The pit Myron Stray had been falling into, day by day, second by second, had been so obvious and deep as to have almost overwhelmed his whole house. Under the pretence of a chat, of a check-up, and to help clear up some of the mess, the Archangels had worked to put his soul back together. Without his hearing, his name couldn't be used by anyone but an angel, so the two had agreed not to risk breaking their cover to seal it.

That might have to change when, or if, Lucifer arrived, but for the moment it sufficed.

Stray didn't know it, but Rafe had dropped by invisibly once or twice and been pleased to announce that the soul-healing had helped. Stray was starting to pick himself up. He wasn't in the clear yet, not completely, and might never be--but it was a start.

So Gabe wasn't surprised by the fact that Myron answered the door before they could knock, or how active he seemed to be judging by the way his sleeves were rolled up and the damp patches on his shirt. He just laughed and signed: 'Gave it to a friend.'

He was fairly sure Finbar had put it in the place of honour next to Skulduggery's boot.

'How are you going?' Teaching Myron sign-language had been one of the things Gabe had done during his last visit. It was basic, but he'd left a book behind for Myron to read, and wondered how much the man had studied it.