let me be the one you call / if you jump I'll break your fall

[impudentsongbird]

Book Four: Dark Days
1 | into the breach
2 | finding skulduggery
3 | retreat to the tunnels
4 | into the cacophony
5 | sanctuary in the cathedral
6 | reuniting old friends
7 | kenspeckle's new patient
8 | holy water and disinfectant
9 | objecting to china sorrows
10 | the roadtrip
11 | baffling guild
12 | shenanigans at the safehouse
13 | reassuring fletcher
14 | valkyrie's intervention
15 | solomon's revelation
16 | visiting the edgleys
17 | recalled to the sanctuary
18 | guild's confusion
19 | gabe is busted
20 | the psychic tattoist
21 | envisioning the cacophony
22 | angel's first migraine
23 | the morning after
24 | china and solomon
25 | detectives' council of war
26 | china's foolishness
27 | the collector dethroned
28 | finding crux
29 | skulduggery's vileness revealed
30 | sorrows in aftermath
31 | finding equilibrium
32 | the devil's number
33 | at the carnival
34 | meeting authorities
35 | solomon's confession
36 | the stray soul
37 | sanguine unsettled
38 | solomon's choice
39 | a cowboy underground
40 | in scarab's basement
41 | striking midnight
42 | craven contested
43 | emergency services
44 | on your feet
45 | and don't stop moving
46 | easy recognition
47 | a deuce of an evening
48 | engines roaring
49 | compromising judgements
50 | solomon's conflict
51 | axis turning
52 | thinking circular
53 | blasting the past
54 | reviling vile

Book Five: Mortal Coil
55 | sanctuary unsanctified
56 | shudder unravelling
57 | catching an angel
58 | layering dimensions
59 | dead men meeting
60 | when it rains
61 | power plays
62 | sing on gold
63 | the valley of death
64 | grand aspersions
65 | no evil feared
66 | new days rising
67 | angelic neuroses
68 | step-brothers working
69 | the many sorrows of china
70 | peacefully wreathed
71 | tarnished gold
72 | the secret in darkness
73 | magical intent
74 | scars worth keeping
75 | benefits of a beau
76 | grand magery
77 | lighting the darkness
78 | old dogs and new tricks
79 | flouting traditions
80 | drawing lines
81 | brothers and sisters in arms
82 | channelling angels
83 | return of the carnies
84 | the death bringers
85 | meriting agelessness
86 | knick knack, paddy
87 | give a dog a bone
88 | americans propheteering
89 | the right side of honour
90 | tailored shocks
91 | hosting angels
92 | elders anonymous
93 | rediscovered strays
94 | changings and changelings
95 | a state of reflection
96 | adding hope
97 | the devil's truth
98 | dead mens' hospitality
99 | lives half lived
100 | next to godliness
101 | devilish plans
102 | beached angels
103 | lights of revelation
104 | heroes worshipped
105 | new devilries
106 | angels under the yoke
107 | brains frozen
108 | father, mother, daughter
109 | parental guidance recommended
110 | driven round the bend
111 | ongoing training
112 | privileged information
113 | reasonable men
114 | passing the buck
115 | gifting magicks
116 | strengths and weaknesses
117 | immaturity's perks
118 | priests and prophets
119 | scaling evil
120 | blowing covers
121 | marring an afternoon
122 | lie detection
123 | five-dimensional pain
124 | reliving nightmares
125 | taking stock
126 | sampling spices
127 | sleeping prophets lying
128 | rueful returns
129 | dead men reunion
130 | medically-approved hugs

The life of an angel was a contradiction in changes and stability. On one hand, they understood very well the way the cosmos was shaped by events within it. On the other, they stood at one step apart from it—or at least had, for a very long time, up until their Master's recent wager with Lucifer. Changes in the recent past had, even for angels, been fast and turbulent, but there were none that concerned Raphael more than Gabriel's abrupt reserve.

