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]

It was impossible to tell just how long Solomon slept. He had nothing with which to tell time, and his sleep was a deep, dreamless one. At first. The movement of people entering his cell made him stir, not physically but metaphysically, half aware of the ripples in the lifestream. It wasn't enough to actually wake him up, but he knew they were there. He felt it when they lifted him, placed him on a gurney, took him from the room.

His mind dismissed it and sank back into slumber. Everything after that was snatched, flashes.

He felt a pinprick in his arm. The flood of something in his veins. Maybe painkillers, maybe blood, maybe something else. It didn't matter; it was liquid strength, and he was aware of it.

People nearby. Some of them were shadows, black-on-black and visible because they made the Scream louder. Others were softer, with dim embers of light here and there, casting shadows. He let them flow past him and do what they willed. Mostly. Someone tried to take Kian from him; his grip tightened instinctively and he began to rise from the benefits of sleep, mumbling a wordless objection. The insistent tug ceased.

Someone approached, someone familiar. Quiver. Strange. The ember was still there, glowing brighter in some respects, but veiled more deeply than before. His voice resonated, that steady deadpan.

"Solomon, your hands are injured. Your bear is filthy. Let us clean it and return it to you."

There was something ... odd. A thought, a pondering, something he should question. Except that for a moment that ember was unbanked and Solomon felt warmth in it, not searing but comforting, and knew Quiver wasn't lying. He would have it cleaned and return it. His grip loosened enough to allow them the bear.

The next interminable time was spent slightly more aware, if only because the Scream was more irritating without Kian's soothing presence, but not complete enough to be called true wakefulness. Quiver was somewhere nearby, but so were others. Solomon could smell something sterile, but at a distance which made it not matter except for its vague familiarity. Someone was nearby, replacing the liquid strength which had begun to run dry. Someone else was even nearer, sponging the grime off him.

Once more unease. Once more that wondering, that question he should ask.

What's going on?

He was in the medical ward. He had to be. Sterility. His hands, stinging with the treatment. The sponge-bath. Why? What were they planning?

Too hard to figure out. Solomon observed with distant tranquillity, waiting for the moment it would be revealed. Because it would be. Of that, he was sure.

He was being moved. Naturally, he was. He couldn't do it himself, nor was he inclined to. But instead of a bed he was placed in a chair--a comfortable chair, mostly, except that there seemed to be rather a lot of straps required around his wrists and ankles, and his head.

Wait.

A fission ran through him and finally that part of him that was the survivor, the part that had collapsed with sheer exhaustion and was only now groggily waking, registered.

Still tired. Still beyond tired. But stronger, now, his aches and pains numbed, his body offered extra aids. The adrenaline helped further. Solomon forced open his eyes and found himself bound to a chair, unable to move his head, and in a room empty of nearly anything except chair, table, healer, Quiver and High Priest Tenebrae. Quiver's ember was once more veiled. The healer was an odd sort of grey, a smog to thick to penetrate. Tenebrae ... Tenebrae.

He was obsidian. Chipped obsidian, with the only highlight the radiating blue-black fracture at his heart.

Solomon's brain hadn't quite engaged yet, but his voice was only slightly unsteady with sleepiness as he said, "This isn't exactly the side of the bed on which I thought I'd wake this morning, I must admit."

[skeletonenigma]

"That's because it isn't a bed," Tenebrae smiled. "Nor is it technically morning anymore. It's getting close to noon."

It wasn't that he hadn't understood the joke - or even that he didn't want to continue it, really, because some small part of him did. It was just that Tenebrae didn't want to stand for it. Jokes like that in situations like this were a Pleasant trademark, and a trait that Solomon frustratingly shared. Sometimes, it was amusing. Now, it was irritating. Worrying, almost, reminding Tenebrae of the fact that Wreath had been in Pleasant's sole and unhealthy influence for at least two days.

It put the High Priest in a sour mood. And being in a sour mood was not conducive whatsoever to this procedure.

"Forgive me," he added, "but no doubt some future High Priest would be very angry with me for not doing this properly. I'm assuming you remember who you are. As well as the date, if not quite the time. But do you know where you are?"

It should be an obvious question, but with how far out of it Solomon had been throughout the entire process of moving him, it paid to be sure.

[peacefullywreathed]

"Forgive you?" Solomon breathed the words before he could stop himself. His eyes had closed again, but they opened now to look at Tenebrae, taken by the use of a phrase everyone took for granted. Words that struck him now with their true meaning, with the plea modernity had removed from them. "No, I don't think I have the graciousness in me to do that, Tenebrae."

It was hard to look at the man. Not because of the depths of his blackness; it was hard to look at anything, at anyone. There was no movement here, or not as much as there should have been--a sluggishness in the lifestream caused by the pain radiating from the walls. The sight-sound of it made Solomon's temples ache.

Tenebrae's soul was odd in that respect. Even the healer--Pierce Cirurgie, Solomon's mind provided; wonderful, the sadist--had movement in it. Movement which looked something akin to pus leaking from a wound, but movement. Tenebrae's didn't. At all. The chips in the stone, Solomon saw with another look, weren't random; they weren't even chips. They didn't indicate something damaged, per se. Not something dropped or broken. But weathered. Natural defects. Weaknesses.

"I always thought the phrase 'a heart of stone' to be a metaphor," he said, watching the man--no, his soul--no. He squinted, trying to see through it, and the overlay wavered until he saw Tenebrae's face, for just a moment, before his temples throbbed hard and Solomon closed his eyes again. "I wish I could say I'm surprised that in your case it's rather more literal, but I can't."

It was easier to handle like this. His eyes, his mind, weren't straining between two very different kinds of sight. Yet at the same time, this method--without something to ground him--made him feel sick to his stomach. It was the pain, the waft, the movement; it was similar to travel sickness. This method of sight--it was against everything to which Solomon was adjusted. It wasn't even physical. He swallowed hard, breathing deep and slow.

Probably he should answer Tenebrae's question, too, he realised belatedly. Not that it would assuage his ire at all, but at least it would move things along. Solomon never had been fond of waiting. He could do it, but he didn't like it.

"I'm at the Temple," he said after a moment, counting his breaths. In, hold, out. And again. Over. Continue. Focus on the breathing. "In the medical ward." He opened his eyes a crack to take a glance at the walls. They looked bruised purple-red, but at least they weren't actually obscured. "Operating room on the left, I believe. Cirurgie's domain. I'm honoured, really."

His sardonic tone of voice said otherwise, but he didn't have the energy to restrain it. It was slow, but his mind had begun turning over, still struggling to gain the heat needed to actually put things together, but getting there. He was in the medical ward. Not just for his injuries. He shifted slightly, testing all the places that stang with open wounds. His palms, his fingers, his feet and side and back and scalp. He hadn't been expecting his back, but there were lashes of pain across it, like a dulled after-image of a real injury.

Whiplashes, he recognised dimly. He shifted again, and this time the responding throbs had meaning. Pierces through his palms and feet. A dull stinging around his head, like a crown, underlaid by a genuine throb of bruising. A sharp pang in his side when he breathed, the edge taken by painkillers, but still there.

