Rory’s gaze jerked. “Bartholomew? That’s your name?” “Pith, you’re thick—no. He calls everyone Bartholomew.” “What the hell for?” Rory pivoted back to the gargoyle. “What the hell for?” “Don’t yell at him,” I snapped. “Shall I break his neck?” the gargoyle asked me. “Or would you find that violence terribly ignoble?” “I would.” I looked up at Rory. “But exceptions can be made.”
