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]

Erskine smiled grimly. "Just a bit." He hadn't missed the way Anton's head tilted toward them, in a way very reminiscent of Skulduggery - just another reminder of how many little ways they influenced each other over the years. It felt very much like a sudden punch to the gut, that headtilt.

"Corrival says hello," he continued, for a lack of anything more useful to say. "Bliss probably does, too. How're things over here?"

Now that they were actually standing in the Hotel, facing Anton, Erskine had no clue what he wanted. Back in the Sanctuary, all he'd wanted was a safe haven, and the Hotel was the first place to spring to mind. Now that they were actually here, now that he was realising they needed to tell Anton about Satan, Erskine was almost at a loss. He'd wanted the safe haven he believed only the Hotel could provide. Now, it seemed more like they were the ones intruding on a safe haven, and bringing everything that was wrong with the world into it. Suddenly, Erskine felt like he was the one who was being selfish.

Yeah. They had to tell Anton. But Erskine would rather not go swinging through the doors with the news, if he could help it.

[peacefullywreathed]

"Swimmingly." Nothing had changed except Anton's knowledge and his desire to be in a place he could be easily contacted. A lot of the locations he chose for the Hotel were ones which, however wide, followed what he'd heard of rumours of Dexter's movements. It was almost the only way the man could be contacted.

But now he was here. Anton didn't have to keep an eye on him, and yet. He nodded at the man. "Dexter."

"Heya, Anton. Still looking like you stepped out of a funeral home's catalogue, I see!" Despite the cheerful words there was an edge of something subdued in his tone as he led Wreath forward, but the ex-Necromancer stopped and refused to be moved somewhere a distance away. Anton glanced at the man and said nothing. From his blank gaze, all the rumours about his eyesight were true.

"I use its guidance to furnish my Hotel. Why are you here? Wait." He put out a 'back in an hour' sign and moved around the counter. "This way. And you, I suppose, Wreath."

Anton expected a smart comment, he got nothing as Wreath turned toward Dexter's hand on his arm. Anton led them into an adjoining room, a small and plush 'staff' room which only Anton used because Anton was the only staff. "Drinks?"

[skeletonenigma]

Erskine hesitated. Did he want a drink? Yes. Should he have a drink? With how angry he'd felt just a few minutes ago, probably not. "I'll take one," he answered, hand raised slightly as he collapsed into one of the room's chairs. "Something light. No, wait." He sighed. "What's the strongest thing you have? You might want - "

He cut himself off just in time. Erskine's thoughts were barreling all over the place, leaping to his mouth without prior permission or consideration, erasing even the most basic things about his own friends. His smile, when it came, might have been sheepish if it wasn't so empty, and it was delivered primarily to give himself some time to calm down. "Sorry. Never mind. I'd love a drink, even if all you have is milk."

[vexingshieldbearer]

Erskine was fumbling, and hard. So hard that he forgot that Anton didn't, couldn't, drink, something he hadn't forgotten since that day centuries ago when Erskine and Dexter had almost been responsible for Anton's Gist destroying a whole tavern and everyone in it. It was so unlike him, and spoke so much that something had happened, that Anton turned to stare. "I don't have anything alcoholic in the Hotel," he said finally. "It encourages my residents to be stupid. I don't enjoy fighting people who are too drunk to back off."

Milk, then. Cider was possibly a bit too bubbly, alcoholic or not. Anton went into the kitchen and poured some glasses, adding another when Dexter said, "Ghastly's going to come too."

If it weren't for Wreath's addition Anton might have thought they were here about Vile. Then again, maybe that wasn't so much of an impossibility. Wreath had known Skulduggery once too, and he most certainly knew Vile, and if he was no longer a Necromancer Anton almost had to wonder what he must be thinking.

He brought the milk back on a tray and put it down on the coffeetable, and took a seat himself. "Why are you here?" he repeated.