"Father ... into Your hands I commit my spirit."

Stigmata. Solomon exhaled slowly, and there was a sardonic, incredulous, resigned chuckle on it. Well. If he hadn't already believed whose scream he'd been hearing, he knew it now.

[skeletonenigma]

Tenebrae stiffened. He'd realised some time ago that Solomon's soul-reading wouldn't pick and choose; at least, not at first, even if Solomon did eventually learn some form of control. Tenebrae had even vaguely wondered what his own soul would look like. He'd never come to any conclusion - but if he had, he doubted it would have been anything about a heart of stone.

He was cold, he knew that. Calculating. Like most true Necromancers, he'd given up the luxuries of life long ago. He hadn't been expecting anything good. In all honesty, he might not even have surprised with Solomon's conclusion, except that judging by the man's reaction, it was unique. Implying no one else had the same hardships imprinted on their soul. Implying that even Quiver's heart moved.

It was unsettling, but that was all. Tenebrae could move past it. And he did, as soon as he could, with only the hard line of his mouth betraying any of his thoughts on the subject.

Solomon Wreath, he noted, was still obviously groggy. And it wasn't obvious because of his voice, although that contained a hint of it; nor because of his face, even with the lines of pain and the way his eyes only truly focused when he squinted at Tenebrae.

No, it was because Solomon hadn't made the connection yet. Hadn't realised it yet. It was easy, for men of their calibre, to look around and at least take a guess at what was going to happen to them. In this room alone, there was easily enough to figure it out. From the very specific medical equipment, to the reason for Cirurgie's involvement, to the fact that Solomon was strapped down so tightly.

Maybe his newfound ability to see the lifestream was impeding his better judgment, or his ability to perceive. But Tenebrae thought it should still have been possible for Solomon to read it in one of their souls, even conceding that no one knew exactly how seeing souls worked yet.

"Good." It wasn't sarcastic, wasn't relieved, wasn't much of anything. Just a word. "Why does your back look like you've been whipped? In fact, where do any of your injuries come from? I don't recall them when we caught you."

[peacefullywreathed]

Of course. Tenebrae, all three of the men before him, in fact, had been born and raised in the Temple. There were faint elements of the Christian faith they might recognise--but not these. Solomon didn't answer immediately; he only breathed.

He didn't search for the words. They came to him from the wellspring of memories, the ones close-by now they were unshrouded by bitterness. The ones drawn by his father's soul, the ones Solomon held close and could actually view, now, without shame. "So Pilate took Jesus and scourged him," he murmured, his tone the cadence of a quote. "And the soldiers twisted a crown of thorns and put it on His head, and they put him in a purple robe. Then they said 'Hail, King of the Jews!' And they struck Him with their hands."

It was a quote and yet Solomon knew it would explain nothing. Nor was he inclined to do so beyond that. These men didn't know anything about the Christian faith. They would never understand what it meant, for him to bear this wounds, and why he bore them now after that harrowing.

Except ... Solomon opened his eyes, and while he didn't dare look at Quiver--because he was the only one here who had any light at all, and if Tenebrae knew that it would be dangerous for the man--he took in the slow waft of the lifestream around him. "The injuries not caused by the tender embrace of the stone floor," he said sardonically, but tiredly, "are the same marks Christ Jesus bore when He was crucified. You may have heard of Him." This last was added almost in afterthought, and even more deeply sarcastic. "The Son of God."

Something stirred. A shock, like a pebble dropped in a murky pool, shaking up the grime. Heard and registered. A faint smile cross Solomon's face and he closed his eyes again.

His mind was starting to speed up, now he wasn't busy adjusting to this new dual-sight, now he wasn't feeling out the confines of his exhausted body. It was still sluggish, because he had to consciously turn the pieces over one by one. Medical ward. Given how he was strapped down, there had to be more to it than just tending his injuries. Which meant it was something to do with his withdrawal, with this new talent of his, with--

The penny dropped and all the blood drained from Solomon's face. His breath caught with the weight of the stone in his belly, such an electrifying bolt of adrenaline running through him that he tensed up and knew it would be impossible to relax. He took a moment to exhale and then inhale slowly. He couldn't keep it from being slightly shaken.

His next exhale carried with it a sound. "Ah."

[skeletonenigma]

Of course Tenebrae knew who Jesus Christ was. Everybody knew who Jesus Christ was, whether they'd set foot outside the Temple or not. It was one of those annoyingly persistent stories, one that got passed around regardless of how isolated the community seemed to be, or how little else the members knew of any religion outside their own. It was almost a shameful story to know. Tenebrae might have known the basics of the crucifixion - if not quite the details - but he'd never been proud of that fact before. He saw no reason to start now.

It also took a surprisingly long time for Tenebrae to make the connections that were, just as all the equipment in the room, perfectly obvious.

He wanted to ask why. He wanted to know what possibly had the power to do this. But the reason he didn't actively ask, Tenebrae suspected, was because he really didn't want to know. It wouldn't have any bearing here either way. It wasn't as if Jesus Christ himself had purged Solomon - or if, by some miracle, he was, it couldn't have been anything but further punishment. Not with injuries like that sustained from absolutely nothing.

... Damn. Now he was starting to second-guess himself. And not just in this decision, but in whether certain aspects of Christian faith didn't have a basis in something more than mutual terror of death. Ridiculous nonsense. Tenebrae physically shook his head, smiled at Solomon's sudden realisation, and latched on to the comfort that brought him.

He should have asked the one last obvious question - do you know what's going to happen to you now? - but Tenebrae couldn't really bring himself to care. Wreath clearly did. Now, it was just a matter of getting it over with before the withdrawal could clear up too far.

And so, without a word, Tenebrae nodded to Cirurgie. A silent affirmation that the healer could finally begin what he'd been anxious to try ever since Quiver first came to him with the idea only hours before.

[peacefullywreathed]

The burst of movement, like an exploding blister, from within Cirurgie's soul was so revolting that Solomon actually felt bile rise. He couldn't quite tell whether it was sound or sight, or some combination of the two, but he knew that it was glee. Anticipation. That's what the roll had been, before. Excitement of what was to come.

Solomon swallowed hard, ignoring the sound of the man's voice calling in an assistant. He didn't know quite how the man planned to do this. He didn't want to know. He didn't even want to think it. Unfortunately, Cirurgie was the type to expound. Younger than Solomon, with that delusional arrogance of a youth who believed he had overtaken an elder simply because he was younger.

"This is all fascinating," Cirurgie said enthusiastically as he approached Solomon, and the touch on his wrists as the man checked his restraints made Solomon jolt. His eyes snapped open. As difficult as it was to parse through the here and the not-here, at least with his eyes open he could see the instruments coming at him. The instruments Cirurgie intended to use, at least.

Solomon still had to turn his eyes away from the proximity of that foggy soul--the best he could do, with his head bound. Like stormclouds which had lightning within them, except it wasn't lightning. Nothing nearly so beautiful, if dangerous. Pollution, poison, plain and simple.

