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They were big, muscled, and impassive. At some point they had traded in their personalities for a simple air of threat.
“What kind of bosom friendship is this,” the skull cried, “where you go merrily shutting me up for hours on end? You never plug Lockwood’s mouth with a giant cork, or stick a gym shoe in Holly’s gob to keep her quiet. Which is a crying shame, because I’d pay good money to see both those things.”
He held the door open for us. It didn’t look so much like a gesture of welcome as a preparation for slamming it hard on George’s head.
Our anger needed an outlet, and here were some senior citizens in armor trying to kill us. That pretty much fit the bill.
Somehow he had contrived to balance his broken spectacles on his swollen nose. He looked like an elderly owl that had recently fallen out with a woodpecker.
George gave Holly a reproving look. “You creep down to the basement to secretly eat nuts and seeds? It’s not the good you’re doing to your body that disappoints me; more the underhandedness of it all. Don’t we have any cake?”
