The lockpicks were easy enough to find, and the instant Fletcher snatched the case up, Skulduggery's living room transformed into the dark brick walls of the Dublin alley. Teleportation was as simple for Fletcher as taking a breath nowadays.
"... 'fashion' has always amazed me, but those wigs. Give me a cowboy hat any day."
"I never wore one, no," Skulduggery replied slowly. "Not seriously. There was a bet once, when I needed to get somewhere attracting the least amount of attention. Jacket, cane, wig, mask, the whole sixteenth century shebang. Larriken didn't stop laughing for days."
Fletcher couldn't stop staring. It was moments like this when he was forcibly reminded that most of the people he now saw on a regular basis were centuries old. That wars he'd only ever read about in books or learned in school, Skulduggery and Ghastly might have fought in. Revolutions and historical events they may have been a part of. And that wasn't even touching how old Gabe probably was.
Fletcher suddenly felt very, very small. "Got it," he interrupted them, to take his mind off the subject. "This is it, right?"
"Yep. Perfect. Thank you." Skulduggery took the case and got to work on the door, squatting down by the doorknob and whistling as he went.
~~
That was one of the problems with sorcerers. They remembered and experienced much more of the past than mortals did. They held grudges for centuries. Couldn't just forgive and forget, move on, watch the mortals develop fascinating technology. Ghastly had been the first among his circle of friends to own a television, and he'd been scoffed at for it, until the decades turned and suddenly everyone wanted one.
Ghastly's own feelings aside, Skulduggery was exactly the kind of person to be respected, more so than he already was. Because he'd dragged himself out of that pit. The pit that the promise of power had lured so many people into. It was one of the reasons Ghastly had respected Gordon Edgley so well. Like he'd told Valkyrie, the man had known magic existed in the world, and he wasn't seduced by it. In retrospect, no wonder he and Skulduggery had gotten along so well.
Damn it! It figured that with Skulduggery, Ghastly could discover his friend had once been Lord Vile, and still end up feeling like the guilty one.
He needed help. Dad was all well and good with his eerily accurate advice, but Ghastly needed to see someone who'd been there. The question was, how did he do it without putting the entire magical community at risk?
Someone even Skulduggery trusted implicitly. Of course. The answer seemed to fall on top of Ghastly from the ceiling of the pub like so many weighty bricks. It was stupid that he hadn't thought of it earlier. Just... Ghastly needed to sleep this off first. Somewhere. And he found, without any surprise this time, that he wasn't quite finished being drunk yet. Ghastly took another swig and set the glass down, staring down at a knot in the woodwork of the bar.
That was it, though. Skulduggery knew the extent of the damage. He'd proven that when he didn't even flinch at having his jaw broken, just... just stood there and taken it. The question was what he'd been doing about it. And Ghastly knew the man well enough to see, even through a biased dizzy haze, that Skulduggery had been desperately trying to make up for it on his own ever since.
Damn it.
"He prob'ly needs help," Ghastly murmured. Yep. There was the slur. "Tryin' to find a bomb. He prob'ly needs help, and I'm..."
no subject
"... 'fashion' has always amazed me, but those wigs. Give me a cowboy hat any day."
"I never wore one, no," Skulduggery replied slowly. "Not seriously. There was a bet once, when I needed to get somewhere attracting the least amount of attention. Jacket, cane, wig, mask, the whole sixteenth century shebang. Larriken didn't stop laughing for days."
Fletcher couldn't stop staring. It was moments like this when he was forcibly reminded that most of the people he now saw on a regular basis were centuries old. That wars he'd only ever read about in books or learned in school, Skulduggery and Ghastly might have fought in. Revolutions and historical events they may have been a part of. And that wasn't even touching how old Gabe probably was.
Fletcher suddenly felt very, very small. "Got it," he interrupted them, to take his mind off the subject. "This is it, right?"
"Yep. Perfect. Thank you." Skulduggery took the case and got to work on the door, squatting down by the doorknob and whistling as he went.
~~
That was one of the problems with sorcerers. They remembered and experienced much more of the past than mortals did. They held grudges for centuries. Couldn't just forgive and forget, move on, watch the mortals develop fascinating technology. Ghastly had been the first among his circle of friends to own a television, and he'd been scoffed at for it, until the decades turned and suddenly everyone wanted one.
Ghastly's own feelings aside, Skulduggery was exactly the kind of person to be respected, more so than he already was. Because he'd dragged himself out of that pit. The pit that the promise of power had lured so many people into. It was one of the reasons Ghastly had respected Gordon Edgley so well. Like he'd told Valkyrie, the man had known magic existed in the world, and he wasn't seduced by it. In retrospect, no wonder he and Skulduggery had gotten along so well.
Damn it! It figured that with Skulduggery, Ghastly could discover his friend had once been Lord Vile, and still end up feeling like the guilty one.
He needed help. Dad was all well and good with his eerily accurate advice, but Ghastly needed to see someone who'd been there. The question was, how did he do it without putting the entire magical community at risk?
Someone even Skulduggery trusted implicitly. Of course. The answer seemed to fall on top of Ghastly from the ceiling of the pub like so many weighty bricks. It was stupid that he hadn't thought of it earlier. Just... Ghastly needed to sleep this off first. Somewhere. And he found, without any surprise this time, that he wasn't quite finished being drunk yet. Ghastly took another swig and set the glass down, staring down at a knot in the woodwork of the bar.
That was it, though. Skulduggery knew the extent of the damage. He'd proven that when he didn't even flinch at having his jaw broken, just... just stood there and taken it. The question was what he'd been doing about it. And Ghastly knew the man well enough to see, even through a biased dizzy haze, that Skulduggery had been desperately trying to make up for it on his own ever since.
Damn it.
"He prob'ly needs help," Ghastly murmured. Yep. There was the slur. "Tryin' to find a bomb. He prob'ly needs help, and I'm..."
How in the hell was he feeling guilty over this!?