"And I don't need to," Corrival said gruffly. "What would be the point? I already know the answers to any question you'd ask God. Getting confirmation either way won't change anything."
"More to the point, Reveller," Wreath said, tilting his head vaguely in Erskine's direction and wearing a tiny smirk. "Exactly what would you consider a viable substitute for a meeting?"
"Knowing him, it would be clothes, food, a woman or gold," Corrival noted blandly. "Since the teddy-bear's supposed to warm him up at night, I think we can scratch a woman. Now Ghastly's kind of on the Sanctuary payroll, I think we can scratch clothes. That leaves food or gold."
"A poison apple, perhaps?" Wreath suggested. "Would you like to play Snow White? Or maybe a teddy-bear's picnic, now you've joined this exclusive club?" He patted his pocket.
This was ... not right. There was a lot of things not right, but this was particularly not right given how typical it was. Banter? Check. Necromancer? Not so check. Moving on in spite of overwhelming shock? Check. Discovering God was real? Not so check.
Dexter sat there in numb silence, listening and unable to contribute. His mind was ticking over like a car whose engine wouldn't start, but was really trying hard, for all that. He'd been absolutely prepared to pass it off as a joke, except ... they hadn't let it go. A lot of people couldn't tell the difference between jokes and jokes. A joke, once made, was dismissed as part of the conversation. Maybe it would become a running gag, like so many of their jokes had, but each individual instance was short-lived.
This wasn't a joke, because it wasn't short-lived. Because it continued to be the topic of conversation, not just between Skulduggery and Erskine, but Corrival and Wreath as well. Because there was a familiarity to the banter, the kind of familiarity a person could only have with experience, and these were Dead Men and they weren't treating this joke like a joke which meant it was real and that meant God was real and--
And that was the point where Dexter's brain would short out and restart, and cycle through the whole thing over again.
Eventually something caught. It was Solomon Wreath, and Dexter turned his silent gaze to the man. The blind man. The blind man who could look directly at teddy-bears and said 'this exclusive club' like he was part of it. The blind man who said he wasn't a Necromancer, even though he was, but whom Skulduggery had called a 'prophet'. Whom Corrival had accepted as an Elder in spite of his magic.
Solomon Wreath was the odd thing out here. Skulduggery, Corrival, Erskine, they were all perfectly legitimate. Solomon Wreath was the weirdo. He was the one who got Dexter's accusing stare.
"What's going on?"
"Why are you asking me?" Wreath asked back, something close to incredulity in his tone.
Dexter's shoulders slumped. "I don't know. You're a weirdo. You're the only thing in this room which doesn't fit. D'you mind getting out? Maybe things will make more sense if you left."
"I doubt it," Wreath said dryly, "and anyway, I think it would undermine my authority if Elders started taking orders from underlings."
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"More to the point, Reveller," Wreath said, tilting his head vaguely in Erskine's direction and wearing a tiny smirk. "Exactly what would you consider a viable substitute for a meeting?"
"Knowing him, it would be clothes, food, a woman or gold," Corrival noted blandly. "Since the teddy-bear's supposed to warm him up at night, I think we can scratch a woman. Now Ghastly's kind of on the Sanctuary payroll, I think we can scratch clothes. That leaves food or gold."
"A poison apple, perhaps?" Wreath suggested. "Would you like to play Snow White? Or maybe a teddy-bear's picnic, now you've joined this exclusive club?" He patted his pocket.
This was ... not right. There was a lot of things not right, but this was particularly not right given how typical it was. Banter? Check. Necromancer? Not so check. Moving on in spite of overwhelming shock? Check. Discovering God was real? Not so check.
Dexter sat there in numb silence, listening and unable to contribute. His mind was ticking over like a car whose engine wouldn't start, but was really trying hard, for all that. He'd been absolutely prepared to pass it off as a joke, except ... they hadn't let it go. A lot of people couldn't tell the difference between jokes and jokes. A joke, once made, was dismissed as part of the conversation. Maybe it would become a running gag, like so many of their jokes had, but each individual instance was short-lived.
This wasn't a joke, because it wasn't short-lived. Because it continued to be the topic of conversation, not just between Skulduggery and Erskine, but Corrival and Wreath as well. Because there was a familiarity to the banter, the kind of familiarity a person could only have with experience, and these were Dead Men and they weren't treating this joke like a joke which meant it was real and that meant God was real and--
And that was the point where Dexter's brain would short out and restart, and cycle through the whole thing over again.
Eventually something caught. It was Solomon Wreath, and Dexter turned his silent gaze to the man. The blind man. The blind man who could look directly at teddy-bears and said 'this exclusive club' like he was part of it. The blind man who said he wasn't a Necromancer, even though he was, but whom Skulduggery had called a 'prophet'. Whom Corrival had accepted as an Elder in spite of his magic.
Solomon Wreath was the odd thing out here. Skulduggery, Corrival, Erskine, they were all perfectly legitimate. Solomon Wreath was the weirdo. He was the one who got Dexter's accusing stare.
"What's going on?"
"Why are you asking me?" Wreath asked back, something close to incredulity in his tone.
Dexter's shoulders slumped. "I don't know. You're a weirdo. You're the only thing in this room which doesn't fit. D'you mind getting out? Maybe things will make more sense if you left."
"I doubt it," Wreath said dryly, "and anyway, I think it would undermine my authority if Elders started taking orders from underlings."