[skeletonenigma]

Erskine grabbed one of the glasses and drank deeply from it before he answered, giving himself both the time to think, and something to focus on other than the day's events. Milk might not have been alcoholic, but there was something soothing about it nonetheless. The glass was half-gone by the time he lowered it again, but the glass stayed in Erskine's hand, tipped backwards and forwards absentmindedly as he thought.

"We're here to warn you," he started off, "that, uh..." and faltered. Did they ever decide if it would actually take Lucifer a few months, like Skulduggery said? Or if it could potentially take him a lot shorter? No, they probably didn't decide on much of anything, other than Skulduggery being an idiot. "That Lucifer's apparently going to be in this dimension pretty soon."

He didn't want to end it there. He didn't want another uncomfortable silence. Erskine didn't want to grow any angrier than he already was. "Also to reunite you with Dexter, and to get away from the Sanctuary for a bit. You know, he's right. You should wear brighter clothes more often. They suit you."

[vexingshieldbearer]

Anton digested this. It, to be honest, wasn't all that much of a surprise. Gabe was an angel. That meant Lucifer, also an angel, probably existed. And given that they now had two angels who had torn holes in their universe, why wouldn't the Devil be able to arrive? It was only logical. Because, of course, of course, it would happen.

"Okay," he said calmly. "Why?" Why did they need to warn him? He wasn't involved in Sanctuary affairs. He certainly wasn't involved with angels. Nor did he want to be.

"Why are you telling me this?" he added a moment later. "Not what should I wear brighter clothes. I prefer dark clothes. I don't have to stop and worry about fashion."

[skeletonenigma]

"Why are we..." Erskine blinked. "What, would you rather we didn't say anything?"

It wasn't like anyone could predict what would happen, but whatever did end up happening, it was pretty clear anyone who knew Gabe or Rafe or Merlin even in passing would need to watch their step. Anton owned an incredibly powerful Hotel, was incredibly powerful himself, took the news of Skulduggery being Vile the worst, and - and, Erskine realised numbly, had a room full of evil little spirits. He may not have wanted to be involved, but he was. He was a prime target.

Had Skulduggery even thought of that? Skulduggery thought of everything, but he couldn't have thought of this, or he would have told Anton himself already. By his own logic, he would have.

"You've never stopped and worried about fashion," Erskine murmured into his glass as he took another sip. He'd tried to get Anton into fashionable clothes once. Like so many experiments with Anton, he'd never tried again.

[vexingshieldbearer]

"Yes, actually." Even though he didn't have that luxury. Anton wanted to stay out of the spotlight; that didn't mean he would. This was the Devil. This was the being people for which people had mistaken him. His gut reaction was 'no'.

But this was the Devil. Somehow, he'd find out about the Remnants. They were the nearest thing to demons in this universe.

"I have better things to do with my time," Anton pointed out. "Like figure out how to ward my Hotel against angels, apparently." There was an edge to his voice, now. He couldn't help it. He didn't want the vindication of angels, but that didn't change that one of them was wrapped around Vile's little finger.

[skeletonenigma]

Erskine couldn't help it - he stared. "Really?" He got not wanting to know about things, but that had never stopped Anton before, especially when something he cared about was in danger.

Was Erskine overreacting?

No. No, he wasn't. Corrival was just as angry as Erskine felt. Dex never got angry over anything, and Anton just didn't know the whole story. Erskine didn't know if he should tell it, either. Not with the way Anton reacted to the last time Skulduggery decided not to tell them something. But at the same time, Erskine couldn't just keep quiet, either, because no one else in the room was saying anything, and he'd never liked silence.

Wreath hadn't spoken a word. Why was he here? It wasn't as if the Sanctuary was short of available bodyguards, and the responsible thing for Wreath to have done was remain behind and start interviewing employees. It's what the Solomon Wreath Erskine knew would have done. Instead, he was here, and still not saying a word.

Erskine rounded on him. "Why do you care so much?"

[peacefullywreathed]

Solomon had not been saying a word because, like Ravel, he wasn't sure what would come out. Because he was still trying to figure out what he felt, which wasn't easy when he was surrounded by what everyone else felt, let alone the fact that he had stopped understanding his own mind nearly a week ago.

