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

[skeletonenigma]

"Of course it isn't," grumbled Valkyrie as she leaned down to scratch the dog behind his ears. "Figures. When I first learned about magic, that didn't make things any easier either. What is it with the cool things in the world and not fixing the real problems?"

"We have saved the world three different times," Skulduggery reminded her. "Most would call those real problems."

"We'd probably have saved it more if I didn't have to sleep."

"Overconfidence, that's your problem. The world is perfectly capable of looking after itself. It just needs a little help every now and then."

Valkyrie was properly on the floor now so she could turn her full attention to stroking the dog that was Raphael, vigorous belly-rubs and all. "I have a right to be overconfident. We've saved the world, you know."

"You're aware that's still Rafe, right?"

Valkyrie shrugged. "I'm trying not to think about it too hard."

Ghastly, meanwhile, was shaking his head in bemused wonder. The legends of King Arthur, all true. Or most of them true, at least. Even if it was only in another dimension. He ignored the barb about his age and leaned back against the table, arms folded. "Dexter, have you aged a single year since the day we met? Or have you been a statue all this time without our knowledge?" His smile faded, and suddenly he couldn't quite look directly at the others' conversation a short distance away. "Better catch up quickly. You're going to hate what I have to tell you next."

Because they did have to tell him. He couldn't be the only Dead Man who didn't know. If Ghastly was the only one who did, things would be different. If he hadn't gone to Corrival for help and dragged the poor man out of retirement, if Anton had never found out, or if Erskine had never been told... well, there were a lot of secrets Ghastly had been forced to keep. He was no stranger to that. He could do it.

But he had, and they did, and now they owed it to Dexter to tell him as much of the truth as any of the rest of them knew.

[vexingshieldbearer]

"That depends on your definition of 'problem', I suppose," Gabe said with amusement as Raphael progressively leaned blissfully into Valkyrie's hands, then slumped to the ground, rolled onto his back, and let go of any pretence of dignity whatsoever. He didn't even seem to want to try to prevent his leg from motoring when the teen hit that perfect spot.

"You know, I was wondering why people take us so seriously," Gabe mused, "and I still can't figure it out."

Dexter snorted at Gabe and Ghastly both--at everyone, and everything, because really this made so much sense no matter how much it also made his brain reboot--and gave Ghastly a winsome grin. "Where's the fun in ageing? Or getting older? Turning boring? Really, I ask you."

That grin vanished a moment later. Ghastly's tone. Ghastly's face. The way Ghastly gripped the back of the chair. The fact that Merlin said 'ah', very quietly, and then excused himself so soon after joining the conversation.

"Whatever it is," he said quite directly, "I don't want to know."

[skeletonenigma]

Skulduggery eyed Gabe - not that anyone apart from the angel would be able to tell. "Probably for the same reason most people wouldn't believe you if you tried to tell them that," and he pointed at the shameless dog lying spreadeagled on the floor under Valkyrie, "is the Archangel Raphael. Most religions breed distrust in some form or other. A lot of your most devout followers are simply terrified of being judged after death, rather than genuinely trying to live a good life. Atheists and agnostics judge an entire religion by their extremists. Belief in your existence doesn't equate belief in you."

He noticed, out of the corner of his eye socket, that Ghastly and Dexter were both growing much more serious. Skulduggery knew what that meant. And for the time being, the easiest way of dealing with the intense and conflicting feelings it triggered was to keep talking. So he did, slowly, enough that Valkyrie and Fletcher weren't any the wiser. Gabe, he'd never be able to fool. Tanith, he wasn't sure about.

"You don't," Ghastly agreed quietly. "None of us do. But you need to."

The tailor's hands were white on the back of the chair. From this distance, Skulduggery couldn't quite make out what either of them were saying, and that was probably for the best. He turned back to the others, keeping only a vague and cautionary eye on Dexter. "Necromancers, of course, are a prime example. They breed mistrust in the ground they walk on, and it's only partly due to their magic."

"It's because they're a dangerous cult," Valkyrie agreed. "And they think killing billions of people is justified."

"That might have something to do with it."

"Do you remember," Ghastly asked Dexter, "when Skulduggery disappeared, and we all thought Vile killed him?"

[vexingshieldbearer]

"No." The word was abrupt and tight and shaken, a refusal, a denial and yet not. An objection to what Ghastly was about to say. To the fact that he felt he had to say it. That he knew to say it at all.

Because he wasn't meant to know. Ghastly--he wasn't meant to know. Or suspect. Or anything. Nothing about Skulduggery, nothing about Vile, nothing about those bits and pieces no one else saw except Hopeless, that puzzle Dexter hadn't wanted and knew anyway just because Hopeless couldn't carry that secret all on his own.

