It took a moment or so for Solomon to realise his cup was empty. He stared down at it for a moment and then rose suddenly and went into the kitchen for a bottle of hard whiskey given to him by a kedan who wanted to know how a member of her family had died. It wasn't a particularly good bottle, certainly not of the standard Solomon preferred, but right now, he didn't particularly care.
He brought it into the living-room, poured himself a glass, downed the glass and poured himself another.
So the part about being Skulduggery's brother had been true. Solomon had never quite decided whether or not he believed it, and in the long rung it had never really mattered. The fact was that his captor had spoken with too much angry bitterness to have been lying about his accusations, and the longer Solomon spent chained and starving in that dirty cellar, the more it seemed time had proven him right: Skulduggery used those he saw fit, manipulated them until they didn't even known it had happened, humiliated them for his own benefit and then discarded them when he had no more use.
Solomon threw back the second glass and then set it down. He hadn't had dinner, yet. He wanted to be drunk for this conversation, and he couldn't afford to be. Skulduggery hadn't remembered him, after they'd parted ways. Solomon had protected Nefarian Serpine from him, and Skulduggery had acted as though he'd never seen him before in his life.
"You're telling me," he said very carefully, "that your brother is the reason you didn't remember me, that day in the Midwest? That he is the reason I, apparently, don't remember things about our association which I should?" Solomon gazed down at the whiskey, decided to hell with it, and poured himself another glass. "There's one flaw in you assertion. What possible reason could he have had to kidnap me?"
no subject
He brought it into the living-room, poured himself a glass, downed the glass and poured himself another.
So the part about being Skulduggery's brother had been true. Solomon had never quite decided whether or not he believed it, and in the long rung it had never really mattered. The fact was that his captor had spoken with too much angry bitterness to have been lying about his accusations, and the longer Solomon spent chained and starving in that dirty cellar, the more it seemed time had proven him right: Skulduggery used those he saw fit, manipulated them until they didn't even known it had happened, humiliated them for his own benefit and then discarded them when he had no more use.
Solomon threw back the second glass and then set it down. He hadn't had dinner, yet. He wanted to be drunk for this conversation, and he couldn't afford to be. Skulduggery hadn't remembered him, after they'd parted ways. Solomon had protected Nefarian Serpine from him, and Skulduggery had acted as though he'd never seen him before in his life.
"You're telling me," he said very carefully, "that your brother is the reason you didn't remember me, that day in the Midwest? That he is the reason I, apparently, don't remember things about our association which I should?" Solomon gazed down at the whiskey, decided to hell with it, and poured himself another glass. "There's one flaw in you assertion. What possible reason could he have had to kidnap me?"