In the aftermath of the wager Gabriel had been almost the only one to know where their Lord was at any given time, a fact which had put the Archangel very firmly under Lucifer's radar. Raphael had joked that Gabriel ought to arm himself with more jokes or worse clothes to drive the fallen angel away; Michael had offered the peace of the Garden Coast. (Rafe thought his idea was better.)

Either way, even though their Master was fair hidden, every angel knew that they had only to ask Gabriel and the Archangel would pass on a message.

Then Gabriel had simply blipped off the radar himself. Poof! Gone! No one had noticed at first, because, well, they weren't exactly in constant connection. It was just when Raphael had taken a whim to seek out his younger brother that he'd noticed it, and let it be, because there was absolutely a reason for it. Gabe did not just off and vanish, except that once with his self-exile, and that didn’t count.

But when Gabriel had come back, he had been strangely agitated and yet close-mouthed. The younger Archangel had vanished off to wherever their Master was hidden for a long chat Raphael was dying to have listened into, and yet couldn't (but only partly because it would have been rude). Now he was here, floating among the stars and examining a black hole with unnerving intensity.

For a time Raphael watched without letting on that he was there, but eventually Gabriel spoke. “I’d rather you came to join me instead of lurking, brother.”

Absolutely refusing to feel chagrined, Raphael let himself manifest with an arm around Gabriel’s shoulders and ruffled the younger angel’s hair. Gabriel threw a fond, longsuffering glance up at him, but there was something in his eyes, something distracted and sharp, which indicated that Gabriel still wasn’t truly present. Raphael only wished he knew where the other Archangel was.

“Just wondering what you’re doin’ all the way out here,” he said teasingly. “There’s a party going on down there on Earth, Gabe.” There was always a party going on down on Earth. “You oughta be down there bobbin’ for apples and switching up party-hats!”

“I can’t,” Gabriel said quietly, with a sort of seriousness Raphael had, for all Gabriel’s literalness, rarely heard from him. So Raphael fell into the same seriousness, lost his playful accent, and spoke directly.

“Why not, brother? You’ve been reserved of late. I conf—I’m worried for you.”

For a very long time Gabriel said nothing and stared into the slow-turning swirl of the black hole. Raphael waited patiently, his arm still companionably across the other Archangel’s shoulders. Eventually Gabriel spoke. “Did you know, Raphael,” he said, “that the universe you see around you here isn’t the only one our Master has created?”

Raphael was so startled that he couldn’t answer. That wasn’t what he was imagining. He hadn’t been sure what he’d been imagining, but that wasn’t it. “I’m not sure what you mean, Gabriel,” he said after a moment. “Our Lord told me the story of Creation not all that long ago, and he never mentioned anything of the kind.”

Gabriel nodded. “He told me that story as well. And then He asked if I really wanted to know details.” He hesitated. “I … admit, I declined. It’s something He said—about faith. I decided I didn’t need to know details. But it’s true, nevertheless. Just beyond this …” The Archangel reached out his hand and touched that gossamer and unbreakable fabric that supported reality. “There are other universes, even with different versions of us.”

“Different versions of us?” Raphael repeated, appalled and uncertain and entirely confused. How could that be possible? What could their Master want with more than one of any of them? What was going on? Where had Gabriel gone in that time he’d vanished? Then something occurred to him and he smiled with relief. “This is a joke, right?”

Gabriel looked up at him and smiled back with such a gentle understanding that for a moment Raphael felt very small indeed. “No, Rafe. I’m not joking. It was a shock to me too. That isn’t the point, though.”

“Isn’t it?” Raphael asked, feeling as dazed as an angel possibly could, especially when he wasn’t even inhabiting an actual physical body.

“No.” Gabriel returned to watching the black hole intently. “I met some people from other realities. One of them is in a kind of Hell, and he very much does not deserve it. I promised him that, if I could, I would save him from it.”

