"We need a doctor's discharge for that, though," Tanith said. "Don't we? What doctor in their right mind would agree to let Solomon go right now? He may be cognizant, but he can barely sit up on his own."
"Actually..." Valkyrie mused with a finger on her lips. "We can technically leave against medical advice. Kenspeckle told me that once. There's just a form you have to sign." She looked at Gabe. "A waiver."
"Do we really have the time to argue with doctors?" Tanith asked. "Scarab still has a Desolation Engine, and he's still planning to set it off, and we still have no idea when. Or where."
That was a mystery Skulduggery had been mulling over silently for the last day, ever since discovering Scarab's plan had been for two Engines all along. One of them, pretty obviously, had been meant to go off in the Sanctuary. That was Scarab's ultimate goal; destruction of the authoritative body who had him put away without a trial. And no matter how elegant his overall plan was, Skulduggery knew that need for revenge. Not just a desire, not just a passing fancy, but a real and pressing need. Part of that plan would not be elegant - it would just be a bomb set off in the depths of the Waxworks Museum. Nothing more, nothing less. Destroy as much of it as possible.
But now Scarab only had one left, and 200 years of stewing in that need for revenge would have given him ample time to think. He'd be putting that overall plan above such petty needs. Whatever he'd been planning to do with that second Engine, that was the only option left to him. And it would still, somehow, destroy the Sanctuary.
They needed to figure out the 'where.' Then they would have the 'when.' And Tanith was right - whatever the answer was, they were running out of time, which would have been bad enough if they knew exactly how much time they had to begin with.
But Gabe brought up a good point, too. Whatever they did with the cameras, it would endanger the other patients in this ward. Which meant they'd have to go about this the old-fashioned way.
"Tanith. Would you go ask for a doctor, please?"
Tanith stared. "You mean we actually are going to try and argue?"
"I'm very good at arguing. Five minutes, that's all I need. Gabe, while I admire your ability to melt all resistance with a smile, it's probably best for everyone here if you, for once, just let me handle this."
There was a choking noise which Skulduggery didn't have to look to know was Paddy Steadfast. It still amazed him that the living skeleton elicited more of a reaction than the Archangel - but then again, the man was a priest.
As for arguing... Skulduggery and Solomon used to be very, very good at double-talking unwitting victims into confusion. Granted, that was centuries ago, but there was no reason to believe that couldn't still be the case. Even with Solomon hopped up on drugs like he was. In fact, they could even use that to their advantage.
~~
It hurt.
Everything hurt. Ghastly was no stranger to hangovers, but God damn it, this one was a killer. He didn't even have to open his eyes to know that opening his eyes would be one of the worst ideas he ever had.
The world somehow managed to spin, even through the darkness of his eyelids.
Without even the strength to groan, Ghastly simply lay still and tried, through the haze of the hangover, to work out where he was. Why he'd been drinking. If he was in an especially embarrassing position, and if he was, who else was there.
He was lying on something soft, which was always good. Always preferable. But it wasn't anything soft he recognised, so he wasn't in his shop or on his own bed, which meant...
Corrival, Ghastly remembered with a head-sickening jolt. Corrival Deuce. He'd gone to Corrival yesterday for help. Why? Desolation Engine. No, no... it had something to do with Skulduggery.
Skulduggery was in trouble? Lord Vile. Necromancy. Desolation Engine. Archangel. Why had there been drinking? If Lord Vile was back and planning on setting off a Desolation Engine and Skulduggery was somehow mixed up in all of this, then why wasn't Ghastly there? Why was he here, collapsed and useless, and - most importantly - nursing the mother of all hangovers?
"I figure that line depends on the person. We all got lines in the sand. Maybe sometimes they ain't where they should be. But it's something a man's gotta find out on his own, where his lines oughta be. Sometimes that means they gotta be adjusted. Takes a big man to admit his lines might be in the wrong place."
Whatever the reason was, it was big. Shattering. Something Ghastly knew, without a doubt, he didn't want to remember. But thoughts were a funny thing; they tended to gallivant off and end up wherever they wanted, regardless of whether you actually wanted them there or not.
"Course, it also takes a big man to see that kind of mess and go ahead to try'n untangle it. Can take a long time, that. Lotta effort. Hard to know if you're gonna see the end, or if your friend's line's just too knotty. And then again ... Then again, sometimes those knots never go away. Don't mean the line's not good and strong anymore. Just means it needs a bit more care in the handlin', instead of relyin' on a rod to do the work."
Tangled fishing line. Skulduggery was tangled fishing line. Why was Skulduggery tangled fishing line?
"He still doin' it behind your back? He still hurtin' people just for the Hell of it? When it came out, he lie to you or make excuses? Try to avoid responsibility? Try to pretend it was all okay?"
No. He didn't.
Skulduggery. Lord Vile. That's right. They were one and the same.