"Oh, don't be like that. This is a historic moment, after all."

Solomon swallowed the 'forgive me' and answered, "Somehow I'm finding it rather less exciting than you apparently do."

Something in the man's soul cooled. "Well, why wouldn't I? You're seeing into the lifestream, Cleric Wreath. If anyone else in the Temple were granted that gift, they'd be throwing themselves at my door for the chance to keep it."

Everyone in the Temple was insane, Solomon decided. Himself included. Granted, he had made the decision to change once he realised how insane he was. Quiver ... apparently had the potential, which was both a surprise and not. So maybe just Tenebrae and Cirurgie were on the current list. He would have to update it as he went along.

He must still be tired. His thought process was still all over the place. Solomon focussed on the tools on the table beside him, mentally cataloguing them even as the nurse entered and began doing last-minute checks himself. Cirurgie's hands moved from wrists to ankles to head, and the restraints tightened marginally. Enough to make his injuries sting. Enough to make it impossible to move his head even a millimetre.

He might still have answered the healer's comment, but Cirurgie leaned close and Solomon found it necessary to commit all his energy to not retching. He was so focussed on it that it wasn't until he felt the erupting pinch in his eyelid that he realised Cirurgie was pinning one upright. Holding his eye open.

Instinctively Solomon's hands jerked against their restraints. The chair rattled faintly, but he didn't move even an inch, and it made his palms throb.

"Oh, good. I was wondering if they were tight enough."

Solomon swallowed. Tried to bring his hard breathing under control. Tried not to look too deeply into the soul before him. He couldn't even squint through it to the man underneath. He had no control over this, over any of this, and it made his heart pound, his skin prickling with a hot flush of fear. He didn't even have Kian as a soothing presence. A week ago, he'd have considered it pathetic that he depended on a teddy-bear so much.

Right now, he didn't give a damn about his dignity. "Please don't."

Cirurgie didn't even pause. "Cleric Wreath, what you're about to receive today is an honour. Truly. Unprecedented. Do hold still and try to relax. Even restraints will loosen after a length of time under pressure."

Try to relax? Impossible. He was so tense that just rising afterward was going to be painful, with how his muscles would stiffen. Couldn't move. Couldn't even blink. Solomon's breathing grew shakier and he focussed on that, the only thing he could even remotely control at all. Breathe. Just breathe, and maybe--what? He wouldn't be in pain? Cirurgie wasn't even going to give him painkillers. He said that unless he had to for the operation's success, he preferred to avoid it. So the patient could give him feedback.

Sadist.

A sadist who had the best of him.

Cirurgie's hands came down, fingers resting around one of Solomon's eyes, over the bridge of his nose, on his temple and forehead and cheek.

Breathe, Solomon told himself while his heartbeat spiralled upward toward panic. His breaths were shaky, but under control. Barely.

He lost sense even of that the moment Cirurgie drew on his magic.

It wasn't that Solomon's own magic responded. He was beyond that. Cleansed of that. But the Scream heightened, and it wasn't just around him--it was touching him. It made the injuries, the stigmata, tingle wildly. Solomon's body was already tensed, a coiled spring, but now he rose instinctively against his restraints, pulling against them all in automatic denial of that metaphysical shriek of agony. His jaw was so tight he almost felt his teeth crack.

This close, Necromancy in motion still looked like shadows. Shadows which cast shadows themselves, tinged purple-red, and dragged a train of tormented souls after them.

These ones were tiny. Visible, for just a moment, at all the corners of his vision. Solomon drew in a sharper breath, enough for a word. "Don't--"

Then he lost sight of those tendrils. Magic prickled around his eye, inside the socket, a weird little cushion made of prickly wool.

The Scream rang inside his head. Literally. Inside. Radiating through his face and in his temples, sending a red haze through his vision and a pound through his bones which sounded like--

'pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseohLordhelpme--'

A voice. A soul. Solomon let out a strangled cry, his hands jerking hard at the restraints over and over again, his back arching while he tried to twist his head away from that sensation, from that tormented soul, and failed. The tingle in his palms and feet, in all the injuries he shouldn't have had, turned into a sharp stinging tug, like scabs broken under their bandages. Warmth pooled against his skin as they bled.

"Just a moment ..." Cirurgue, breathing the words. Focussed on the delicacy of his magic. Sensing things out with it. Where he needed to send those minuscule blades. What he needed to cut. "Aha. There."

In the same instant as he spoke, pain erupted behind Solomon's eye, so sharp it felt as if someone had driven an ice-pick into his skull and sent his thoughts scattering on the wave of agony. He screamed, bucked mindlessly, fingers scrabbling at the armrest. Over and over he screamed, unaware of anything but the little needles drilling inside his head, feeling out everything they needed to destroy to give him a skill he hadn't wanted.

There was no telling how long it was before the Necromancy began to recede. When it finally did Solomon's consciousness came slowly back with it, once more taking command of his numb body. He was trembling. The stigmata throbbed as if newly inflicted; his breathing was fast, but hitched with the pain in his side. He could feel something thick on his cheeks, congealing--tears of blood. If he'd had the energy, or the dignity, he might have tried to withhold the little sobbing moans of absolute torment, little primal sounds of an animal too hurt to do anything but whimper.

He couldn't even see anything. Absolutely nothing but a red haze, burning in the sight of that eye, pain made physical. Focussing on the voices talking around him was impossible.

A moment or an eternity later he felt something light rest over his eye and flinched with the expectation of pain, crying out hoarsely, "Don't!"

"Now, now, Cleric Wreath. He's only going to make sure there's no internal bleeding."

A change. Not painlessness, but the slow itch of a wound healing over. Scarring. Solomon tried to jerk his head and couldn't, gripping the armrests tight, his body still lifted against the restraints across his chest and shoulders. That itch--it wasn't pain, but it was unbearable. The whimpers turned into whines and Solomon writhed in the chair.

Finally it ended. Finally the itching turned into the dulled ache of a newly scarred injury. When the hand drew away it took with it the red haze of the Scream and left a trail of ungrounded lifestream ripples in its wake. Solomon trembled violently in the chair, panting and whimpering, eyes wide, unable to do anything but exist in those moments after the wash of agony.

[skeletonenigma]

In his pocket, Tenebrae's fist was clenched. Not against the screaming; no, he'd been expecting that. It certainly wasn't pleasant to listen to, but at least he'd predicted it. Predicted it, and could therefore ignore it with some effort. He found himself unable to look directly at the operation either, not without feeling a little queasy and... well. Not without second-guessing himself once again. But they were far past that now, and the feelings were another thing Tenebrae had predicted. Another thing he could ignore, this time by avoiding it completely. Those feelings weren't why he could feel his nails digging little pinpricks into the palm of his hand.

He knew why. What he didn't know was why on earth it bothered him at all.

"Please don't."

Cirurgue responded exactly how he was supposed to, and the operation continued on exactly the way it should have, and the predicted screaming began right on cue. And Tenebrae couldn't quite uncurl his fist. Why? Not for any of the obvious reasons, he knew that. Tenebrae was a big believer in being involved in every aspect of the Temple's daily dealings, which meant he'd seen torture and punishment worse than this. He knew how to handle it.