Which did not in the least explain why Gabe was staring at a black hole, let alone a million other questions Raphael would have liked to ask and for which he couldn’t find the words. Finally he found one. “How?”

“First,” Gabriel said with a sort of tranquillity Raphael had heard in his brother’s voice a million times but never after delivering so turbulent a piece of news, “I’m going to jimmy open a crack in the door through this hole.”

Raphael stared at Gabe, and then at the black hole, and then back at Gabe. He opened his mouth to ask whether their Master knew he was planning this and then closed it, because that was a stupid question. He opened it again to query if Gabriel had asked whether he could go around lifting the sheets and then realised that was also a stupid question, because whether he had or not, their Master probably would have told him to do what he felt was best.

It was equally clear that Gabriel very much planned to go through with this, no matter what Raphael said, and really, did Raphael have the right to object? Surely if this carried a risk, their Master would have already forbidden Gabriel from making the attempt?

“I’ll come with,” Raphael said at last, and this time when Gabriel glanced back the younger Archangel’s expression was startled. A moment later that expression shifted into grateful apology.

“I’m sorry, Rafe, but I’m not entirely certain I’ll make it through, and we can hardly leave Michael here alone.” He grinned. “Did you see what he was wearing last festival day on the Garden Coast? He hasn’t moved out of the eighteenth century yet. How would he possibly handle the rest of the world?”

Raphael laughed out loud, warm but startled, and the sound of it rang through space. Gabriel chuckled quietly beside him, and for a few minutes there was just companionable humour that faded into an equally comfortable silence.

Still, Raphael had a lot of questions. How did Gabriel plan to find his friend, let alone the universe he was in? How was he going to get back? What would he do if he met another version of himself? Or, worse, Lucifer? Finally the Archangel just asked, “Have you figured out how to crack open the door?”

“I think so,” Gabriel said, considering the black hole. “Once I figured out what to look for. I wouldn’t have gotten even that far if it weren’t for some things our Master said.”

Which meant that, in some fashion, this expedition was sanctioned by their Master, Raphael translated, and something tense in him relaxed. “Something do to with this drain here, I’ll bet,” he said, falling into his casual accent once more. “Gonna rip out the kitchen sink, li’l brother?”

“Just to see what’s hiding underneath,” Gabriel said with a grin.

“I’ll try’n keep it open for ya,” Raphael promised, and Gabriel sent him a smile which lit up the very space around them with its brilliance.

“Thank you, Rafe,” he said, and straightened. Raphael took his arm away as Gabriel lifted his hands, not exactly stepping back so much as giving Gabriel space. The youngest Archangel didn’t often reveal his power, but it was always a sight to see, a song to hear, when he did.

As it was now. Gabriel’s voice started deep, lifted high, split and wove and became more melodies than one would think a single being could possibly sing at once. The sound of it made Raphael’s heart soar, made him want to fly and laugh. It was so deep, so light, so resonating that it was physical; it touched the slow turn of the black hole and made it, for just the briefest of moments, still. In that moment Gabriel sent a carefully-aimed bolt of energy into the heart of it.

It was the kind of sight Raphael hadn’t seen in thousands of years, a play of physics and metaphysics which he hadn’t thought possible, let alone imagined. There was an eruption in the centre of the black hole, where gravity was condensed; the cascade of energy plumed upward and was dragged back down as quick, a tear in the fabric of the reality not allowed the time to widen or become a danger.

Raphael didn’t even know Gabe had moved until the younger Archangel was gone, he was so busy staring in awe. With a start the Archangel stretched out his senses and just barely managed to catch a glimpse of his brother shooting toward the hole at speeds few angels could have achieved through such a gravity well. Raphael certainly couldn’t have.

How, he suddenly wondered, was he meant to keep that open if he didn’t even have the speed of thought to track Gabriel’s movements through it?