He was pale. Pale and not shaking, because he was gripping the chair too tightly to be anything but a statue. The conversation on the other side of the shop was nothing but a dull buzz in his ears.

"There are times I wonder whether Lucifer didn't invent religion," Gabe was saying thoughtfully. Gabe. Gabriel. The Archangel with whom Skulduggery was in love. "It's hard to tell sometimes, with how he manages to use it to his own ends."

"No, don't say that." Breathe. He had to breathe. Dexter had to breathe and at the same time, he couldn't. His chest was closing in. "You're not meant to know that. You're not--it's not true, anyway. It was just Hopeless hearing things and making links and it isn't true. I mean--" He laughed, hysterically and desperately. "I mean there's not even any proof, right?"

[skeletonenigma]

Ghastly's core went cold, and he felt sick. Suddenly, violently, nauseously sick. "You knew?"

Hopeless knew?

The last remnants of the facade he'd pulled up to be able to handle day-to-day interactions with Skulduggery frayed and tore apart. Unlike in Dexter, though, the tearing didn't lead to hysteria. It just led to something cold. Not physically cold, not emotionally cold. The kind of cold he'd had to be since that day in the church, and was only now realising lay dormant underneath most of what he'd claimed to be feeling. Swallowing him up, little by little, as time went on.

It made him very still, it made his voice very quiet, and it made his fists clench hard - against what, he didn't know. "Proof. Like a confession? Like using Necromancy? Does that work?"

Using Necromancy without a channeling object, shadows gathering around the skeleton like he was the object they were being channeled through. The memory twisted Ghastly's gut, and spread that chill throughout the rest of him. "Why didn't either of you tell the rest of us?"

[vexingshieldbearer]

The way Ghastly's expression froze, flattened, went blank made any other words freeze in Dexter's throat. That was the look of the boxer, the fighter, at any other time ready to tear someone apart. Ghastly didn't get angry easily, but when he did ... well. All those rumours about his mother killing people with a punch weren't exactly exaggerated.

Proof. There was proof. Skulduggery had confessed?

No. No, no no--this wasn't happening. It couldn't, he didn't want it to be happening.

"It wasn't true," he whispered, unable to look away even if he wanted to. Something in his throat was tight, something in his eyes burned. "It wasn't--Descry didn't know for sure. He just had a bunch of little implications all stacked together. We just had a bunch of little implications all stacked together. Implications don't always mean anything. Hardly ever mean anything. What were we meant to do? Accuse him without knowing for sure? Ruin everything? The Dead Men were the only family we had."

They couldn't do that. That was why Hopeless had come to him. He'd wanted someone to tell him he was wrong, which Dexter was glad to do; someone who wouldn't be judgemental, which Dexter generally wasn't. At least, not in the way Hopeless didn't want him to be. Skulduggery was back. It didn't matter who he'd potentially been in those five years.

He was back. The Dead Men were together again. Their family--alive, still. All of them. Nothing else mattered.

[skeletonenigma]

A bunch of little implications all stacked together. Hopeless caught them, made the connection. Why didn't Ghastly? Why didn't anyone else? Even with Hopeless's propensity for knowing things about people even they didn't know, he couldn't read Skulduggery's mind. He'd had no way of knowing anything beyond what was immediately obvious. How did he make connections and see implications that every single other person missed?

With the danger of being right, why didn't he tell anyone other than Dexter? He'd had a duty, a responsibility, to report any potential dangers or traitors. Lord Vile being in the middle of their camp... why didn't he say something? Why didn't he ask Skulduggery? Why didn't he, at the very least, tell Corrival?

More and more questions spun, each with obvious answers Ghastly knew and just didn't want to admit to. Because he didn't want to believe two of his closest friends had known the truth for years and never breathed a word of it. Because he was feeling betrayed on all fronts now, betrayed by the very people he'd put most of his trust in, and that feeling was somehow the most comfortable of everything plaguing Ghastly because it didn't bring with it more cold, but heat. It burned. It lit a furnace in his mind and happily burned there, destroying most of what Ghastly thought there used to be in the ragtag group of brothers.

"All those times," he said, "we broke protocol, and took stupid risks in battle because we were sure Vile would show up, we were sure we had to plan around him, people that we needlessly lost and you never said a word?"

He wasn't quite so calm now. Skulduggery not saying a word, Ghastly could understand. Hell, the detective had done more good in the world since the war ended than he ever would have managed if he were imprisoned - or worse. But Hopeless? Dexter?

[vexingshieldbearer]

"We didn't know!" Dexter's words burst out of him and he found himself on his feet, reaching out to grip Ghastly's arm. His voice had risen, now, though he tried to keep it quiet. He couldn't tell if he succeeded. He couldn't care enough to figure it out. "How could we have known for sure?! It's not like Descry can read Skulduggery's mind!"