Tenebrae slowly took a deep breath and released it. The words were bothering him, he realised, because they were so unlike Solomon Wreath that it was mentally jarring. Pleading made sense. Admittedly, Wreath didn't see this as much of a gift, so he wouldn't see the benefit of what they were trying to do. Wouldn't believe the sacrifice was worth it. Again, Tenebrae knew all that. But it was still not like him. Solomon Wreath was a rational man. Even groggy, even half-dead, he could argue. Argue with a sense of humour, even. That was what Tenebrae had been expecting, not...

Not a simple plea, made openly and genuinely. Made as if Solomon truly believed it was his last option, maybe even halfway believed it would work.

Not something so clearly helpless.

Tenebrae's fist was clenched because otherwise he knew he would leave the room. He didn't want to leave the room. He hadn't been there to see Skulduggery Pleasant come back to life, but he was going to be there to see what Solomon Wreath would become.

The man trembled in the chair, blood drying on his cheeks, one eye now completely missing from the socket, and the sight hardened Tenebrae's resolve. He was no longer the terrified apprentice forced to try and trick such a powerful, ruthless man as Serpine. Now, he was High Priest, and he himself had ordered this to happen. Terrified apprentices looked to him for leadership now.

Tenebrae stepped forward to face what he'd ordered to happen. "Wreath? Cleric Wreath, can you hear me?"

[peacefullywreathed]

He was in shock. Some part of Solomon knew that, but it was too distant a part to quite take control. He trembled, whimpered, his breathing fast and ragged. He heard Tenebrae's voice, but distantly, through the throb in his head. His vision swam before him, half grounded by the physical and half a wash of blurred colour, without definition. Something in his eye twitched, and that still-distant part of him realised it was the muscle spasming without a buffer.

Cirurgie hadn't just taken his sight. He'd taken the whole eye.

For an interminable time Solomon was unable to move, unable to respond, locked in that state of shock. Cirurgie's assistant moved around him, testing the IV line, making sure he couldn't escape by passing out. Slowly Solomon's consciousness ebbed back together with his awareness, enough that the unending whimpers finally subsided. Enough that he could blink the eye he still had, slow and holding it shut, feeling the tears of plain water he wept.

There were so many things he couldn't say. So many things he wanted to, didn't want to, couldn't. Only one thing came out, soft and agonised but cutting with razor-edged steel, through the ragged pants. "I--am--not--your--cleric."

[skeletonenigma]

That was better. That was more like it. Completely wrong, of course, but that simply vicious tone was more like what Tenebrae would have expected from Wreath. His fist slowly unclenched in his pocket, and he smiled. "Aren't you? Almost 400 years of your life, ignored, just like that? I think not. You'll always be a member of this Temple, Cleric Wreath. Accept your title along with that."

Tenebrae didn't expect an answer. The thought was simply enough, but wholeheartedly embracing it would be hard enough while Solomon was healing. It was impractical to hope he'd embrace it now. Tenebrae could probably rely on further insistence that he wasn't a Necromancer anymore - maybe even a barbed insult. But with no hope for acceptance just yet, he didn't see the point in giving Solomon any more time to think about it.

"You'll notice you still have one of your eyes." Taking away the gravity of the situation, it was almost amusing to look at. Almost. As it was, Tenebrae was trying very hard not to let his throat close up on him. "I'm willing to stop here, as long as you're willing to answer some of our questions. What do you think?"

[peacefullywreathed]

You'll always be a member of this Temple.

No. Tenebrae could say what he liked. Solomon was what he was because of the Temple, but that didn't mean he had to remain a part of it. He couldn't. He wouldn't.

He couldn't muster the air or the strength to answer before Tenebrae had kept speaking. He breathed, not slowly but more controlled, bringing his shaking body back under some semblance of control. Enough that he could at least speak. Enough that the radiating shriek in the walls, the utterly unmoving stone of Tenebrae's soul, didn't make his stomach rise.

They weren't going away. He couldn't close his eye; he couldn't make that vibrating colour go away. It was too blurry for him to see Cirurgie, or Quiver more than the faint spark, but Tenebrae's sheer lack of movement was enough of an antithesis. Him, Solomon could see. His words, Solomon heard. They rang in his mind alongside the pain and the Scream.

"I'm willing to stop here, as long as you're willing to answer some of our questions. What do you think?"

Despite everything, Solomon let out a short, broken bark of laughter. "I think--you'll stop at nothing to--finish what you've started. I think the most--I can expect from you--is to endure the rest without pain."

A breath, still ragged, but deeper and more controlled. And then another. Something was sinking into him, a weight of knowledge that closed his throat and tightened his gut. He was going to lose his eyes. Both of them. There was no question about it. Tenebrae wanted a tool, and he was going to try and make it Solomon. The only question was how much pain Solomon wanted to endure to that eventuality.

He didn't. The thought of having to go through that again--it made his next inhale catch with a half-sob. No, he couldn't do that. It would break him.

The words were on his lips. 'What do you want to know?'

They died before they gained sound.

"What do you want from me?"

"What do you want, Solomon?"

Solomon's breath hitched and he went still, an odd sort of still aside from his breathing. Even his trembles eased.

What would happen if he stopped here? If he gave in now, agreed to talk? Tenebrae would want to know about Saint Gabriel. That was one thing Solomon couldn't do. Not because he thought he would be punished for it--because he knew he wouldn't be. Because Saint Gabriel would forgive him, and then Solomon would have to live the rest of his life with the guilt of knowing he'd betrayed a being who had freed him in the first place.

And he was free. He was free, because he had a choice. Tenebrae, unknowingly, was giving him that choice. To submit, once more, to the institution to which Solomon had given his life and soul. Or to endure--or die--and know he had done all he could, that he had lived in a manner befitting those beings who, for whatever reason, saw something worthy in him.

"It isn't over yet, but the steps you've taken are steps for which very few have any strength."

For the first time in his life since his father, Solomon had someone he truly did not want to disappoint. To the point, this point, of throwing himself to the wolves as he hadn't been able to do even for Skulduggery Pleasant.

What do I want?

I want to be a man of whom my fathers can be proud.

Something shifted in him. Not a physical thing, exactly--a mental thing which caused a very real and physical change. He exhaled and it was shaky but loose; his throat opened up and the tears that came then felt like relief. The adrenaline ebbed, some of the tension coiled in his body unwinding.

He could betray Saint Gabriel. But he wouldn't. Because he didn't want to. Because even if he said so and then went back on his word, he would be forever enslaved to Tenebrae, to the Temple, to his own guilt. To the knowledge that he had given up the only thing right now worth having.

Even if he broke, at least he still had that.

"If your right eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out and throw it away." His voice was quiet and hoarse, but accepting in a way that wasn't mere resignation. Strong. "It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell."

He lifted his head, breathing still regulated, and smiled. A faint smile. A knowing smile. The smile of a man who knew precisely what he was going to endure, and moreover, that it was his choice. "I think you're a fool, Tenebrae. You're a fool and I ... actually pity you for it."