Ravel's soul kept sending lashes of pine-needles in his direction. Pieces of his regard, sharp and furious, searching for a target. The Necromancers were always 'easy' targets. Especially now.

Solomon was tired of being an easy target. "I'm sorry, Ravel," he said waspishly, "would you rather I be trying to destroy half the world again? Perhaps I'll toddle back off to the Temple, where they'll welcome me with open arms and I'll return to glorious ignorance? Believe me, right now there's nothing I'd like more."

[skeletonenigma]

"That's not what I said." In contrast to Solomon's waspishness, Erskine had grown very quiet - if no less caustic. Angry he may be, but he wasn't going to talk about Solomon's former occupation. That wasn't what he had a problem with. "I asked why you care so much. If you were worried about Lucifer, you'd be back at the Sanctuary helping Corrival out. You're not. You're here, so you're just as angry with Skulduggery as we are."

It was amazing, how anger could make things so much clearer. Was this why Skulduggery made such an excellent detective? Was he just constantly thinking with a nearly sharp clarity?

"Why?" Erskine demanded, and only then did his voice rise. "The last I heard, you and Skulduggery were at odds. You've never told each other anything before, so why is that bothering you now?"

[peacefullywreathed]

"Only now?" Solomon's voice had, also, gone extremely quiet, and his gaze had snapped to look directly at Ravel. Even in spite of the way the man's anger pounded against his wards, the way the lines around his eyes creased with the corresponding throb in his temples, Solomon looked at him, his eyes piercing. "I have been bothered by this for nearly four hundred years."

He wanted to stop and take a breath, because his vision seemed to be going ... not red. Hazy, like he was shrouded by clouds. But he took the breath and the words didn't stop spilling out. "You think you've known Skulduggery Pleasant? I've known him since I was fifteen years old. I've known him since I was a child in need of someone to depend on. I've known him manipulating me neatly to doing everything he ever wanted to finish his investigations. I've known him when it was proved to me that I thought the world of him and he used me like a tool."

His voice rose and rose, furious because of everything Skulduggery had promised and failed to deliver. Because of the everything he'd had, and the way he threw it all away. "Last you heard, we were at odds? We broke apart because I gave him all of me and he gave me nothing."

[skeletonenigma]

"That's pathetic." Something inside Erskine snapped. "You were a child! You think you're the only one to be disenamoured by someone you looked up to? You knew him when you were fifteen years old. Not since. Things change in four hundred years, Wreath. If you didn't toddle off to the Temple and live in glorious ignorance, you would know that!"

And now he was defending Skulduggery. Hadn't he just agreed with what Wreath was saying? That Skulduggery manipulated people, and sacrificed things for the sake of whatever job he was on? What did it matter if it was a group of people who were supposed to be his friends, or an impressionable fifteen-year-old Necromancer?

And if Dexter was the one saying it, Erskine would have agreed. But it wasn't. It was Wreath. And Wreath had no right, no right whatsoever, to be as angry as they were. He did not. He wasn't the one Skulduggery betrayed when he became Lord Vile. He wasn't the one who fought by Skulduggery's side for nearly a century, trusting him with his life, only to find out that the skeleton wasn't trusting anyone with anything. He had no right.

"You're not his friend," Erskine practically hissed. "You haven't been for a while. Don't pretend that you've thought anything good about him since the war."

Ghastly had appeared in the doorway by then, a fact Erskine didn't even notice until the tailor took the opportunity to clear his throat. "I'd ask what's going on," he said quietly, "but I could hear you two from outside the Hotel. What's Skulduggery done now?"

[peacefullywreathed]

"You're not his friend."

Solomon's heartbeat rang in his ears and he shot to his feet, his vision straining between a dark fog and a shattered beams of light. Without his even thinking it, his fist had clenched on some of that light and he felt its warmth, its power.

Dexter exclaimed and grabbed his wrist in the same moment that Ghastly's soul arrived at the door, and between the two Solomon managed not to do anything unduly foolish. Even so, Anton Shudder said quietly, "Elder Wreath, I feel I should remind you that there is no fighting in my Hotel. Should you begin something, I will be the one to finish it."