The accusations rang hard in him and he shook his head, looking away into the corner of the shop where he couldn't see any of the others either. It wasn't untrue. There were things they'd done, things they wouldn't have, people they had lost that maybe would have lived if they'd known for sure what had happened to Vile.

But they didn't know for sure. Even with all Descry's talent, they hadn't known for sure. They'd just feared, in the opposite direction to everyone else.

A split second later he was looking back, his hand dropped and tears in his eyes, but vibrating weariness all in him. He spread his hands plaintively. "He came back, Ghastly. It didn't matter any more. He was gone and then he was there and ... what good would us saying something have done? You know how Corrival was under orders to put him down if necessary. Hopeless regretted telling me."

Maybe he wouldn't have. Maybe he'd have kept it all locked up nice and tight in that box of secrets he called a brain, except that Dexter had been on night-watch when the mind-reader couldn't sleep for all the death around him. Except that Dexter had seen him dream. Heard him dream. Tried not to ask. And failed. He should have been stronger. If he hadn't caught Hopeless at such a vulnerable time, maybe he wouldn't have known. He wouldn't have had to know one of his brothers had been an evil on a level, or even greater than, Mevolent himself.

Dexter let his hands fall. The tears in his eyes threatened to fall and now his tone was defeated, a repetition he clung to even now, after all these years. "He came back."

[skeletonenigma]

Ghastly knew what he wanted to say. Or yell. So what?

But he didn't, because he knew the answer to that one too.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn that entire war and all of its problems to hell. Damn Serpine, the slippery bastard and all his plans, his murder of Skulduggery's family. The Adept was dead now, but the consequences of his actions would never stop. They'd keep rippling, just like Mevolent's, forcing everyone else to pay the price for their evil. Skulduggery. The Dead Men. Every single person, mortal and otherwise, who'd fallen at Vile's hand. Their friends. Their families. So many people, so many stories, just... snuffed out, all ultimately due to a man who was dead and shouldn't be able to cause any more damage than he already had.

And yet.

The conversation on the other side of the shop had faltered when Dexter raised his voice. Ghastly was aware of that in the way that someone caught on the edge of an explosion was distantly aware of sound. He could feel his own heart pumping, beating in his chest, keeping him alive without trying to numb any of the feelings that made him wish he'd never been born.

Something unexpected happened then. There was a roaring in his ears surging alongside the intense desire to punch something, but Dexter looked too much like a wounded and defeated puppy, and no one else was close enough. So, without rhyme or reason or any sort of cognition of the passing of events between that thought and the result, Ghastly's fist was buried in the wall.

It stung. It was probably going to start hurting in a minute. It was going to take a lot longer than that to safely disentangle it from the wall, too. Ghastly didn't particularly care. He fought the natural instinctive response of pulling his fist back out, since that would only make things worse, and instead watched the cracks in the plaster slowly blur in his vision.

The first person to speak was Skulduggery. "Before, or after I came back?"

[vexingshieldbearer]

Dexter flinched hard the moment Ghastly moved, fully expecting the fist to be coming for him and still standing his ground. He knew why. The Dead Men had been very thorough in making sure he knew exactly why he had the regular and unthinking urge to be someone else's scapegoat. Knowing where it came from had never really helped stop the urge.

Instead he heard the crunch of mortar and looked up to find Ghastly's fist was buried in the wall. For a moment he could only stand numbly, until Skulduggery spoke.

He'd had a century to get used to the idea that Skulduggery might be Vile. A century for the idea to worm its way through the denial into acceptance. He'd stopped flinching, even mentally, at Skulduggery's voice a long time ago. Except that he did now, physically, not because it was Skulduggery but because of the careful control in his voice.

"After," Dexter said. "I don't know if that's the same for Hopeless." He managed a smile then, a brittle, mirthless smile. "You know how he kept the universe in his head and all."

He tried to laugh and it came out a half-sob. Distantly he heard movement, and Merlin say quietly, "Time for school, Valkyrie."

Dexter stood still, blinking hard and breathing slow, as the others moved out of the shop, but he didn't expect to find Gabriel suddenly at his shoulder. He didn't expect to see tears in the Archangel's eyes. He certainly didn't expect the Archangel to pull him into a sudden, fierce embrace. He also didn't expect to feel a warm body press itself up against his leg, and heard Rafe whine.

That did it. Dexter's whole body shuddered once, and without thinking he hugged Gabe back, his breathing hard and fast as he tried to control those tears. He wasn't usually worried about crying in front of people, but this wasn't exactly a situation where it would help him be articulate. At all. Not that he was good at that anyway.