Desperately the Archangel cast about for something to jam in the door, as it were. There was some dark matter nearby and with a thought he fashioned it into a spear and pitched it toward the centre of the black hole. It struck just as Gabriel flitted through the crack nearly wholly collapsed in on itself; the star’s gravity caught it, pulled it in, and plugged the opening like a metaphysical sink.

Slowly Raphael made every part of himself relax. For good or ill, Gabe was gone on this quest of his, and now Raphael should probably go and round up some of their younger siblings to guard the area. Just in case.


Book Four: Dark Days
into the breach | finding skulduggery | retreat to the tunnels | into the cacophony | sanctuary in the cathedral | reuniting old friends | kenspeckle's new patient | holy water and disinfectant | objecting to china sorrows | the roadtrip | baffling guild | shenanigans at the safehouse | reassuring fletcher | valkyrie's intervention | solomon's revelation | visiting the edgleys | recalled to the sanctuary | guild's confusion | gabe is busted | the psychic tattoist | envisioning the cacophony | angel's first migraine | the morning after | china and solomon | detectives' council of war | china's foolishness | the collector dethroned | finding crux | skulduggery's vileness revealed | sorrows in aftermath | finding equilibrium | the devil's number | at the carnival | meeting authorities | solomon's confession | the stray soul | sanguine unsettled | solomon's choice | a cowboy underground | in scarab's basement | striking midnight | craven contested | emergency services | on your feet | and don't stop moving | easy recognition | a deuce of an evening | engines roaring | compromising judgements | solomon's conflict | axis turning | thinking circular | blasting the past | reviling vile

Book Five: Mortal Coil
sanctuary unsanctified | shudder unravelling | catching an angel | layering dimensions | dead men meeting | when it rains | power plays | sing on gold | the valley of death | grand aspersions | no evil feared | new days rising | angelic neuroses | step-brothers working | the many sorrows of china | peacefully wreathed | tarnished gold | the secret in darkness | magical intent | scars worth keeping | benefits of a beau | grand magery | lighting the darkness | old dogs and new tricks | flouting traditions | drawing lines | brothers and sisters in arms | channelling angels | return of the carnies | the death bringers | meriting agelessness | knick knack, paddy | give a dog a bone | americans propheteering | the right side of honour | tailored shocks | hosting angels | elders anonymous | rediscovered strays | changings and changelings | a state of reflection | adding hope | the devil's truth | dead mens' hospitality | lives half lived | next to godliness | devilish plans | beached angels | lights of revelation | heroes worshipped | new devilries | angels under the yoke | brains frozen | father, mother, daughter | parental guidance recommended | driven round the bend | ongoing training | privileged information | reasonable men | passing the buck | gifting magicks | strengths and weaknesses | immaturity's perks | priests and prophets | scaling evil | blowing covers | marring an afternoon | lie detection | five-dimensional pain | reliving nightmares | taking stock | sampling spices | sleeping prophets lying | rueful returns | dead men reunion | medically-approved hugs

Comments

[skeletonenigma]

It took a moment for those words to sink in with Paddy, evidenced by his shaking of Merlin's hand quite normally before his face and limbs grew slack. He threw an almost desperate look back towards Ghastly, who shrugged sympathetically. "I wasn't talking about specifically that," the tailor amended quietly. "It's a feeling you should probably get used to."

Erskine could definitely relate. He still wasn't used to it. He'd been very glad he wasn't the one driving when he glanced backwards in the car and saw a large chocolate lab happily asleep with his head in Allie's old seat - Allie herself situated back in the childrens' ward at the hospital, all set for another test in the morning.

Everything Erskine had been through, however, was worth it to watch the Gabe-dog padding unconcernedly over to the skeleton detective and flopping down right on top of Skulduggery's feet. Skulduggery's illusory face made it all the more interesting to watch. Amusement flickered through it, that was a given, but it transitioned smoothly into a fond sort of exasperation, and then - and this was what made it all worthwhile - something gently tender.