Solomon took a deep, slow breath, and forced his fingers to relax, forced himself to let go of his magic. The thing was that Ravel wasn't wholly wrong. After what he did, after the life he lived, Solomon almost didn't have the right to be so angry. But he was. God help him, he was.

"You have no idea what I've thought of him," he managed after a moment, his voice shaking. "I grieved for him. Don't you dare tell me about change, Ravel. Not after what I've been through."

Dexter's hands on his arm hadn't moved. It helped more than Solomon cared to admit, but he still jerked away and turned, half intending to leave and half intending to do he knew not what. Two steps away he kicked a chair and didn't stumble, but stopped short, because he was helpless and how dare Ravel throw that back in his face because he couldn't deal with his friend having been evil.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Ravel could be so angry at Skulduggery Pleasant, and with good reason, and then the next instant turn around and defend him when Solomon was saying nothing that he hadn't been thinking himself.

"Skulduggery told us that Lucifer's on his way," he heard Dexter say quietly to Ghastly. "He should've said it earlier."

[skeletonenigma]

"Ah." Right. Ghastly had been wondering when Skulduggery was going to mention that. The two of them barely spoke about it after that unsettling conversation in the safehouse, so when Skulduggery didn't talk to Corrival right after the election, Ghastly couldn't really say he didn't understand why.

He hadn't really thought about it since. He suspected Skulduggery didn't, either - or at least, tried not to. That didn't mean Erskine's anger wasn't understandable, just... unexpected.

Ghastly leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, wondering how the hell he was supposed to go about explaining this. "He did, in a way. He told me. Me, Tanith, Valkyrie, and Fletcher. We were the only ones available at the time."

A storm of emotions ran across Erskine's face, none of them even remotely trying to be subtle. But in the end, the Elemental managed to relax a little. "He told you?"

Ghastly nodded. "We decided there were more important things to focus on at the time. We didn't trust the Sanctuary, and Scarab was trying to blow up a stadium. We prioritised."

"And what about after that?" Erskine demanded, tense all over again. "Scarab was behind bars, the bad guys lost, and Corrival was acting Grand Mage. Why didn't he say anything then?"

Ghastly shrugged. "Overprotective, probably. He has always thought he can handle things on his own."

Erskine bristled. "That's because he doesn't trust any of us. And apparently, he never has."

"Well, of course he doesn't. Would you? Somehow miraculously coming down from five years of being the most evil human being on the face of the planet, and you think you'd be able to trust anyone after that? Least of all yourself?"

"He - "

"I'm not saying he's right. Yes, he should have said something earlier. But Erskine, I could have. I didn't. And you're not angry with me."

Erskine opened his mouth to deliver an angry retort, but the wind blew out of his sail as he realised there wasn't anything to retort with, and he let out a long breath. "You're different."

"How?"

Erskine looked away and didn't say anything. Ghastly nodded once. "Because I'm not Vile. I was never a Necromancer. You wouldn't be nearly so upset if this was just Skulduggery being Skulduggery. So what is this really about? Dexter, for example. Why aren't you upset?"

[peacefullywreathed]

Dexter's soul snapped surprise at suddenly being spoken to. "Well, I ... it's hard to be angry when I had secrets too. I mean, I--" He hesitated, and then mumbled, "I kind of knew. Suspected. About the Vile thing."

Shudder's soul quivered for a moment. "What?"

Solomon almost turned, but managed to not, standing where he was in the middle of the floor, with no idea what the space around him looked like.

"Descry suspected," Dexter admitted, "and he told me after--a bad night. But he asked me not to tell. He said if people knew we might lose Skulduggery for good."

That soul, so similar to Skulduggery's and yet turning on a slow, balanced axis, darkened. "What makes you think we haven't?"

