The way Ghastly abruptly stopped, the way his eyes widened with realisation, put paid to anything Corrival had been about to say in immediate response. The tailor paled a little, Corrival was sure. In spite of the words and the fact they were talking about an angel, there was something about Ghastly's tone, about its controlled nature, which sent a shiver down Corrival's spine.
He looked back down at Crux. He'd seen post-mortem heart-attacks before. The signs didn't match. There was no flushing of the skin, no swelling around the jugular, no cyanosis. There was no pain on Crux's face; his eyes were closed, fortunately, but though not pained, his expression wasn't peaceful, either. An autopsy would tell for sure, but even still, Corrival was all but certain this had been no heart-attack. Yet Crux was entirely uninjured.
Which meant Ghastly's implication was the most likely cause.
Which meant that this angel, this demi-god, this being, had killed a man without leaving a trace.
It wasn't a unique skill. Necromancers of great enough power could do it. That still didn't keep Corrival from erupting in goose-bumps at the thought. No one knew if the Faceless Ones were capable of such a thing. If they were, they chose to kill in other ways. Not that that was any less terrible, but there was something viscerally terrifying at the idea that someone could kill you with a thought and leave no evidence at all. At least Necromancers could theoretically be killed--even ones as powerful as ... as Lord Vile. In contrast there was only one known thing to kill a Faceless One.
What would kill a being suitable to call an angel?
"I see," Corrival said equally evenly. "Well, if need be we can ask Kenspeckle Grouse for a hand. In the meantime, Bespoke, get his feet. If we fold him up he'll just fit in the boot."
Corrival had parked the car backwards precisely for this reason, to put the boot in easy access. Not that either Corrival or Ghastly made a habit of grave-robbing, but it said something about how well the two of them knew each other, and in what circumstances, that they could fit a body into a car-boot half its size--particularly one wrapped in a sheet--with as much ease as they did.
no subject
He looked back down at Crux. He'd seen post-mortem heart-attacks before. The signs didn't match. There was no flushing of the skin, no swelling around the jugular, no cyanosis. There was no pain on Crux's face; his eyes were closed, fortunately, but though not pained, his expression wasn't peaceful, either. An autopsy would tell for sure, but even still, Corrival was all but certain this had been no heart-attack. Yet Crux was entirely uninjured.
Which meant Ghastly's implication was the most likely cause.
Which meant that this angel, this demi-god, this being, had killed a man without leaving a trace.
It wasn't a unique skill. Necromancers of great enough power could do it. That still didn't keep Corrival from erupting in goose-bumps at the thought. No one knew if the Faceless Ones were capable of such a thing. If they were, they chose to kill in other ways. Not that that was any less terrible, but there was something viscerally terrifying at the idea that someone could kill you with a thought and leave no evidence at all. At least Necromancers could theoretically be killed--even ones as powerful as ... as Lord Vile. In contrast there was only one known thing to kill a Faceless One.
What would kill a being suitable to call an angel?
"I see," Corrival said equally evenly. "Well, if need be we can ask Kenspeckle Grouse for a hand. In the meantime, Bespoke, get his feet. If we fold him up he'll just fit in the boot."
Corrival had parked the car backwards precisely for this reason, to put the boot in easy access. Not that either Corrival or Ghastly made a habit of grave-robbing, but it said something about how well the two of them knew each other, and in what circumstances, that they could fit a body into a car-boot half its size--particularly one wrapped in a sheet--with as much ease as they did.