After a moment, or maybe a million, Gabe gave him a squeeze, then pulled away and turned to leave through the door Merlin was holding open, Rafe trotting beside him. Dexter sniffed, dug in his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his eyes, and then stuffed it back away so he could go to try and pry Ghastly's fist loose from the wall.

[skeletonenigma]

The only one who didn't leave with Merlin and the angels was Tanith. She strode purposefully in the other direction, towards Ghastly, confident and radiating her intent to snap irritably at anyone who tried to make her leave. Ghastly was grateful for that. He really didn't think he'd be able to manage completely on his own just yet.

While Tanith and Dexter started in on his fist, trying to maneuver it carefully loose, Skulduggery still hadn't moved. Like a mannequin, standing there in the suit Ghastly made for him. Like a very lifelike and disturbing mannequin. Some distant and removed part of Ghastly wondered if Skulduggery would mind being a mannequin for him a couple of days every week. Just... trying on custom orders so Ghastly could make sure they were as perfect as they could possibly be, that shirts hung right and coats moved properly. Basically like a glorified hat stand, since most of Ghastly's tailoring work was done by magic, but a well-paid glorified hat stand.

Probably not. Skulduggery didn't do things for the money. And he'd probably steal all the hats.

"Why did Descry tell you?" Skulduggery asked, shutting down that distant and removed thought process with a snap. "Why didn't he come and ask me directly?"

The detective's tone was deceptively calm. As level and quiet as if he were just discussing the weather with someone, or the results from last night's football game. But that was part of the trouble. It was a casual tone, reserved for casual acquaintances. Ghastly and Dexter were anything but. Skulduggery was overcompensating, which was just as dangerous as when he made his anger clear, if not more so. And now, Ghastly had a better idea of why.

[vexingshieldbearer]

That tone of voice made Dexter's shoulders hunch, but he didn't look up from trying, very carefully, not to hurt Ghastly any more than he already had. The wall, he was also trying not to hurt, just because it was Ghastly's shop and it seemed kinda rude to pull pieces out of it.

"I was on Hopeless-watch," he mumbled, "and he had a nightmare. You know, the kind he had once in a blue moon where he woke up and wasn't sure who he was. He said some things. I was stupid enough to ask about them." He laughed and it was watery, short, and cut off quickly. "I don't know if he'd have told me anything if I'd wait even just until morning. But I didn't. And I guess he kind of wanted someone to tell him he was wrong. Which I had no trouble doing."

It wasn't that he disbelieved Descry. All of them knew that he was, nearly every time, right. It was just that he was always right because the facts supported him. Because in an odd way, even though he was more of a believer than any of the others, he believed because he could hear what was going on in peoples' heads. He believed because of facts.

Dexter had a talent for being in denial in spite of facts. It wasn't something of which he was always proud, but that night, with regard to this, he didn't mind it.

"Or maybe he was afraid asking you would mean you'd lose control again." He snorted. "Or maybe he was afraid asking you would mean you'd go off on your own and try to kill yourself again. Like a fool. Like an idiot. You idiot."

[skeletonenigma]

The 'you're an idiot' sentiment had been genuinely shared by every single Dead Man throughout the war, and probably by Ghastly most of all. This was, of course, before finding out Skulduggery had a perfectly valid reason for wanting to end his own existence, but... as it turned out, Ghastly's feelings toward that idea hadn't changed. That surprised him. The fact that it surprised him disgusted him. His mind was a tangled mess right now and, all things considered, maybe it would just be easier to focus on disentangling his fist from the tangled mess of wires in the wall before he tackled his own mindset.

Skulduggery didn't have that luxury. He'd gone quiet again, and he had nothing but his own thoughts to focus on. Maybe that was deliberately done, and why he hadn't moved forward to help.

"Can you uncurl your fist for a minute?" asked Tanith, peering into the darkness of the wall as best she could. "I think we could get it out if you sort of... uncurl it and then turn it. Like you're opening a door."

Ghastly did as she asked, slowly, flinching every time something sharp jabbed up against his skin. Tanith guided him with a hand on his wrist, changing her mind a couple more times about the positioning before Skulduggery spoke up behind them once again.

"Why did you both assume I had any control over it?" It was the exact same tone as before, still carefully under the guise of polite curiosity towards an acquaintance. "There was a reason Corrival had those orders. I was dead. I could easily have been manipulated by anyone who knew how that happened. Any moment, I could have turned against you. You had no way of knowing. And still, you said nothing?"

That last word was the only one that gave away even a hint of how Skulduggery was really feeling. An image of those Necromantic shadows popped back into Ghastly's mind, and he instinctively tensed. It pushed something sharp into the skin on his right hand, and with a sharp intake of breath, he forced himself to relax.

