Fortunately for Saracen, and for Skulduggery, Rover's comment cut off any inclination for anyone else with a habit of mind- or soul-reading from answering too. Or at least they chose to let it go.

"I gotta admit Luci-poocy's one I haven't heard," Rafe said thoughtfully. "Usually he's the old blowfish, or mister sulfur-stacks, or somethin' like that."

Gabe managed a smile, but it was slightly sad one. "Let's not. At least not to his face."

Rafe's face dropped. "You still hopin' David's in there somewhere?"

Gabe shrugged. "I have to try. If you could remember what I could, Rafe, you'd want to as well."

"If you say so, bro." Rafe shook his head, looking dubious but not arguing. "If you say so."

Descry had put his head back down on Anton's shoulder again, but now he raised it once more, his expression shifting between that inescapable mirth, exasperation, bemusement and just a touch of mental weariness. "How could I forget?" he asked wryly. "It was the only thing that kept me sane after they tried to negotiate a treaty. Key word there being: 'try'."

By that time it had been over century since Descry had had cause to read Mevolent's mind, and a lot had changed for the worse. He would have liked to believe it wasn't possible, but that intervening time proved it was. It was all he could do to pretend to be unaffected while he stood at Meritorious's back for the first time in decades. It was only due to his conditioning with the Dead Men that he had managed it, and afterward ... afterward.

Afterward he had been able to fall apart, and know he wasn't alone while he did.