Dexter's soul snapped surprise at suddenly being spoken to. "Well, I ... it's hard to be angry when I had secrets too. I mean, I--" He hesitated, and then mumbled, "I kind of knew. Suspected. About the Vile thing."
Shudder's soul quivered for a moment. "What?"
Solomon almost turned, but managed to not, standing where he was in the middle of the floor, with no idea what the space around him looked like.
"Descry suspected," Dexter admitted, "and he told me after--a bad night. But he asked me not to tell. He said if people knew we might lose Skulduggery for good."
That soul, so similar to Skulduggery's and yet turning on a slow, balanced axis, darkened. "What makes you think we haven't?"
For a moment Solomon simultaneously felt almost close to Shudder and irritated by the response. "You think there's any difference between now and then?" he demanded, turning without moving from his spot on the floor. His gaze snapped to Ravel. "You think he's changed? He hasn't changed. He's always been manipulative. He's always lured people in all around him and used them, and changed them, and then left them in the dust while he sails merrily on. You think it's a surprise he turned out to be Vile? It's not."
How could they just forget about these things so easily? How could they just let it go, knowing what he'd done, what he was still doing, that he really hadn't changed at all? Solomon hadn't been surprised. He'd accepted it because he had to, because it fit, and because Solomon never expected anything from others. Not since ... not for a long time.
Except now. Now he found himself having expectations. Of himself, of others. He found himself having them, and Skulduggery had proven, yet again, that he had not changed. He still gathered people to him, people he threw aside whenever he was done with them, because he was the one who always had to be right, who always had to make the decisions, who always had to know best.
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Shudder's soul quivered for a moment. "What?"
Solomon almost turned, but managed to not, standing where he was in the middle of the floor, with no idea what the space around him looked like.
"Descry suspected," Dexter admitted, "and he told me after--a bad night. But he asked me not to tell. He said if people knew we might lose Skulduggery for good."
That soul, so similar to Skulduggery's and yet turning on a slow, balanced axis, darkened. "What makes you think we haven't?"
For a moment Solomon simultaneously felt almost close to Shudder and irritated by the response. "You think there's any difference between now and then?" he demanded, turning without moving from his spot on the floor. His gaze snapped to Ravel. "You think he's changed? He hasn't changed. He's always been manipulative. He's always lured people in all around him and used them, and changed them, and then left them in the dust while he sails merrily on. You think it's a surprise he turned out to be Vile? It's not."
How could they just forget about these things so easily? How could they just let it go, knowing what he'd done, what he was still doing, that he really hadn't changed at all? Solomon hadn't been surprised. He'd accepted it because he had to, because it fit, and because Solomon never expected anything from others. Not since ... not for a long time.
Except now. Now he found himself having expectations. Of himself, of others. He found himself having them, and Skulduggery had proven, yet again, that he had not changed. He still gathered people to him, people he threw aside whenever he was done with them, because he was the one who always had to be right, who always had to make the decisions, who always had to know best.