[vexingshieldbearer]

Tanith had control of things. Tanith had control of things in a very gentle and knowing fashion that made a distant part of Dexter's mind put a few things together and actually have room for disappointment. But Tanith had control of things, so Dexter let go of Ghastly's arm and turned toward Skulduggery with a deep breath.

He exhaled equally slowly, not because he was angry but because those tears were still kind of waiting in the wings. The sobs were halted, but Dexter'd always had a bit of a problem with controlling tears.

"Nope," he said with something not exactly cheerfulness. "Or did the fact no one on our side tried to off you give you the clue?" Even the vestige of the smile faded. "We weren't assuming anything. Hopeless didn't think the others could handle it without everything going to Hell. I was in denial. Mostly. D'you know how many times I stood and stared at Corrival's tent, trying to work up the nerve to say something? Didn't you ever wonder why Hopeless dedicated so much time to helping you meditate? Or why I was always daring Larrikin into making you laugh, just because?"

He lifted his hands, but unlike most people--unlike nearly anyone who was pleading for supplication--he didn't lift them palms up. He held them palms down. Palms down because all his magic came to his hands, his shields and his weapons, because for him what most people did as a plea was a threat.

Dexter did not like making threats.

"It didn't matter what might have been. Don't you get it, Skulduggery? After everything you did, you came back. You didn't have to. Even after you'd stopped being--him--you could've just stayed gone. You didn't. You came back to us--for us. Like you trusted that all of us together had something that could keep you together. And you think we should've betrayed that trust? We couldn't. You're family. You needed us. All of us."

[skeletonenigma]

Dexter was unintentionally making the same case to Ghastly. And it was helping, in an odd way. It was helping Ghastly realise just how badly things would have gone to Hell if he'd been told about the possibility back when Skulduggery first reappeared. He... wouldn't have taken it well. The tailor could manage something close to normalcy now because the man who'd dared him into doublecrossing and backstabbing a murderous group of pirates just for the chance to say they'd sailed a pirate ship was back. Obviously and unequivocally back, same sense of humour and all. He hadn't been the same since Serpine killed him, and if Ghastly discovered so early on in the recovery process that Skulduggery was Vile, he wouldn't have hesitated in telling Corrival.

Corrival probably wouldn't have hesitated in carrying out one of the backup plans. Skulduggery the skeleton would be gone, and Ghastly wouldn't have mourned him. Because back then, Skulduggery the skeleton wasn't Skulduggery Pleasant.

Now he was. Now, there was context. Now there was evidence, and history. Dexter was right. The last thing Skulduggery needed back then was accusations. He'd needed his family, and he'd gotten the next best thing, and that was only possible because no one knew for sure.

Skulduggery shook his head. "You're all foolhardy idiots." His tone hadn't softened, exactly - or at least, it didn't until his next words. "And better friends than I deserve."

On that, Ghastly could agree. But there was something Skulduggery used to say that he thought was particularly appropriate here, and so he turned around to remind them while his fist remained stubbornly inside the wall. "Life isn't about what you deserve. It's about playing the hand you're dealt, and hoping for the best."

A beat passed, and Skulduggery's head tilted in recognition. "I was more implying that life is never fair, or easy, and that bad things happen to good people."

"I know. But it works the other way around, too. Skul - "

He broke off with a short noise of pain as Tanith, without warning, pulled his fist the rest of the way out. It was red, raw, some of the skin torn, and a few new wounds were bleeding, but that was easily cleared up. Ghastly would be back to normal by the end of the day.

[vexingshieldbearer]

"Well, we knew that." Dexter managed a watery grin and started to relax a little. The tears weren't exactly gone, locked in his throat as they were, but at least he didn't feel like he was about to shatter at any moment. The smile dropped a moment later, but Dexter's gaze didn't move. For once, he was serious, serious and not exactly earnest but firm.

"I wanted to say something half the time. Descry said no. Asked me to trust him. Asked me to trust you. He said the man he'd seen in Ghastly's memories did deserve that chance. He was right. It took me a while to get used to it, but he was right. That's when I stopped standing outside Corrival's tent."

They'd tried to stack the deck in his favour, to use Ghastly's analogy. Stacked it without quite knowing for sure whether they needed to, or whether they should. Dexter had wanted to not believe enough that he was willing to follow Descry's lead.

At Ghastly's yelp the Adept turned, raised an eyebrow, and deliberately wagged a finger at him. "That's what you get for trying to take on your whole shop, Ghastly. I know you're a big bad boxer and all, but really, you're gonna force us to stage an intervention to pop that swelled head. I don't want to pop your head, Ghastly. I don't want my suit ruined by Ghastly-brains if I can't get a properly-tailored replacement."

