Raphael ambled along without a care in the world, trailing behind Skulduggery in a manner that didn't specify he was actually following the detective, but more like they just happened to be going in the same direction for the interim.

"Dunno what you're talkin' about, bro," he said careless, and then grinned. "I'm lyin'. I do. But you were also yellin' it, and I had to get you to turn it off somehow, thanks. Not that it'll be that easy." The last was grumbled.

Because Rafe hadn't been wrong, before. Skulduggery was a man filled with hang-ups. They gave him definition, true, but they also lent him distance. He needed control over his anger, but there was a certain kind of attachedness of one's guilt that turned it into not just a driving force but a vice of its own. A lot of people did it. A lot of Christians, especially, what with their perpetual self-flagellation. Religion encouraged that kind of thing.

Skulduggery wasn't quite there yet. But he could be, and that was the point at which his guilt would be a crutch, not an aid.

Besides, it got very annoying very fast to always have people assume a smiting was imminent. Seriously. Where was the fun, people?