Corrival Deuce had been awake for a while now. The night before was hazy, but not hazy enough that he didn't remember what had happened. Corrival Deuce very rarely forgot his benders, no matter how drunk he managed to get. So things were hazy, but memorable, and Corrival Deuce was very, very carefully not moving at all.
He was lying on a couch, in a position very unbecoming of a former general of the war, but given he was now a retiree he didn't much care. Which was why he also had a pile of cushions over his head.
Unfortunately, that didn't do much for the hangover. It was still better than letting thoughts of last night swamp in, and the pain kept them at bay. For the most part. Just because Corrival remembered what happened last night didn't mean they were in the right order, which was why he was sorting through his memories to put them into place.
Let's see. Rang Anton. That came before ringing Erskine. What did we say to Erskine? We talked about Prave. He had some new ideas, some things Ghastly could help us with. And we talked about Dexter. And we talked about ...
No. No, they hadn't talked about that. Corrival and Ghastly had been drunk enough by then that they had slid neatly past it with all the grace of hippos skating on oil-washed ice.
But remembering that was enough of an opening for--
Skulduggery. Lord Vile. Prave. Crux. Corrival groaned and buried his face in his pillows. Body in my freezer. Wonderful.
For some interminable moments he managed to breathe, to let his head ring, and not-quite think about anything in particular. Then he heard the sound of someone getting up very quickly and hitting--he thought it was the coffeetable--and then the sound of many bottles overbalancing and hitting each other like round dominoes to roll all over the floor.
"Bespoke," he mumbled, just barely loud enough to be heard, "I'm going to kill you if you don't shut up right this minute that's an order."
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He was lying on a couch, in a position very unbecoming of a former general of the war, but given he was now a retiree he didn't much care. Which was why he also had a pile of cushions over his head.
Unfortunately, that didn't do much for the hangover. It was still better than letting thoughts of last night swamp in, and the pain kept them at bay. For the most part. Just because Corrival remembered what happened last night didn't mean they were in the right order, which was why he was sorting through his memories to put them into place.
Let's see. Rang Anton. That came before ringing Erskine. What did we say to Erskine? We talked about Prave. He had some new ideas, some things Ghastly could help us with. And we talked about Dexter. And we talked about ...
No. No, they hadn't talked about that. Corrival and Ghastly had been drunk enough by then that they had slid neatly past it with all the grace of hippos skating on oil-washed ice.
But remembering that was enough of an opening for--
Skulduggery. Lord Vile. Prave. Crux. Corrival groaned and buried his face in his pillows. Body in my freezer. Wonderful.
For some interminable moments he managed to breathe, to let his head ring, and not-quite think about anything in particular. Then he heard the sound of someone getting up very quickly and hitting--he thought it was the coffeetable--and then the sound of many bottles overbalancing and hitting each other like round dominoes to roll all over the floor.
"Bespoke," he mumbled, just barely loud enough to be heard, "I'm going to kill you if you don't shut up right this minute that's an order."