It didn't even have anything to do with poking fun at him later. Skulduggery had gone through stark contrasts much of his life, going from barely ever properly laughing once, to single-minded determination, to guilt over something formerly unknown, to the kind of good-natured camaraderie he'd been capable of even while eternally angry. Never, not once, did Erskine see him protective over someone. Oh, concerned, definitely. Caring. Frighteningly angry when he thought anything might have happened to them - to any of the Dead Men, in particular, during the war. But protective? Never protective. Skulduggery wasn't the sort of person who associated with anyone who needed protection.

He still didn't. Valkyrie Cain confused Erskine for that reason, when she and Skulduggery first became widely known as a partnership, but it quickly became apparent that she could easily look after herself. And where she couldn't, Skulduggery was teaching her to. Hardly what Erskine would call protective. Paternal, maybe, to a degree, but not protective.

And yet, he was protective over Gabe. That was what the expression was - tender protectiveness. Not because Gabe needed protecting; he was an Archangel, for God's sake. It was more because as an Archangel, there was a lot about life Gabe didn't understand. Like free will. Free will was a big one. And rather than being stoically objective, as Skulduggery was so good at doing, the skeleton was doing his best to help. Not teach. Not simply demonstrate, but help.

It was heartwarming, it really was. Maybe it was only because Erskine could finally see the expression involved, but that was fine. There was a lot he could have forgiven Skulduggery for in those few moments.

Rafe's distraction was slow in coming, but come it did. Erskine looked down at the chocolate lab and the pure excitement radiating through the dog's body, wondering just what he was supposed to do. He certainly wasn't going to wrestle the dog himself, and he didn't have anything to throw. This wasn't the kind of dog you could just pretend you'd thrown a ball for.

Or was it?

Erskine cupped a flame in his palm behind his back. "You want to play, boy? Is that what you want? You want to play?" He stepped backwards, fed a little magic into the flame, wound his arm back, and threw - without actually throwing. The flame was strong enough to look like a circular object, and it left Erskine's hand at the peak of the throw, but fizzled out as it arced through the air and disappeared altogether.

[impudentsongbird]

Gabe lifted his head to look up at Skulduggery as if to answer the exasperation, resting his head against the detective's knee with perfectly loving doggy-innocent eyes.

With a delighted bark Rafe went pelted down the aisle, leaping effortlessly up to try and snatch the flame-circle out of the air. His jaws clicked shut on nothing, but that didn't stop the Archangel from landing, pivoting, and racing back as if he had, tail whipping the air as he waited for another.

If Solomon tilted his head he could see the shape of the dog form around Raphael as he moved, but it flickered and rippled, not looking real at all. Just one more thing he couldn't see. He said nothing, but a moment later Gabe looked over at him instead. He wasn't quite sure if that was better, and looked away almost immediately toward Merlin.

"Since most everyone's too busy canoodling or playing the fool, let me introduce you," the old sorcerer was saying, standing out of the way of Paddy's sight. "The faery-prince tossing fire-balls is Erskine Ravel, one of Skulduggery and Ghastly's old comrades. He just became Elder. And this is Barney Lachlan, whom we met at the carnival this afternoon with his daughter."

[skeletonenigma]

Laughing, Erskine relented and tossed another small ball of fire up into the air. Barney couldn't quite tear his eyes away from it, even though the sight of it made his skin crawl. The obvious magic was unnerving enough without the large dog voluntarily leaping up to try and catch the flames before they fizzled out, happily trying to close its jaws around fire and carry it back. Not because the dog was unintelligent, especially since most dogs knew enough not to try and hurt themselves, but because it - he - was far too intelligent. A person. An Archangel. A large dark-skinned fellow one moment, a grade school boy the next. A chocolate lab in the moment after that.

Barney needed Merlin's distraction, and he took it. Paddy Steadfast, at least, seemed normal, if not quite for his name. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise." They shook hands, and Paddy's head tilted down in surprised sympathy. "Just this afternoon? How are you holding up?"