For a moment Solomon simultaneously felt almost close to Shudder and irritated by the response. "You think there's any difference between now and then?" he demanded, turning without moving from his spot on the floor. His gaze snapped to Ravel. "You think he's changed? He hasn't changed. He's always been manipulative. He's always lured people in all around him and used them, and changed them, and then left them in the dust while he sails merrily on. You think it's a surprise he turned out to be Vile? It's not."

How could they just forget about these things so easily? How could they just let it go, knowing what he'd done, what he was still doing, that he really hadn't changed at all? Solomon hadn't been surprised. He'd accepted it because he had to, because it fit, and because Solomon never expected anything from others. Not since ... not for a long time.

Except now. Now he found himself having expectations. Of himself, of others. He found himself having them, and Skulduggery had proven, yet again, that he had not changed. He still gathered people to him, people he threw aside whenever he was done with them, because he was the one who always had to be right, who always had to make the decisions, who always had to know best.

[skeletonenigma]

That's what Ghastly thought. For everyone there, it all came down to Vile. Never mind what Skulduggery did or who he was before then - although for Solomon, that did seem to be adding fuel to the fire - or what the detective had done since then. If Skulduggery made one wrong move, this was how he would be judged for it.

Not that it wasn't justified, because it was. And Skulduggery knew that. That was probably part of the reason he kept things so close to his chest, and took stupid risks without telling anyone. One mistake, and everything he'd worked towards would go up in smoke. It made emotional sense, if not quite logical sense.

The thing was, they were all acting like children. Yes, it was fine to be angry. But they were rapidly reaching a point where Ghastly felt like he was trying to mediate a disagreement on a children's playground. A 'he did this, she started it, he hurt my feelings' sort of deal. And that was irritating Ghastly, because it was belittling everything about Vile that they should be angry over.

He turned to Wreath first, speaking with the sort of quiet calm that came naturally to him when everyone else around him was panicking. "Vile may have been inevitable. He may not have been. We'll never know, and it's pointless to try and argue. So stop it. And please, don't try to imply that I should not have been surprised that my best friend killed my mother." The tone of his voice managed not to waver, but something inside Ghastly clenched. He ignored it, took a moment, and carried on. "Unless you're trying to say Skulduggery, as he is now, would be capable of the same without a second thought, in which case you and I need to have a very different conversation."

He disagreed with other aspects, too. Skulduggery had changed. Maybe not in the way Wreath wanted him to, or anybody else wanted him to, but he had. And Ghastly was the only one with the right to say that, since he'd known Skulduggery from before they were both twenty years old, and he'd never abandoned the man.

"Skulduggery can be cold, yes," he agreed. He'd turned his attention mainly on to Erskine by that point, but he was still speaking to everybody. "He's calculating, and he's objective, and willing to do things most good people wouldn't dream of. But it was those exact qualities that made him so invaluable during the war, and it was what enabled him to save our lives more than once, Erskine. Do you remember that time in France, when we were forced to leave you and Rover behind? Meritorious wouldn't sanction any sort of rescue mission, so Skulduggery rallied the rest of us and we improvised?"

A smile twitched at the corners of Erskine's mouth. "Yes, I remember. We gave ourselves up for dead. Skulduggery risked a lot."

"Too much." Ghastly shared the smile. "Didn't stop him. And he turned out to be right. That was the only reason we got to Paris on time, and saved as many people as we did. Remember that, Dexter? You wouldn't stop bragging about your shields for weeks. Anton, since I seem to have become the resident therapist, anything you'd like to talk about?"

[peacefullywreathed]

Solomon was on the verge of saying just that, exactly that, but something uncharacteristically unyielding in Ghastly's soul enabled him to keep his mouth shut. For the moment. "Skulduggery said it was inevitable."

He'd admitted it. If it was an admission. Solomon remembered that much of their hazy conversation. He also knew how much he sounded like he was parroting an elder, and hated it. He hated that some part of him still clung to Skulduggery's words and actions for vindication. That he could be chided and actually feel defensive.

That he could stand there, in a room of men, and feel so utterly alone.

"They were good shields!" Vex protested. "They were my best shields!"