[skeletonenigma]

"Please don't pop my head," Ghastly murmured, grabbing a spare bit of cloth he didn't need sitting near the sewing machine and wrapping his fist in it. "My shop started it. And you need a replacement anyway, Dex. My suits don't wrinkle."

Tanith raised an eyebrow. "Sa - Dexter's right, you know. I'm getting worried about you. You're normally so peaceful, and then twice in the space of a week you're driven to punch something?"

"Peaceful?" Ghastly smiled ruefully at her. "Peaceful? Seriously? I'd accept nonviolent, or calm. Reasonably patient. But peaceful?"

"Yes," Tanith decided with a nod. "Peaceful."

He pointed at his fist. "I'm a boxer."

"You're a boxer when you or your friends are threatened. You don't seek out fights. I'm not saying you avoid them, but you definitely don't go out of your way."

Ghastly looked from Tanith to the hole in the wall, and then back to Tanith again. "I think I have to object based on the stinging pain I'm currently feeling."

"Well, that's just because you're an idiot." Tanith took his wrapped fist into both her hands and kissed it gently right on the knuckle. "Better?"

"Much."

[vexingshieldbearer]

"Then it's a good thing I'm here in your shop, isn't it?" Dex said promptly and brightly, straightening his cuffs. He didn't miss Tanith's slip, and he suspect Skulduggery hadn't either. He hadn't exactly introduced himself properly last time they'd met.

Then again, they'd been slaughtering a whole bunch of things at the time, and then other things afterward, and adrenaline did funny things. Either way, there was no point in hiding it, and unless he missed his guess, Tanith would go to great lengths to reassure Ghastly she wasn't about to run off with someone else. That's just the kind of girl she was, once she settled. Which was why Dexter had made a point of not lingering too long.

Girls like her just reminded him of his wife, in all the worst ways. Because she hadn't been like that.

"Listen to the lady in leather, Ghastly," he said with utmost seriousness. Almost. There was a touch too much relief edging into his tone to be truly sober. "I hear ladies in leather are always right. Or so she told me, anyway. Hiya, Tan'." Sheepishly he waggled his fingers at her. "Nice to see you again now we're not covered in blood and guts and exploded brains. I never introduced myself properly, did I?"

[skeletonenigma]

Ghastly laughed, a sound both as startling as it was welcome just then. "You don't need to be in my shop for that, Dexter. I'd know your measurements from a photo. Not too different from the first suit I ever made you." The Adept had lost a little bit of weight, really, and that was it. A life constantly on the move, it wasn't too surprising. "Just let me finish up the Elder robes before I start on any new projects."

Those old robes. Really. Whatever happened to them, Ghastly hoped it involved fire. He'd disliked getting involved in Sanctuary matters for the longest time - still did - and that pretentious posturing was part of the reason why.

You'd think, given enough strong shocks over such a short time span, that it would be impossible to be startled by anything else. That didn't seem to be the case, though. Dexter's words were jarring, and in a rather odd way. Ghastly turned to look at them both, fighting to quell an inappropriate surge of jealousy. "You two know each other?"

"You could say that." Tanith smiled sheepishly back. "Hey, Saracen. Glad you got rid of the wig. This looks a lot better." Her smile slid into a frown. "Unless this is the wig, in which case you should probably keep it on."

"Where do you two know each other from?" Ghastly pressed.

"Oh, we just ran into each other fighting the same pack of bloodthirsty zombies once," Tanith explained, unsatisfactorily and with a self-conscious shrug. "It wasn't long. We killed a bunch of zombies and then we went our separate ways. I had no idea his name wasn't really Saracen."

Ghastly debated asking why, if it was such a short meeting, they were both looking so sheepish. Or how Tanith managed to recognise a man whose disguise was good enough to practically fool even the Dead Men during the war. He was about to, but then Ghastly decided that knowing the answer really wasn't going to make him feel any better. So he didn't. Instead, he glanced towards the skeleton detective. "Skulduggery, you're quiet."

The impassive skull turned, sharply, towards him. "I have a bit of a dilemma. Given how tense things were just a few minutes ago, would you rather I acted like nothing happened, or gave you the space to relax?"

Ghastly blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Corrival seems to prefer the former. It doesn't quite feel right, but I can understand the sentiment. Which would you rather? If I made a joke right now, for example, would it make you more angry, or would it help?"

"Uh..." Ghastly was well and truly at a loss for what to say. Not because he didn't know the answer, but because he couldn't understand why Skulduggery - Skulduggery - had to ask. "Depends. What's the joke?"

"Are you sure you want to hear it?"

"Yes."

"Positive?"

"Yes."

Skulduggery nodded, went quiet for another moment, and then shook his head. "There wasn't a joke. I just needed an example. Dexter, since you're back in the country and no doubt jumping at the chance to help us out, Solomon is in need of a bodyguard he can trust. Interested?"

