Corrival gave Ghastly a stern look which was utterly belied by the gleam in his eyes. "You have your orders, Bespoke. You can deal with them or have the phonebook thrown at you." His expression broke slightly with a snort of laughter as he turned away, but he covered it with a cough and called over his shoulder, "Don't test me, sonny-boy. I can still bend you over my knee and give you a hiding."
He vanished through the door, padding quietly down the halls. Every scrap of clothing he owned was made by Ghastly, and not all of it was for wealth and leisure. Some things, some things in the back of the closet, were throwbacks to the days of the war. Quickly Corrival changed into black slacks, blue shirt and a thick jacket, and brown leather boots which he'd owned for well over a century. They were remarkably unstained, for how often he'd walked through blood.
It was the boots that did it, that broke Corrival's calm. He managed not to sit, but he leaned back against the bureau, taking a few deep breaths and staring at those boots. He'd worn those boots all through the war. He'd worn those boots the one single day the Dead Men had allowed him to go out onto a still-active battlefield.
The day Ghastly's mother had died.
"He tried to take on Vile alone," Erskine said quietly as they trudged across the field. There was still fighting over in the east, still close enough for Corrival to hear the shouts and the screams and the roar of magic. He didn't look. Instead he pulled his coat tighter around him against the chill that had nothing to do with the air and looked ahead to where the figures of the other Dead Men waited. Blood and body-parts squished under Corrival's boots as they walked. Some of them because of Lord Vile. Some of them because of those he'd reanimated.
"We haven't been able to get him to talk. Or move." Erskine's voice was dull. Frighteningly so, but not unexpected. Not anymore. It had been happening a lot since Skulduggery had been presumably killed in action.
Ghastly Bespoke sat cradling the body of his mother, staring wordlessly into the distance with tears making tracks down his scarred, grimy face. The Dead Men were strung out around him, not exactly huddled but close in and yet turned outward. Other members of Meritorious's army were nearby, cleaning up, marking the dead. They kept throwing glances over, but no one dared approach. Not with the Dead Men making grim faces like that.
Each of them, Corrival noticed, were white-faced and exhausted. Anton was trembling with fatigue. How many had his Gist killed? No wonder he'd called himself Shudder. Dexter kept wiping a sleeve across his face. It was hard to tell if he was wiping sweat, grime or tears.
None of them looked at him as he passed between the equally silent Larrikin and Shudder, and Erksine took up position behind him to seal the break in the circle. For a moment Corrival stood beside Ghastly, staring down at him. His heart was breaking, but he couldn't let himself feel it. Not yet.
Not with Ghastly's shattered on the ground.
"On your feet, Bespoke," he said abruptly. Ghastly's head moved slightly, but he said nothing. That was okay. Corrival didn't wait for a response. "The war's not over yet. You've made promises, and you're still under my command. You don't get to get out of keeping them just yet. And you damned well don't get to toss yourself to the dogs until I tell you to. So on your feet, Bespoke."
His voice became gentler. "On your feet, Ghastly, and don't stop moving 'til it's over. Until we make the son of a bitch pay."
Quite suddenly, Corrival found himself on the floor, the handles of the drawers pressed into his back and his trembling hands pressed to his face as he took deep, shaky breaths.
Skulduggery Pleasant. Lord Vile. Murderer--of millions.
Dead Man. Friend.
Family.
It took a long time before Corrival returned downstairs, and when he did he was tight-lipped, red-eyed, and wearing his boots. "Let's go," he said abruptly without fanfare, taking his keys from the counter and moving toward the garage door without even glancing in Ghastly's direction. In spite of his appearance, his stride was even, confident. Driven. "We've got some work to do, Bespoke. On your feet."
On your feet, and don't stop moving 'til it's over.
no subject
He vanished through the door, padding quietly down the halls. Every scrap of clothing he owned was made by Ghastly, and not all of it was for wealth and leisure. Some things, some things in the back of the closet, were throwbacks to the days of the war. Quickly Corrival changed into black slacks, blue shirt and a thick jacket, and brown leather boots which he'd owned for well over a century. They were remarkably unstained, for how often he'd walked through blood.
It was the boots that did it, that broke Corrival's calm. He managed not to sit, but he leaned back against the bureau, taking a few deep breaths and staring at those boots. He'd worn those boots all through the war. He'd worn those boots the one single day the Dead Men had allowed him to go out onto a still-active battlefield.
The day Ghastly's mother had died.
"He tried to take on Vile alone," Erskine said quietly as they trudged across the field. There was still fighting over in the east, still close enough for Corrival to hear the shouts and the screams and the roar of magic. He didn't look. Instead he pulled his coat tighter around him against the chill that had nothing to do with the air and looked ahead to where the figures of the other Dead Men waited. Blood and body-parts squished under Corrival's boots as they walked. Some of them because of Lord Vile. Some of them because of those he'd reanimated.
"We haven't been able to get him to talk. Or move." Erskine's voice was dull. Frighteningly so, but not unexpected. Not anymore. It had been happening a lot since Skulduggery had been presumably killed in action.
Ghastly Bespoke sat cradling the body of his mother, staring wordlessly into the distance with tears making tracks down his scarred, grimy face. The Dead Men were strung out around him, not exactly huddled but close in and yet turned outward. Other members of Meritorious's army were nearby, cleaning up, marking the dead. They kept throwing glances over, but no one dared approach. Not with the Dead Men making grim faces like that.
Each of them, Corrival noticed, were white-faced and exhausted. Anton was trembling with fatigue. How many had his Gist killed? No wonder he'd called himself Shudder. Dexter kept wiping a sleeve across his face. It was hard to tell if he was wiping sweat, grime or tears.
None of them looked at him as he passed between the equally silent Larrikin and Shudder, and Erksine took up position behind him to seal the break in the circle. For a moment Corrival stood beside Ghastly, staring down at him. His heart was breaking, but he couldn't let himself feel it. Not yet.
Not with Ghastly's shattered on the ground.
"On your feet, Bespoke," he said abruptly. Ghastly's head moved slightly, but he said nothing. That was okay. Corrival didn't wait for a response. "The war's not over yet. You've made promises, and you're still under my command. You don't get to get out of keeping them just yet. And you damned well don't get to toss yourself to the dogs until I tell you to. So on your feet, Bespoke."
His voice became gentler. "On your feet, Ghastly, and don't stop moving 'til it's over. Until we make the son of a bitch pay."
Quite suddenly, Corrival found himself on the floor, the handles of the drawers pressed into his back and his trembling hands pressed to his face as he took deep, shaky breaths.
Skulduggery Pleasant. Lord Vile. Murderer--of millions.
Dead Man. Friend.
Family.
It took a long time before Corrival returned downstairs, and when he did he was tight-lipped, red-eyed, and wearing his boots. "Let's go," he said abruptly without fanfare, taking his keys from the counter and moving toward the garage door without even glancing in Ghastly's direction. In spite of his appearance, his stride was even, confident. Driven. "We've got some work to do, Bespoke. On your feet."
On your feet, and don't stop moving 'til it's over.