[skeletonenigma]

And that, Tenebrae thought grimly, was another thing he should have expected. Maybe he had. But he'd still hoped that a threat of more of the same pain on top of what Wreath had already endured would be enough to make the man reconsider.

It wasn't.

And Tenebrae was forced to wonder - what did Solomon care so much about, within the space of three days, that he was willing to protect it with his life? With more than just his life?

It should have been the Temple. It should have been his faith. It should have been what he'd spent all of his life protecting before. Tenebrae's fist reclenched in his pocket, and this time he had to force the smile onto his face. "You're a strong man, Cleric Wreath. Whatever this is, whatever changed you like this, I take comfort in the fact that you're the only one I'll ever have to worry about. It's foolhardy strength, but it's a strength I doubt many others have."

It was a genuine compliment, too. Tenebrae rarely said things he didn't mean without a purpose. There was just not a shred of warmth behind it, not even the false promising warmth of an end to the pain. He hadn't planned on stopping, of course, as Wreath correctly guessed. But Tenebrae wouldn't have seen anything wrong with ordering Cirurgie to use painkillers this time. If Solomon had just cooperated now of his own free will, like he'd end up doing no matter what he thought or insisted, he could have spared himself what would happen next. He could have saved himself. It was sad, really. Solomon pitied him? Tenebrae very nearly pitied Wreath.

He nodded, once again, to Cirurgie. "The other one, please. Same as before. Spare no pain."

[peacefullywreathed]

It was funny. It was, truly. Funny in Tenebrae's utter ignorance, of how little he knew about the soul of the very man standing beside him. Solomon's quote, his warning, had dashed unheard against Tenebrae's soul. But Nathanial Quiver had heard.

He had heard, and that ember struck alight.

Solomon laughed. It wasn't a chuckle or a soft-scattered noise still pained. It was laugh of genuine amusement, of a man who had power his opponent could not even begin to comprehend. A power that made him strong beyond Tenebrae's understanding. "Only the first, Tenebrae," he breathed, "for what I know now has the power to convert millions."

Cirurgie pinned back his other eyelid and laid his fingers on Solomon's face. His movements were slightly unnerved, but with the determination of someone to prove. This would be done right.

The laughter was still on Solomon's face right up until Cirurgie sent his Necromantic tendrils in behind his eye. The smile persisted even as Solomon's back arched, as he cried out breathlessly, but there was an odd tenor to it all. This time, he didn't fight. This time Solomon all but welcomed the pain, let it wash through him. Something he couldn't resist, and therefore didn't try.

After all he had done, he had earned this. Let it scour him. Let it be known that he had witnessed, personally, the same torture to which he'd committed others.

His screams came no less honest. His jerks, his tears, his sobs. His world seared wildly and in pain, and yet there was a heart of him it couldn't touch. As if just having Kian had imparted something to him he hadn't been able to see until scourged of everything in him that was unnecessary.

When it was over, when he sagged in the chair with his face bloody and body trembling, when he caught his wildly-hitching breath and his being hummed with pain, Solomon's peace resonated all the louder.

What do you want, Solomon?

Head hanging, his sight a wash of unbound purple-red, Solomon laughed.

[skeletonenigma]

His suit was wet.

His suit was wet, and although the noonday sun beat down nice and strong, it was doing very little to dry it. Skulduggery held his equally dripping hat in his hand, taking a moment to mourn its loss, before wondering whether it was even possible to dry clean hats.

That was one of the more interesting nights Skulduggery ever had. In fact, it was second only to that time he managed to convince Valkyrie that if she danced on one leg in the middle of a field and chanted, she'd attract unicorns. Valkyrie was surprisingly gullible for someone so jaded. It never failed to bring him endless amounts of amusement, no matter how hard she sulked later. Or how hard she hit him.

This night, however, was interesting for a very different reason. It seemed like a perfectly logical idea, at the time, when Gabe suggested the two of them get started on tracking down Davina Marr right away because who knew what Raphael was going to say next. Skulduggery had wholeheartedly agreed. It wasn't until he stopped to think that he realised things would likely get very, very awkward.

Except... they did, and they didn't. It was strange. The investigation kept them focused enough that any potential awkwardness was dispelled before it even started, but it was definitely there. Persistent. Ever-present. A niggling thing in the back of Skulduggery's mind, even as he pieced new information together. They learned, for example, that Davina had not so much as a single friend in Ireland (not surprising at all), nor was any of her contact information at the Sanctuary still valid (even less surprising). She had no family back in Boston, nor anyone who might have any idea where she was, and as far as anyone knew she had no ties to anywhere else in the world.

And still, the awkwardness prevailed.

For a detective who worked for two important Sanctuaries, Davina Marr was like a leaf in the wind. It was possible she'd paid someone to remove any trace of her existence, or her future movements. And yet, Skulduggery was pretty sure she hadn't left Ireland. She couldn't, even if she'd had a reason to - which she didn't anymore, since her grand plan failed and the Sanctuary didn't blow up.

Now it was just a matter of finding her.

They'd done all they could for the moment. Skulduggery called in some old favours, created new debts to other contacts who immediately agreed to help out the instant they heard what Davina Marr had been planning to do, and eventually he was really just putting off the inevitable. Unless he started knocking on random apartment doors throughout Ireland searching for Marr - or, come to think of it, asking Gabe to do a scan, which was out of the question - he really needed to find a productive way to spend the rest of the night, of which there remained a good few hours.

So he drove. And somehow, they ended up on a beach.

And finally, they talked.

Skulduggery wasn't wrong back there, it turned out. That was definitely their souls, interacting the way they were. Not that Skulduggery had any reason to doubt it, what with having Gabriel's true name and all. But there was one really important question he needed to ask - was the new interaction permanent? Because while he didn't see burnished gold drifting in the air, or feel any of what Gabe was feeling, he could still feel something. A touch. Quite similar, actually, to what he had been feeling almost the entire time, and one of the reasons he'd nearly lost control of himself when Gabe disappeared - that touch, without Skulduggery's knowledge or permission, had inextricably wormed its way into who he was.

Gabe's answer essentially boiled down to the fact that he had no idea. This was new, even to him. Apparently, he hadn't even thought about the possibility of anything being permanent before.

Comforting, it was not.

That led to the all-important question of whether Gabe was still going to go back home. Or rather, making sure that he would. So when Gabe left Skulduggery with the impression that he was reconsidering even that, Skulduggery turned to face him in the surf they were walking through, and adamantly insisted that he was not going to be the cause of some dimension out there losing two of their Archangels. That inevitably led to a brief argument, during which Skulduggery wanted to know more about the Cacophany and what made the Faceless Ones become the Faceless Ones. He demanded to know why Gabe wasn't more worried about the same thing happening to him. Gabe's answer wasn't exactly satisfying, and for a moment Skulduggery just looked at him - looked at this angel who'd risked everything for him, standing with water up to his ankles looking perfectly innocent after the ordeal he'd put everyone through for half a day.