There was a groan now, although whether it came from Ghastly or somewhere far off on the other side of the room, he couldn't tell. His throat suddenly hurt, so maybe it was him. It hurt with a kind of scratched-up tension, like he was dehydrated, or like... like he'd been crying.
"Ain't gonna pretend it's easy. Never is, to know someone's gone wrong and you couldn't stop it. But the question I'd be askin' ain't why you didn't mean enough to him for him to trust you with what he did. What I'd be askin' is whether he means enough to you to go help keep savin' him."
Another groan. This one did sound like it came from across on the other side of the room, but if it did, Ghastly ignored it. His arms were wrapped around his head already, but he curled in tighter around the headache. Yes, he cared. He still cared, and he would always care, God damn it. But his head was pounding and he felt suddenly, violently sick. He was in no shape to run off half-cocked and try to help anyone when he could barely wake up, let alone stand.
"Then again, everyone's gonna be at the Stadium pretty soon; going there'd be like gettin' blasted... How 'bout that carnival there. Ain't even far. We could walk it, or take the bus. Carnivals. Ain't been to one of them in a while. One of my boys always used to go with me."
Ghastly's head pounded.
Going there'd be like gettin' blasted.
Getting blasted.
Ghastly shot upright. The pain in his head lampooned angrily forward, the nausea in his stomach broiled threateningly upwards, but suddenly none of that mattered. There was, fortunately, not much light in the room. One of them had the presence of mind to shut the curtains over the windows last night. If there had been blinding light, Ghastly might well have keeled over and not gotten up again.
"Look like you can use the downtime, boyo. Well, we'll take care of that. Stadium might be a bit too excitin' for you."
Damn it. Damn it. The entire time Ghastly was either drunk or reeling over the presence of God Himself yesterday, God had subtly been dropping hints. Hints He knew Ghastly wouldn't even begin to understand at the time. Hints He knew Ghastly would only realise now.
Because there wasn't a game at the stadium yesterday. But there was one today.
And killing 80,000 people live on air with a bomb that could only be described as 'magical'... if there was ever a surer way of destroying the Sanctuary completely, Ghastly had yet to see it.
He lurched awkwardly off the couch, the urgency of the situation sitting firmly and clearly in his mind. The urgency, but... not quite what to practically do about it. Did he have his phone? No, apparently not. Maybe he'd dropped it somewhere; maybe Ghastly left it behind on purpose. Either way, it was no use right now.
He had to find Skulduggery. Find Skulduggery and warn him. How was he going to do that, without a mobile?
no subject
"Actually..." Valkyrie mused with a finger on her lips. "We can technically leave against medical advice. Kenspeckle told me that once. There's just a form you have to sign." She looked at Gabe. "A waiver."
"Do we really have the time to argue with doctors?" Tanith asked. "Scarab still has a Desolation Engine, and he's still planning to set it off, and we still have no idea when. Or where."
That was a mystery Skulduggery had been mulling over silently for the last day, ever since discovering Scarab's plan had been for two Engines all along. One of them, pretty obviously, had been meant to go off in the Sanctuary. That was Scarab's ultimate goal; destruction of the authoritative body who had him put away without a trial. And no matter how elegant his overall plan was, Skulduggery knew that need for revenge. Not just a desire, not just a passing fancy, but a real and pressing need. Part of that plan would not be elegant - it would just be a bomb set off in the depths of the Waxworks Museum. Nothing more, nothing less. Destroy as much of it as possible.
But now Scarab only had one left, and 200 years of stewing in that need for revenge would have given him ample time to think. He'd be putting that overall plan above such petty needs. Whatever he'd been planning to do with that second Engine, that was the only option left to him. And it would still, somehow, destroy the Sanctuary.
They needed to figure out the 'where.' Then they would have the 'when.' And Tanith was right - whatever the answer was, they were running out of time, which would have been bad enough if they knew exactly how much time they had to begin with.
But Gabe brought up a good point, too. Whatever they did with the cameras, it would endanger the other patients in this ward. Which meant they'd have to go about this the old-fashioned way.
"Tanith. Would you go ask for a doctor, please?"
Tanith stared. "You mean we actually are going to try and argue?"
"I'm very good at arguing. Five minutes, that's all I need. Gabe, while I admire your ability to melt all resistance with a smile, it's probably best for everyone here if you, for once, just let me handle this."
There was a choking noise which Skulduggery didn't have to look to know was Paddy Steadfast. It still amazed him that the living skeleton elicited more of a reaction than the Archangel - but then again, the man was a priest.
As for arguing... Skulduggery and Solomon used to be very, very good at double-talking unwitting victims into confusion. Granted, that was centuries ago, but there was no reason to believe that couldn't still be the case. Even with Solomon hopped up on drugs like he was. In fact, they could even use that to their advantage.
~~
It hurt.