"I've... been worse." Feeling suddenly and strangely awkward, Barney stepped away and rubbed the back of his neck, watching the game of fetch with the angel just because it was something to do, something to focus on, without having to think too hard. "It wasn't quite just this afternoon. That's only when someone finally told me the truth."

He hadn't meant it in an accusatory manner, but Ghastly flinched nonetheless. "In my defense," the tailor-sorcerer muttered, "I was with God at the time. My mind was on other things."

Barney really hadn't needed that reminder, a fact no one else seemed to notice. Paddy, in particular, glanced between the pair with a startled look. "What do you mean?"

It was certainly a story, and Ghastly seemed more inclined to tell it than Barney was. That was fine; Ghastly knew the story better anyway. Barney only half-listened, adding the occasional comment, and otherwise watched Raphael. Raphael, or his brother, Gabe, whom Skul had leaned down and started petting.

[peacefullywreathed]

This was the first time Solomon had heard this story as well. He turned in the pew to watch the Archangels play while he listened. If he concentrated, he could see the dog-shapes hold. He preferred it that way. Without it, Gabe was seated cross-legged at Skulduggery's feet, tilting his head back into the detective's touch and with wings cupped around the stained-glass soul, and it was far too personal a sight to look at.

Solomon looked to Rafe instead, the little comets the fireballs made. The Archangel actually managed to catch and bring parts of some back, once or twice.

Mostly, though, Solomon simply sat and listened quietly, no longer with any desire to talk and too tired to involve himself in the conversation which followed the story. From there, questions were asked. The Archangels used their canine shapes as a shield, pretending not to understand anything metaphysical directed at them. Eventually Raphael trotted over and heaved himself up onto the pew beside Solomon, and as long as he was turned away the sorcerer could believe the Archangel really was just a dog, so much so that he found himself absently petting him.

It was a quiet evening, a trailing one that segued from conversation to conversation. Solomon vaguely remembered Merlin asking Paddy about his Meals for the Homeless and volunteering his time, since apparently he'd spent a decade or so as a homeless woman to keep his eye on his grandson and had something of a soft spot. (It was a testament either to his tiredness or his ability to cope that the description didn't bring any surprise at all.)

Eventually someone noticed Solomon almost dropping off to sleep in the chair. At that point a brief discussion had ensued over just where he was meant to go for the night. Merlin had offered to help find him a place sometime in the near future; Skulduggery had noted that he needed guarding. Since Solomon had never actually seen Skulduggery's house, he wasn't about to lose the opportunity to do so, even though he couldn't actually see it.

Not that he had long to enjoy it. Solomon had no idea where Merlin or the Archangels went, but if Gabe turned up in the middle of the night he had no idea. Skulduggery asked a question or two about the Sight, but to Solomon's relief decided Solomon was too tired to actually answer properly, and naturally, he couldn't do with inaccurate information. Since it meant the ex-Necromancer could get some sleep, there were no complaints from him. Just a snarky comment or two about the detective being a mother-hen.

All of which meant that by the time he got in to the Sanctuary the next morning it was approaching the far more reasonable hour of eight o'clock in the morning, and he was being guided by a smug-looking skeleton. (It didn't matter that he was a skeleton again. He was still smug.)

Solomon was definitely beginning to feel crowded. Which was why, at the bathroom door, he paused to raise an eyebrow and say, "I don't think I'll need you for the moment, thank you, Detective. Go and detect something already, or I might have to change your title to Mother Hen."

[skeletonenigma]

"You do that," Skulduggery replied evenly, "and I quit. Simple as that."

As a matter of fact, Gabe had turned up in the middle of the night, purportedly worried about Skulduggery growing bored with Solomon asleep all night, and no one else to talk to. Since Skulduggery wasn't quite used to protection work, and he grew bored rather easily, Gabe's concern wasn't too far off the mark. And the angel's offered presence was very much appreciated.