"Nothing in particular, no," Shudder said evenly. "At least, nothing that's worth talking about at this point in time."

Shudder was still angry, but it was a cold anger, turned oddly inward. Even now, his regard for the others kept his soul lighter than Solomon would have expected. Ravel's storm had eased, and strains of something light, like a soothing breeze, resonated between him and Ghastly. Dexter's banner rippled, more slowly and constantly, with the sharp little tics of a ragged wind.

"Oh, good. Let's go back to talking about your fashion sense, then."

They came together, their individual storms easing, while Solomon's chest was tight with emotions he didn't know how to express, let alone understand. They were brothers. They were comrades. They helped each other in ways they didn't need to express.

It had been a long time since Solomon felt alone. And he had never felt so alone as now. He didn't even know how to find someone to help him up. Even if he did know someone, he had no way of getting there without help from one of these men, and that thought was nearly unconscionable. Because they had each other. They didn't care about him. They had no reason to.

He'd given them no reason to.

"Live, Kian. Live now you have something worth living."

But what, he wondered numbly, did he have that was worth living for?

It was a question he'd never stopped to wonder. All his life, the point had simply been to live. He'd never stopped to wonder why. Now he could, and he didn't have an answer. What good was being elected Elder? What good was breaking with the Temple, freeing himself of a magic that had been killing him, when he had nothing left afterward?

Without much surprise through the haze of numbness Solomon found himself walking toward the door. Or at least, as near to the door as he could divine. His foot struck a chair; he stepped away and kept moving, stumbling a little without a cane, but not trying to feel for the furniture. All his anger was gone; it felt as if it had all drained out of him, and left a hole in its wake.

There was one problem. Ghastly was in the way. Solomon stopped before he could run into the man and said, "Move."

His voice came out defeated.

[skeletonenigma]

And that was somehow worse than the biting anger Ghastly heard in Wreath's words even from outside the Hotel. That was the tone of someone who cared, however much they didn't want to, however much they hated the fact that they did.

This was the tone of a man who'd already given up. The tone of a man who'd been drained of all fight, who didn't see a point anymore. Asking for something phrased in a way that only had effect when it was demanded. Almost the same tone the ex-Necromancer used when he claimed that Skulduggery himself said Vile was inevitable.

Wreath might have already given up, which was dangerous enough for someone trying to escape Necromancy's clutches, and he was looking for a way out. Defeated, and trying to leave the room. The last time Ghastly let that happen without a fight, the person who left the room went on to go slaughter millions.

Ghastly hadn't moved from his spot, nor did he intend to. He did, however, unfold his arms and straighten up. "You shouldn't be going anywhere alone, Solomon. You're a target. Let someone go with you, at least."

Dex had been Wreath's bodyguard all morning, but Ghastly would volunteer this time. He was not going to make the same mistake twice.

[peacefullywreathed]

Let someone go with him? Solomon didn't even know where he was going at all! He didn't know anything, apparently. Not nearly enough to even begin to understand his own mind or why the camaraderie of these men should make him feel such despair. Except that Skulduggery had them. He'd slaughtered millions, and he still had them.

How could Solomon top that? How could he even hope to approach it? Maybe God had given him some measure of grace, but God wasn't the people with whom Solomon would have to live and work. He'd never expected anything from anyone. Now, it hurt. It hurt because there were things in this room that he wanted, which he had no right to, which he had no idea how to get. Or if he even could. Or should.

Ghastly's soul wasn't soft, but it was warm. Solomon didn't know what it meant. He didn't have the capacity to translate what it meant right now. It didn't matter. Even when he was a child, Ghastly had only ever looked at him with the amusement of a man watching a boy.

"Move," he repeated, and his voice cracked. He needed out. He didn't even know where he'd go, but he needed out, as if he could run from everything that was currently flooring him. As if he could run from his whole life. The life he'd always clung to, which was now so suffocatingly hollow.

He was done. Skulduggery called him strong? He wasn't strong. He was done.