Skulduggery looked at him, grunted, and caught Gabe in the chest with a blast of salty air - like a shove, but with a bit more force behind it. Gabe had gone tumbling backwards right into an oncoming wave, come up soaking wet and spluttering, and Skulduggery couldn't help it - he laughed.

It was certainly one of the more interesting nights he was never going to tell anyone about. But this one was satisfying for the sole reason that he was choosing not to tell anyone about it, rather than because Valkyrie made him swear on his nonexistent heart that he wouldn't.

As noon rolled around, and he still hadn't gotten a call from Valkyrie, Skulduggery decided they needed to check in on Solomon. Necromancy withdrawal was vicious, and he couldn't exactly put off the visit any longer. Not now that Solomon knew the truth about Vile, and would no doubt want to know what was happening to him.

Skulduggery stopped beside the Bentley and looked down at his suit. Soaking wet, probably ruined - or at least in dire need of tailoring. That should perk Ghastly up. With barely a glance around to make sure no one was watching, Skulduggery condensed all the water off the fabric and let it fall as a brief shower of rain onto the asphalt of the parking lot. It left a lot of sand and salt he could do nothing about, and the thought of all that beach in his car... he physically shuddered, using the new skin he'd finally relented and let Gabe pull back up sometime during the early hours of the morning. Whenever people started showing up.

Without a word, he did the same drying procedure for Gabe. He didn't see a point in asking permission. Gabe couldn't do it himself, and there was no way he was getting in the Bentley with his clothes looking like that.

"So." Skulduggery unlocked the Bentley with a quick press of a button, but he couldn't quite bring himself to open the door. Not yet. "Still want to stop by the carnival, or would you mind paying the Hibernian a visit first?"

[impudentsongbird]

"Thank you," Gabe chirruped as the water cascaded off him, bent over and leaning on the side of the Bentley to slap the sand off his sandals and fit them onto his feet. When Ghastly had presented them to him it had been a complete surprise, and although he did prefer bare feet Skulduggery had pointed out that bare feet in Ireland drew attention. Besides which, they were a perfectly-made gift.

He'd never had anything physical given to him before Skulduggery's rosary. And that had sort-of been a trade. This ... well, Ghastly had been as surprised by the hug as Gabriel had been by the sandals.

Last night had been a lot of things Gabe had never expected, imagined or intended, and for all that had leapt in one shot nearly to the top of his list of favourite memories ever. And he had a lot of memories from which to choose.

It had been awkward. He couldn't deny that. Skulduggery had been tossed almost literally in the metaphysical deep end, and Gabriel was feeling and doing things he had never believed would be possible for him a year ago. It was new, and Rafe had been aggressively teasing in a way Gabriel would have said was unlike him if he hadn't glimpsed the wondering, uncertain protectiveness in his brother. It was a kind he'd seen before, in other brothers--he just hadn't expected to see it in his own.

So he wasn't going to fault Rafe for it. That didn't mean he wanted to hear it. And it didn't mean that even after leaving Rafe behind, he and Skul could simply forget the awkwardness of that teasing. Even when they ignored it.

The beach was a literal breath of fresh air. Gabe had stood on the shore for some moments, just breathing in the air with his eyes closed, gazing up at the stars. Skulduggery was the one who had started talking. He had questions, the questions he hadn't asked back at the safehouse. The questions Gabriel had wordlessly promisd to answer as best as he could.

It hadn't occurred to him that something permanent might come of this, but when he had realised it, the slow dawning smile of joy had been his first reaction. He didn't mind. He didn't mind it at all. He hadn't even realised there had been something there before then, that Skulduggery had managed to read him before Gabe had used his soul as an anchor.

When Skul had asked about his return home, Gabriel hadn't lied or redirected then either. He had no intention of going home. Not so long as Skulduggery didn't want him to. That didn't mean Raphael couldn't go home, of course, but somehow the argument had twisted into being about the Fallen, and their fate, and how Gabriel could not find it in him to be afraid of it. Because he wasn't lost, like them. Because he would always have a destination to keep him assured. Because having travelled that ocean twice now, he knew it was tameable, and it was just a matter of experience and careful experimentation.

But none of that was what worried Skulduggery. So he'd tried to be as open as possible. Still determined, but trying to listen and accept Skulduggery's worry that something might happen to him.

Being flung into the water had come as a complete, and marvellous, surprise. So had the water-fight that had ensued. The tussles in the surf that had left them both laughing. Even Skulduggery agreeing, after a while, to let Gabe write a sigil on his breast-bone that would let him raise and lower a more complete and solid skin at will. After how close they had been, metaphysically, drawing up a facsimile of Skul's old flesh had been fairly easy. So was binding it to his skeleton.

They hadn't done a whole lot of play after the sun rose. Actually, they hadn't been playing at that point either, content to watch the play of colours on the ocean. Up until Skulduggery had finally noticed that Gabe had slowly been burying his legs, anyway, after which point the game had moved to the sand.

Gabe was fairly sure they'd drawn stares. He hadn't cared.

Sandals on, Gabe straightened up and brushed his hair out of his face as he looked at Skulduggery. He was aware of the way his eyes shone and the small, persistent smile still lurking at the corners of his mouth, but wasn't inclined to hide either.

"I don't mind," he said. "We can take the others out for a day at the carnival a bit later, anyway. We should check on Solomon. And Anton, too, if he's still there." A trace of guilt took the edge off that little dimpling smile. "I want to apologise to him for being so abrupt."

And ask if Anton still wanted to ask the question that had rung clearly in his soul, unspoken.

[skeletonenigma]

It had occurred to Skulduggery that Anton might still be at the Hibernian, but the thought spoken out loud still made him pause. Anton would not want to see him again. That much was an indisputable fact. That would be the very last thing Anton wanted, or indeed needed to recover. The mere sight of Skulduggery might be enough to tip the Gist-user over the edge again.

But Skulduggery wasn't going to leave Solomon stranded. Not this time, not now that Solomon had found the courage to do the impossible, and was damn near close to succeeding. With any luck, the two would be in separate rooms. Separate wards. Separate wings. With any luck, Anton would never even need to know Skulduggery dropped by. Professor Grouse might be curious about why two former Dead Men didn't want to be anywhere near each other, but he probably wouldn't ask. He made it a point that he didn't want to be involved in anything Skulduggery had so much as touched, beyond patching up the resulting injuries.

Skulduggery did want to thank Grouse, though. Chances were, so did Gabe.

"It wasn't exactly your fault." With a tentative curling of his living, skin-covered fingers to make sure no sand was stowed away between them, Skulduggery pulled open the driver's side door. "But, the Hibernian it is."

He hesitated. Sand in his clothes and, thanks to this new skin, sand everywhere else too - nothing lost as it poured through the hollow structure of his skeleton. This skin was more than an illusion, as Gabe had tried to explain. It wasn't real - Skulduggery still didn't need to eat, drink, or sleep - but with this skin, he could. And he had to say, those were activities he was looking forward to. Getting sand all over the inside of the Bentley, he was very much not.