[peacefullywreathed]

"Uh, sure, Ghastly. Just don't ask in which sense." One day, Dexter decided, one day he would learned to control his tongue. In the meantime he cleared his throat and turned to Skulduggery.

'Trustworthy' may have been the wrong word for the skeleton to use. 'Reliable' would have been better.

"Who, me? Interested in serving as a glorified babysitter to a blind Necromancer who lacks a basic sense of self-preservation?" He grinned wickedly. "When do I start?"

~~~

"--and here, coming up on our immediate left, is the vaunted coffee-stain of '59--you can't see it, but I'm gesturing grandly right now. Ancient legend has it that the Sanctuary was attacked by rabid coffee-eating zombies fifty years ago. A savage battle raged through the course of the day, with the Sanctuary forces securing full domination of the coffee-stores and finally driving the mindless hordes from our land. Of course, anybody who was there will tell you somebody probably just tripped over while carrying a full mug of coffee, but that's boring. And over here we have--"

The thing about Dexter Vex was that, while he could shut up, he very rarely chose to, as Solomon had discovered throughout the course of the morning. He suspected--actually, no, he didn't suspect anything. He knew that Vex was deliberately parodying the man with whom Tipstaff had saddled him yesterday, and for the first half-hour of today, before Vex had arrived to announce that he had graciously volunteered to serve as blind man's liaison.

The war of souls in Solomon's office then had resembled a soap opera. Who needed television? (Solomon rather thought it would have been headache-inducing, except that he and Merlin had managed to raise some wards the day before. Now everything was muted and dulled enough that looking directly at them didn't make Solomon's head throb.)

Either way, once that display of dominance was over Solomon had actually got things done. Scrupulous had been more concerned with making sure Solomon didn't knock things over, and being a condescending bore while he did it. Vex, comments or no, was actually efficient. Solomon hadn't run into a single wall or door yet. (Or been run into one, for that matter.)

Besides, Vex's never-ending litany aside, everyone else's reactions as they passed was amusing. Not that Solomon would ever tell him that.

"--your office door, which you can't see that I'm opening with a magnificent flourish, and inside we have--oh, hello, China--inside we have a very beautiful Irishwoman of noble countenance, but who nevertheless seems somewhat faded. Is it the makeup? Is it a new hairstyle? The world may never know, for this wondrous beauty keeps her secrets close to the breast--the lucky things--"

"Good morning, China," Solomon said wryly, one hand on the jamb so he knew where it was and the other on Vex's shoulder. He had learned, early on, that Vex gestured far too much and far too expansively for his elbow to be reliable as a guiding tool. The ex-Necromancer tilted his head at the sigil washing across the surface of his desk. He couldn't actually see anything on it, but he could see the dimensions of the tabletop. Which he hadn't been able to do an hour ago. "Have you been making additions to my office?"

[neutralcollector]

"I hope you don't mind." China stepped back from the desk to admire her handiwork - or rather, the lack of it. Sigils, once completed, tended to snap into their intended use right away and disappear from the unaided eye. They didn't always, of course, but China knew each and every secret of the magical language. She knew how to make her symbols bow to her very whim, never mind her command. So it was that the one she'd just completed vanished from the desk moments before the door opened, snapping nicely into place with a soft hum. "I grew bored waiting for you, and voice-activated technology is so cumbersome." She straightened up and nodded toward them both. "I expect to be paid for this, of course. Hello, Dexter."

His presence here didn't surprise her in the least. Skulduggery had a way of gravitating people towards him when he most needed them. It was what made him such an efficient leader during the war, and it certainly wasn't doing him any ill now. He'd managed to attract an Archangel, of all things.

Likewise, China took Vex's comments about her appearance in stride. At least he was remarking openly about it; the honesty was refreshing. Ironically so, perhaps, but it was refreshing nevertheless. "The world knows," she told him with a smile. "You probably never will. How is the traveling going?"

[peacefullywreathed]

"Not at all," Solomon said, and didn't move into the room because he had the distinct impression he was about to leave it. "If you'd label the computer's on-button for me, I'd be ever so grateful."

"I offered to turn it on for you," Dexter complained. "What's wrong with my on-turning skills?"

"I didn't want it to blow up in my face," Solomon answered deadpan, and lifted his hand as Dexter grumbled wordlessly and then bowed toward China.

"You're underestimating my contacts, China dear! And it was fine. Really spiffing. Met a new friend in a bar who told me the exciting stuff was happening back home, though, so I decided to hotfoot it back here. I mean, finding out who could talk Corrival into becoming Grand Mage? That's a secret worth returning for."

"Speaking of," Solomon interjected, his eyes on China, "should I call the Crossword Puzzler Extraordinaire, or are there other preparations that need to be done before I have to risk my head being bitten off?"

