night swamp in, and the pain kept them at bay. For the most part. Just because Corrival remembered what happened last night didn't mean they were in the right order, which was why he was sorting through his memories to put them into place.

Let's see. Rang Anton. That came before ringing Erskine. What did we say to Erskine? We talked about Prave. He had some new ideas, some things Ghastly could help us with. And we talked about Dexter. And we talked about ...

No. No, they hadn't talked about that. Corrival and Ghastly had been drunk enough by then that they had slid neatly past it with all the grace of hippos skating on oil-washed ice.

But remembering that was enough of an opening for--

Skulduggery. Lord Vile. Prave. Crux. Corrival groaned and buried his face in his pillows. Body in my freezer. Wonderful.

For some interminable moments he managed to breathe, to let his head ring, and not-quite think about anything in particular. Then he heard the sound of someone getting up very quickly and hitting--he thought it was the coffeetable--and then the sound of many bottles overbalancing and hitting each other like round dominoes to roll all over the floor.

"Bespoke," he mumbled, just barely loud enough to be heard, "I'm going to kill you if you don't shut up right this minute that's an order."

[skeletonenigma]

Corrival was awake. Awake and grumpy. Well, that made two of them.

What about a house phone? Surely Corrival would have a landline. Or, at the very least, his own mobile. Hopefully his own mobile; Ghastly didn't think he was capable of remembering ten elusive digits at the moment. "You have a phone I can borrow?"

Talking hurt. His voice was hoarse and croaky, his throat scratchy and parched. He needed water first, and with that vague thought in mind, Ghastly began making his slow and stumbling way towards the kitchen. "Need to call Skulduggery. God told me where the Desolation Engine's going off yesterday and I only just remembered." He stopped against the kitchen doorframe, leaning far too heavily against it for his taste, and tried his utmost best to think. "We need to look at all those teddy bears, just in case. Plus, Barney and Allie. God introduced us. We can't forget about them. I met them for a reason."

But first, water. And then making sure 80,000 people didn't die. What time was it? What time was the game supposed to start?

[impudentsongbird]

For several long moments Corrival said nothing and did nothing except breathe. Well, his mind pointed out, God was the next logical step on from Archangel. Except if Archangel was the same as Faceless One but on the other side of the coin, in which case God was unlikely.

"You're still drunk," he mumbled. "You're still drunk and you're not going to shut up unless I give you what you want, are you?"

He sighed heavily into the sofa cushions and then waved without looking in the general direction of wherever they'd left the phone last night. On the floor by one of the armchairs, he thought it might have been. "S'over there. Now I'm going to get up and make a hangover cure, and if I throw up it'll be on your shoes."

So saying, the old sorcerer gave himself another few moments to brace himself and then hauled himself upright--not too quick so as to make his stomach rebel, but quick enough that he couldn't pause halfway and run out of oomph. Even still, he groaned and clutched his head, rising to his feet and leaning heavily on the sofa as he shuffled toward the kitchen.

[skeletonenigma]

Ghastly was closer to water than he was to Corrival's phone - or at least the place Corrival vaguely waved at - so it made sense to go and get the water first. But Ghastly still didn't know what time it was, or whether the stadium was already packed with people, or where Skulduggery was, and how much the detective already knew. Better safe than sorry.

Better safe than sorry, Ghastly reminded himself as he stared at the insurmountable distance between the kitchen doorframe and the armchair.

Somehow, he managed it. With stomach lurching and head throbbing, Ghastly made his way over to the armchair, while using various pieces of Corrival's furniture on the way to keep himself steady. Corrival's mobile, thank God, was in plain view on the rug. Ghastly didn't have to go searching for it under a chair or a table.

"If I was still drunk," he replied about a minute after Corrival spoke, "it wouldn't hurt this much. Throw up on my shoes, and I'll never make you clothes. Ever again."

Corrival might have already been in the kitchen by then. Ghastly couldn't tell, and it didn't really matter. The threat still stood. And even with a bad hangover, he should be able to figure out a small mobile's phonebook by himself.

[impudentsongbird]

Close--Corrival had just reached the doorway himself, and since he was leaning so heavily on the frame it wasn't all that difficult to angle himself back toward the living-room. "If you never make me clothes again for my throwing up on your shoes because I got drunk over your yanking me back into extracurricular affairs, I'm telling Dexter and Erskine you need help wooing a girl."

The old sorcerer lurched into the kitchen proper, catching himself on the counter and breathing deeply so he wouldn't need the sink in the immediate future. It took a few minutes for his stomach to settle, but once it had Corrival moved, slowly and carefully, to the fridge to get what he needed for his hangover cure.

All the while, he let the pain buzz in his ears, diffusing the thoughts and the weight of the knowledge Ghastly had given him. The tailor had been crying in the night, Corrival knew. Corrival had pretended not to hear. It wasn't as if his cheeks had been entirely dry. He'd had friends killed by Vile too.

Eyes half closed, slow and fumbling, Corrival worked his way around the kitchen, half unsure if he wanted to be cured of his hangover or not.