With an audible intake of breath, Skulduggery slipped in, and tried to keep as still as possible behind the wheel. Now that he had an illusory heartbeat, that feat was more difficult than he remembered.

Once Gabe was buckled in, Skulduggery revved the engine and drove smoothly back out onto the main road. "Are you ever going to tell me why you seem to be picking up spare change everywhere you go?"

[impudentsongbird]

"Oh, probably eventually," Gabe said cheerfully, patting the pocket where he'd just stowed the coin picked up before he got in the car. It would be a lie to say he wasn't watching Skul sidelong as the skeleton got used to this skin. It would certainly feel different, but the detective's tentativeness was oddly endearing.

That, and how worried he was over his car.

"But not yet, obviously. It wouldn't be a surprise if I did that." He grinned without even trying to restrain the twinkle in his eyes. Then he shrugged, as if to dismiss the tease--but it still didn't make the twinkle fade. "Besides, how else am I going to be self-sufficient? We don't really have bank accounts, and churches need their offerings for other things. There's a surprising amount of spare change in the country, you know."

The beach was that odd combination of secluded and not. It was surprisingly near by Dublin, but far enough that while there, it felt like it was a whole different world. So it didn't take long before the main road began to hit parts of the city, or the skyscrapers to start showing up in the distance.

Gabe blinked and squinted. There seemed to be something of a coloured tinge in the air today. At least, that's what he hoped it was.

[skeletonenigma]

"So you're telling me it's easier to pick up a few coins a day than to convince someone at a bank you have an account with unlimited funds?"

It probably wouldn't work. Introducing new currency into the economy, coming from nowhere, would very quickly turn into a disaster. But there had to be a better way than collecting spare change, and of course, there probably was. That, or at least angels usually didn't bother with currency at all. Gabe's face, hiding absolutely nothing, suggested an ulterior motive.

But Skulduggery didn't insistently ask quite yet, both because it took all the fun out of guessing, and because he was fairly sure nothing on Earth would be able to make Gabe reveal what he didn't want to say.

Something was wrong with Dublin City, though. Skulduggery tilted his head as they drove, waiting until they'd rounded a bend and the angle of the sun had changed to no avail before leaping to conclusions. A strange sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, oddly familiar and foreign all at once.

"Please," he murmured, "tell me your brother is at least as conscientious about secrecy as you are."

[impudentsongbird]

"More fun, too," Gabe said cheerfully. "It's like having a treasure-hunt. Just talking someone into giving us money is cheating. And, well, would ruin the economy. Very fragile things, you know."

Either Skulduggery was willingly forgetting the wig debacle or--no, he was probably willingly forgetting the wig debacle. Skul didn't just forget clues and hints. He just didn't want to consider that he might actually have to wear the wig again. Gabe was willing to let him have his delusion.

Besides, there were other concerns right now. Gabriel stared in disbelief at the cityscape and then covered his face with his hands. "Did I never tell you about the time he walked into a homeless employment agency and wrote 'angel' under the previous employment heading?" he asked weakly before lifting his head again. His expression was a mix of incredulity and reluctant amusement. "Although to be fair, the man serving him already knew we existed."

He reached out to turn on the radio with a deft movement of his fingers, turning up the volume.

'--city officials are still trying to figure out just who and, more importantly, how someone managed to pull this prank. The secrecy suggests someone's been busy copying keys to the buildings, but the garda are stumped as to how many people might have been involved or how they managed to deface so many buildings in just one night, let alone without anyone noticing. One thing's for sure: it's really putting a new spin on the phrase "painting the town red".'

Gabe turned the sound down. He still hadn't stopped staring, and now they were closer, there was really no denying it: every single one of the skyscrapers have been painted a brilliant and magnificent shade of scarlet.

In spite of himself, Gabriel started to laugh.

[skeletonenigma]

Skulduggery did not start to laugh, although there was a smile on his new/old face - the smile of someone who'd grown very used to their feelings and expressions being invisible to other people. Maybe not so much invisible to Gabriel either way, but Skulduggery wasn't exactly used to that either. He kept control of his car because that was just common sense, but his hands were lax on the wheel and the speed of the Bentley slowed ever so slightly.

"Do I have to clean that up?" he asked, referring not just to the physical act but to the cover story someone was going to have to concoct. Mortals were surprisingly good at explaining away things themselves, but something of this magnitude...

Scrutinous and Random would have their work cut out for them. So would whoever became the new Grand Mage, and whoever that person's Elders would be - the whole Sanctuary would be suffering through this. Sanctuaries around the world would be terrified of something unexplainable even to sorcerers, and they would be demanding answers.

But, in lieu of any official candidates for the Council of Elders, and knowing Skulduggery's luck, the job of explaining and cleaning up would fall to him. "Because I really don't want to. I shouldn't have to. My job is to find and decide whether to arrest the perpetrators, and that's all. My work here is done."

As if on cue, Skulduggery's phone rang. He didn't even look at the caller ID before answering. He disliked having to listen to recorded messages, and in-person intimidation worked so much better. "Unless you're someone I know personally and would want to speak to right now, you might as well hang up."

There was a short hesitation. "Well, you know me," came Erskine's voice. "I'm not so sure about that second part. Skulduggery, what's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

Erskine made a noise of disbelief. "Have you even been outside yet?"

"Ah, you mean why are all the skyscrapers red? I have no idea."

Another short silence, followed by a long sigh. "And unofficially?"

"Unofficially," Skulduggery replied with no small hint of amusement he couldn't quite hide, "you know about as much as I do, Erskine. What do you think?"

There was a low curse hidden within a chuckle. "Which one?"

Skulduggery glanced towards Gabe. "Well, I can vouch for the alibi and the common integrity of one of them. Take a guess."

"Just... tell me no one was hurt, and no one's going to do anything like that ever again."

"I sincerely don't know. One would imagine no one was hurt. Yet." A short beep sounded over the line. "Damn. Erskine, I think I have another call coming in. Unless there was anything else...?"

"No. No, not really. The whole of Dublin being painted red in one night just about covered it."

[impudentsongbird]

Pressing a hand to his mouth to restrain the laughter, Gabriel leaned back in his chair and cast his mind out to Rafe. He didn't consider it a breach of his promise, just because contact with his brothers wasn't something for which he had to strain. It was instinctive and simple at this kind of distance--the distance of only a single universe. Like talking into an always-open phone-line.

'Having fun, Rafe?'

The response came back almost immediately. 'Hey, bro. Seen my and Fletch's artwork yet?'

Gabe closed his eyes, his lips twitching, and couldn't quite restrain the dual amusement and exasperation. 'You dragged Fletcher into this?'

'Well, it was kinda his idea. I was just speakin' metaphorically and he went and asked if I ever thought of doin' it literal ...'

'Did you know that the Irish Sanctuary is most likely in an uproar? Skulduggery's talking to Erskine right now.'

Raphael's laughter rang all through his being, and Gabe couldn't help but grin. 'Here I thought he'd like it. Worry not, brother mine. No one saw anything. We left some keys in the locks and a dumpster of red paint on a couple of roofs, and moved a crane a few feet in one direction. People will drive themselves nuts tryin' to figure out how we did it, but your boyfriend shouldn't need to worry. Plausible deniability and all that.'