Everything hurt. Ghastly was no stranger to hangovers, but God damn it, this one was a killer. He didn't even have to open his eyes to know that opening his eyes would be one of the worst ideas he ever had.
The world somehow managed to spin, even through the darkness of his eyelids.
Without even the strength to groan, Ghastly simply lay still and tried, through the haze of the hangover, to work out where he was. Why he'd been drinking. If he was in an especially embarrassing position, and if he was, who else was there.
He was lying on something soft, which was always good. Always preferable. But it wasn't anything soft he recognised, so he wasn't in his shop or on his own bed, which meant...
Corrival, Ghastly remembered with a head-sickening jolt. Corrival Deuce. He'd gone to Corrival yesterday for help. Why? Desolation Engine. No, no... it had something to do with Skulduggery.
Skulduggery was in trouble? Lord Vile. Necromancy. Desolation Engine. Archangel. Why had there been drinking? If Lord Vile was back and planning on setting off a Desolation Engine and Skulduggery was somehow mixed up in all of this, then why wasn't Ghastly there? Why was he here, collapsed and useless, and - most importantly - nursing the mother of all hangovers?
"I figure that line depends on the person. We all got lines in the sand. Maybe sometimes they ain't where they should be. But it's something a man's gotta find out on his own, where his lines oughta be. Sometimes that means they gotta be adjusted. Takes a big man to admit his lines might be in the wrong place."
Whatever the reason was, it was big. Shattering. Something Ghastly knew, without a doubt, he didn't want to remember. But thoughts were a funny thing; they tended to gallivant off and end up wherever they wanted, regardless of whether you actually wanted them there or not.
"Course, it also takes a big man to see that kind of mess and go ahead to try'n untangle it. Can take a long time, that. Lotta effort. Hard to know if you're gonna see the end, or if your friend's line's just too knotty. And then again ... Then again, sometimes those knots never go away. Don't mean the line's not good and strong anymore. Just means it needs a bit more care in the handlin', instead of relyin' on a rod to do the work."
Tangled fishing line. Skulduggery was tangled fishing line. Why was Skulduggery tangled fishing line?
"He still doin' it behind your back? He still hurtin' people just for the Hell of it? When it came out, he lie to you or make excuses? Try to avoid responsibility? Try to pretend it was all okay?"
No. He didn't.
Skulduggery. Lord Vile. That's right. They were one and the same.
There was a groan now, although whether it came from Ghastly or somewhere far off on the other side of the room, he couldn't tell. His throat suddenly hurt, so maybe it was him. It hurt with a kind of scratched-up tension, like he was dehydrated, or like... like he'd been crying.
"Ain't gonna pretend it's easy. Never is, to know someone's gone wrong and you couldn't stop it. But the question I'd be askin' ain't why you didn't mean enough to him for him to trust you with what he did. What I'd be askin' is whether he means enough to you to go help keep savin' him."
Another groan. This one did sound like it came from across on the other side of the room, but if it did, Ghastly ignored it. His arms were wrapped around his head already, but he curled in tighter around the headache. Yes, he cared. He still cared, and he would always care, God damn it. But his head was pounding and he felt suddenly, violently sick. He was in no shape to run off half-cocked and try to help anyone when he could barely wake up, let alone stand.
"Then again, everyone's gonna be at the Stadium pretty soon; going there'd be like gettin' blasted... How 'bout that carnival there. Ain't even far. We could walk it, or take the bus. Carnivals. Ain't been to one of them in a while. One of my boys always used to go with me."
Ghastly's head pounded.
Going there'd be like gettin' blasted.
Getting blasted.
Ghastly shot upright. The pain in his head lampooned angrily forward, the nausea in his stomach broiled threateningly upwards, but suddenly none of that mattered. There was, fortunately, not much light in the room. One of them had the presence of mind to shut the curtains over the windows last night. If there had been blinding light, Ghastly might well have keeled over and not gotten up again.
"Look like you can use the downtime, boyo. Well, we'll take care of that. Stadium might be a bit too excitin' for you."
Damn it. Damn it. The entire time Ghastly was either drunk or reeling over the presence of God Himself yesterday, God had subtly been dropping hints. Hints He knew Ghastly wouldn't even begin to understand at the time. Hints He knew Ghastly would only realise now.
Because there wasn't a game at the stadium yesterday. But there was one today.
And killing 80,000 people live on air with a bomb that could only be described as 'magical'... if there was ever a surer way of destroying the Sanctuary completely, Ghastly had yet to see it.
He lurched awkwardly off the couch, the urgency of the situation sitting firmly and clearly in his mind. The urgency, but... not quite what to practically do about it. Did he have his phone? No, apparently not. Maybe he'd dropped it somewhere; maybe Ghastly left it behind on purpose. Either way, it was no use right now.
He had to find Skulduggery. Find Skulduggery and warn him. How was he going to do that, without a mobile?