He wasn't sure what it was that was alerting him. Something in the vibration of her web, perhaps. Something excited, a low-level excitement of anticipation and satisfaction of a job well done, and a ripple that spread from him and past him to the Cleavers outside the door.

[neutralcollector]

"Not on my end," China replied. "We need a hall full of mirrors, but I'm otherwise in possession of everything I need."

If not quite her mental faculties, but that wasn't going to be a problem. If China couldn't focus despite her own personal feelings on something, she would never have lasted as long as she had.

But that was the strange thing. She knew she should have been preparing for the result of this little endeavour. Bliss would never believe she was helping out of the goodness of her heart - which technically she wasn't, China reassured herself, since she was getting paid - and he'd be far less trusting of her motives than even Skulduggery seemed to be. With good reason; China wasn't faulting him for that. It just meant she needed to prepare. She needed to be able to kill him if that became the only option, or at the very least hold him off long enough to hide.

But she didn't want to. She simply and curiously didn't want to. Bliss would be suspicious, and that was fine. Let him be. And if he did try something, then...

And that was the strange thing. China didn't know how to finish that sentence. She didn't have anything prepared, and it wasn't because she knew what the outcome would be. She didn't have a clue what the outcome would be. She was merely... hoping. Hoping things would turn out for the best. So much so that she hadn't even planned for a failure.

Trust. Blind trust in something vague and uncertain enough to be dangerous. It was new, and it was unpleasant, but there wasn't much China could do about it.

"I would like to see an angel statue," she added thoughtfully. "Once they're made, of course. I'm not entirely sure what I have for that would work, and I'd like to test it."

[peacefullywreathed]

"Oh, Rafe and Merlin built a mirror-hall just yesterday," Dexter said in a dismissive way Solomon could well imagine was accompanied by a hand-wave. "Ghastly and I were kind of drunk by the time we got there, which made it really interesting to walk through, but it was actually something about training the younger generations? Anyway. It's not far out of Dublin."

Solomon thought of Rafe's assertion they should let the sorcerers define their own world, of the Rubik's cube in the shape of a castle, and snorted. "Of course they did. Corrival has been buying as many statues as he can from the masons since we came up with the idea, China. We had a few transported here directly." Solomon turned, holding out his hand to indicate he needed Dexter's shoulder again, and a moment later it slid under his palm.

"Why, Solomon, you're such a gentleman," Dexter said winsomely as he sidled out, but Solomon gripped his shoulder hard and tugged him away from the door.

"Ladies first," he said blandly and with undercurrent amusement. His gaze, however, remained on China. There was something more than just the impending satisfaction of a job well done. Now the lifestream was muted, it was oddly sharpened too--as if he was no longer dazzled, and so could see details. It was like wearing metaphysical sunglasses.

It looked ... like something that was specific to China, or at least the way in which it was broadcast did. Her web, spinning outward, reaching for things that weren't quite there. One of them reached for him, but tentative. Solomon felt sure he should be able to recognise it, but he couldn't think of what it might be.

The pure-white gleam of dewdrops on thread, on the other hand, he did recognise. There was only a handful of them--a tiny collection on the edges of that hole, smaller than it had been before.

Hope. Hope for what, he didn't know--but it was there.

"They're in the first storage-room just down the hall to the left," he added just a little absently, in the way he wasn't aware he'd started to do when he was concentrating on reading someone: head just slightly tilted as if to see or hear something better, brow furrowed, and eyes piercing in ways that weren't normal.

[neutralcollector]

"Thank you." China took advantage of the outdated but welcome chivalry and led the way out of the room, walking unintentionally quickly to get out from under Solomon's scrutinising stare.

It was unnerving, that stare. If ever China had scoffed at the hyperbole of 'looking through into someone's soul,' she mentally took it back. It was the first idea her mind went to when faced with that gaze, even if she hadn't known about Solomon's newfound abilities. His stare was that intense, that knowing, that piercing. The way he seemed to be regarding not her, but something unknowable inside of her.

Given how little even China understood about her own mind and soul these days, she wasn't happy with the trespass. Every fiber of her being rebelled against it. But since she couldn't very well ask Solomon to simply stop being blind, China was reduced to leaving the room as quickly, yet gracefully, as she could.

She passed the first storage-room on the left without pausing. "One problem at a time," she explained briefly without turning around. What was it Corrival had called the angel statues...? "The Host can wait. Bliss has already spent a year trapped. Old life over new life, isn't that how the good guys do it?"

That was also ironic, considering Skulduggery's previous occupation during the war. China wondered if Vex already knew about that. She wouldn't have thought he'd be so cheerful, but then, the Dead Men were always full of surprises.