In spite of everything, Gabriel couldn't prevent the overtone of a metaphysical blush from tingeing his awareness. Raphael's laughter rolled like thunder, and Gabe very deliberately closed the connection to open his eyes and turn toward Skulduggery.

"He says," said the Archangel, loudly enough so that Erskine could hear him, "that no one saw, he and Fletcher left bits and pieces of evidence lying around to point toward a mundane but amazingly orchestrated dastardly plan, and the Sanctuary shouldn't have to worry about losing its plausible deniability."

[skeletonenigma]

Fletcher. Of course. Skulduggery managed to fight back a groan before it started, and tried very hard not to imagine how the idea came about - or how he and Raphael did it.

The detective also tried very hard not to imagine the Irish Sanctuary finally having legitimate plausible deniability about something. The thought was far too amusing.

"Corrival might be glad to hear that," Erskine mused quietly. "Assuming he doesn't already find the whole thing hilarious. People are going to be talking about this one for years, Skulduggery. And not just mortals; sorcerers. No one's going to be able to figure it out."

"It's about time Dublin had something to talk about," Skulduggery replied quite seriously. "I'm going to cut you off, Erskine. Excuse me."

"No, wait. Hang on. Where exactly have you two - "

Skulduggery ended the call before the question could be finished, because he knew how to do that. What he didn't know was how to switch the call-waiting, but it turned out the phone did that for him automatically. He just managed to stop himself thinking how intelligent for a smartphone before Valkyrie's voice came through a speakerphone he didn't remember turning on. "Skulduggery?"

"Yes. On my way back into Dublin. You're finally awake, I see."

"I don't suppose there's a single chance in hell we don't know the people responsible for this, is there?"

[impudentsongbird]

"Well, you can probably guess one of them," Gabriel admitted, and then grinned. "Actually, you can probably guess the other too. But I'm not one of them, for the record. I have a witness." He'd hardly stopped speaking when, without even so much as a soft rustle, Raphael and Fletcher appeared in the backseat. Gabe glanced in the mirror without a flicker in his expression. "Nice of you to drop by."

"Figured I'd better give Skul-man the chance to arrest me," Rafe said promptly. "Takin' full responsibility and all. Corruption of a minor. Pretty sure that's a crime, right?"

"How did you do it?" Gabe asked, turning in his seat and genuinely intrigued. Raphael's grin broadened.

"You know those flyin' dinosaurs, bro?" he said casually. "Turns out that an angel posin' as one of them can carry a full dumpster full of something liquid. Like, I dunno, paint. So long as you have a spotter, I mean. Who'd thunk a dino's eyesight would be so lousy."

Gabriel was already giggling.

[skeletonenigma]

Skulduggery's hands tightened a fraction on the wheel, even though his own face had no more change in it than Gabe's. Dealing with Teleporters was an occupational hazard; dealing with angels less so, but at least Skulduggery could control his reactions to that as well.

"Oh, good," he muttered. "I don't have to come up with a plausible explanation. All I have to do is tell people the truth, get fired for being of unsound mind, and sacrifice myself for the good of all." He unclicked the speakerphone as soon as he could figure out how to, and his next words were directed straight into the phone. "Rare occurrence, you know, when even other sorcerers won't believe the truth. Valkyrie, we might have to track down any mortal or camera who saw or recorded a giant flying pterodactyl over Dublin last night. Fletcher says hello."

"How come Fletcher gets to ride all the dinosaurs?"

Skulduggery hesitated. "He doesn't sleep in until noon?"

"That's not fair! I don't normally! Fletcher's the one who sleeps forever. Tell Gabe I want a dinosaur ride at some point before he leaves."

"I will," Skulduggery promised. He'd learned long ago that Valkyrie didn't respond well to logic. Or, strangely enough, to being talked down to either, which she should really be used to, what with still being a child and all. "Did you miss when I said Fletcher says hello?" Skulduggery added after a beat, because Fletcher was gesturing wildly at him in the rearview mirror.

"Tell Fletcher I'm mad at him for not waking me up. And he needs to get here now."

Skulduggery nodded. "Duly noted. We'll meet you two at the Sanctuary. Fletcher - "

But the boy had already disappeared. Skulduggery grumbled a bit, hung up, and tossed his phone unceremoniously at Gabe. "Raphael, I'm curious. Let's say, for the sake of argument, that I did try to arrest you. What would happen?"

[impudentsongbird]

"Hey, you're hitting me hard," Rafe protested. "I flew high when cameras were aimed! No one saw nothin'! ... Or at least didn't believe it when they did." It wasn't like anyone was going to believe anyone who just saw a dinosaur flying overhead, if they were even able to recognise it as such. There was such a thing as overcompensation.

The Archangel shrugged, the humour never leaving his face. "Couple of possibilities. I'da let you arrest me and vanished oughta my cell, or I'd've distracted the guards on the way to the gaol by talkin' loudly 'bout how adorable y'are when you blush."

"Raphael, enough!" Gabriel exclaimed, struggling with his cheeks tingeing pink himself, but a moment later he stopped and narrowed his eyes. Not as if there was something he'd just realised--but as if there was something he'd kept secret he was about to pull out. "You're jealous."

"Jealous? Of you?" Rafe laughed. "You could spend a thousand years on Skul-man's hang-ups, bro. I can think of a lot of things to do with that time!"

"Of Skul," Gabe said quietly, and lifted his gaze until Rafe didn't have a choice but to look at him. The dark-skinned angel's face was suddenly near to blank--save the frustration. Gabe reached out to take his hand, squeeze it. "Home lasts forever, brother."

Raphael's shoulders slumped, but he took Gabriel's hand in both of his, turning it over. "You're going to stay here as long as he wants you," he said, frustration and resignation in his voice. "You've never been out of reach, Gabriel. Not until your exile, and not until twice now this last year. I don't like it. I can't protect you when you're out of reach."

"I thought Michael was meant to be the protective one," Gabe teased, but gently. Rafe's mouth tilted, but not much more than that.

"Michael should have called me for help the last time. Home isn't Home without you, Gabriel. At least with the others, I knew they were just on Earth. The Cacophony isn't as easy to navigate."

"Then we'd better get better at navigating it, shouldn't we?" Gabriel said lightly, and squeezed Raphael's hands. This time he didn't let the pressure up. "Skulduggery's got as much incentive to keep me safe as you do. Just ... different reasons."

Raphael exhaled, a long steadying exhale, and pulled his hands away. It was only to reach out, put his hand around the back of Gabe's neck, and pull him forward to kiss him on the forehead. "Just ... give me a bit of time. I never expected this, brother. You, him, me feeling this way."

"None of us did," Gabriel said softly, leaning into his brother's tenderness. "But it's okay. That's the point, isn't it? It's all okay."

After a moment Raphael tweaked Gabe's hair and pulled back to shake a finger at Skulduggery in the rearview mirror. "Don't make me give you the big brother talk, Skul-man. 'Cos I will, and I'll do it good."