[skeletonenigma]

Ghastly almost did move, because of that telltale crack in Wreath's voice. It wasn't as if Wreath had anywhere else to go; he couldn't drive. He just wanted some distance. That was perfectly understandable. God knew Ghastly needed some distance when he first found out - quite literally.

But it was when Ghastly realised he was only making excuses to himself that he snapped out of it, and shook his head. If he had to justify it to himself, then he wasn't doing it. "Not on your own. Corrival would shoot us if we were indirectly responsible for an Elder getting attacked again. What's eating you?"

For the moment, Wreath didn't seem like an Elder. For the moment, he seemed a lot like the teenage boy Ghastly first met after watching Skulduggery crash his mother's sailboat into the docks. Not just defeated; not just numb, or betrayed. Lost. Confused. Wanting guidance, with no idea how to ask for it.

[peacefullywreathed]

"What's eating me?" Solomon's voice rose with incredulity and something sharp. Desperation, rather than anger. "We stand here discussing how your best friend was evil enough to murder millions of people and you ask what's eating me?"

It was the stupidest question Solomon had ever heard, and proof positive that Ghastly's only concern was the political ramifications of losing an Elder so soon after election. Why wouldn't he be? It was a legitimate concern. One more thing from which Solomon wanted to escape, because it only compacted everything he didn't have.

The ex-Necromancer trembled with adrenaline, his mouth a tight line. If he didn't get out of here soon he knew he'd do something he'd regret. "Get out of my way."

[skeletonenigma]

Ghastly's gut clenched again with the words, but since he didn't think that would ever stop being his initial reaction, he ignored it. What Solomon said was the truth, and that was that. No one ever got anywhere in life by denying the truth.

"That is what I asked, yes." Ghastly still didn't move. "You weren't having nearly this much trouble before."

Or maybe he was, but to a degree whereby even Solomon himself didn't realise it. Maybe he'd convinced himself he should be alright with it because he used to be a Necromancer himself, planning murders on the same sort of scale. Maybe he told himself he didn't have a right to be upset, when he was the one who broke off their friendship years before. Maybe he'd simply forgotten how to handle feeling betrayed.

Maybe he needed the guidance again, and had no idea how to ask for it.

Ghastly was really starting to feel like the resident therapist here. He was even thinking like one. With a deep sigh, he turned to Anton. "Would you mind if we went for a walk? We'll be back in a few minutes."

[peacefullywreathed]

That means I'm not allowed to now? The words never came out. Solomon didn't know how to express them. It almost wasn't even about Skulduggery, per se, even though he was a catalyst. Of course, that's how it always was, wasn't it? Skulduggery forced changes around him. Solomon didn't even know if it was intentional, or subconscious, or what, but he did.

"It's a free country," Shudder said evenly, and the moment Ghastly was out of the door Solomon walked through it, hands out and knuckles striking the doorframe. He didn't care, as long as he knew where it was.

He had even less idea what the room beyond looked like, except that he was sure it was the lobby, and lobbies always had an exit. He put a hand on the wall and walked along it, moving fast, his face set in that shattered way just barely holding together. When he reached the desk, he fumbled for its edges, moved around it, and kept going, a tense, half-stumbling man staring blankly head.

Eventually he'd find the door. He didn't need the help. He couldn't expect the help. He had nothing to offer men like this, nothing they'd need or want that would give him what he hadn't even known he was craving.

[skeletonenigma]

"Solomon."

The half-stumbling gait around the wall of the lobby was making Ghastly smile. Not with any kind of malice or animosity, or even any real amusement. Just a gentle sort of pity. Nothing of the expression came through in Ghastly's voice, although he couldn't be sure Solomon wouldn't see it anyway. See it, and possibly react badly. "You're allowed to be angry with him."

No, that wasn't quite right. The phrasing was off. Solomon wasn't a child anymore. "You have just as much right to be angry with him as the rest of us do. You're not him, and you're entitled to the same things he is. You're entitled to help. You just have to ask for it." Or, at the very least, accept it when it was offered. The smile returned, along with a hint of amusement threaded through the tone. "Would you like some help getting to the door?"