Their conversation grew long and varied, only occasionally touching relevant topics, very little of it abundantly noteworthy. In fact, there was only one instance Skulduggery could think of - when he asked about Jonah and the whale. He'd been teasing Gabe about it in the same way Rafe had, and accidentally struck a nerve. Convinced that he couldn't do anything right, the Archangel descended into a forlorn state of miserable self-pity. It was surprisingly difficult to see an angel like that - particularly one who made such an adorable and carefree dog - so Skulduggery hugged him. Only to discover, from the sudden blossoming of smug happiness in Gabe's soul, that he'd been tricked into that very reaction.

It probably had something to do with why Skulduggery looked unknowingly smug to Solomon this morning. Gabe was learning. And quickly, too; already, he could fool the skeleton detective. That was a feat in and of itself.

For now, though, Skulduggery tilted his head in acknowledgment. "I might have to assign someone else to this. I forgot how boring watching someone sleep was. Any particular preference?"

[peacefullywreathed]

"Someone who won't give me a headache," Solomon answered deadpan. "You're not one of them. Cleavers aren't either, in case that wasn't obvious. Ghastly is. Tanith is. Fletcher is. Erskine is, though I'd like to be there if you try to 'assign' him to my guard-duty so I can object to his running me into walls. Otherwise, I'm open to suggestions."

He pushed open the door and entered, relieved when Skul didn't follow. It was a perk of Elder offices to have en suites, apparently, which meant the bathroom was empty. That was all Solomon wanted at the moment: a bit of space. Just to be a tad spiteful, he took his time, though not so long as to have Skulduggery burst in under the pretence of 'rescuing' him.

It was only when he turned back toward the door, one hand on the edge of the mirror, that Solomon realised something was wrong. He frowned. Underground as it was, the whole of the Sanctuary left a presence in the lifestream--not enough for him to tell where things were, but enough for him to sense walls and doors to rooms now he had a better handle on how it worked. It was enough for him to see the gentle ripples of the wards and sigils which created the whole facility. Enough for him to notice a quiet bell of a sigil on the door which hadn't been there before.

A chill of warning ran down his spine and he felt something shift under his hand, a surface tension of warmth giving way under a sudden cold current. The ex-Necromancer jerked away, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest, but he still felt someone seize his arm and yank him forward into the hard stone of the wall.

[skeletonenigma]

For a Sanctuary that was supposed to be in chaos due to there being no real leadership yet, sneaking in was hard.

Actually, Billy-Ray reflected, that was probably exactly why. No real leadership meant that everyone was on high alert. No one actually recognised him, thank goodness, but he was pulled aside a few times to ask if he was really supposed to be there. Yes, he'd answer patiently. Would I have been able to get past that musician guy if I wasn't supposed to be here? Twice, that ploy worked. Once, the paper-pushing desk politician decided to get a little too curious, and Billy-Ray was forced to knock them out in a broom cupboard.

No unnecessary deaths. Those were his orders. Billy-Ray could only kill one man today, and he could only do that within the Sanctuary walls.

Again, it was one of those things that should have been easy, but wasn't. The target was blind and powerless. He should have been killed ages ago. Unfortunately, because he was blind and powerless, he was escorted everywhere he went. So Billy-Ray was forced to improvise.

Empty offices weren't uncommon at the moment. He picked one close to Solomon Wreath's new office, locked the door from the inside, and carved a sigil into the doorframe to make it unbreakable from either side. (It was an idea he'd gotten from Tanith Low, actually. He didn't have the power to do it with just a word, but Billy-Ray Sanguine still had a few tricks up his sleeve.) Then he burrowed into the office's bathroom, just a short distance away through solid concrete - revelling in the fact that he could finally do that now without having to plan every single damn inch of the way - and carved something different into that door. Something a little more subtle. A seal that would let one person through, and that was it.

Because unless Billy-Ray was much mistaken, Wreath would be the only one to use this bathroom. Any escort would wait outside, or maybe try to step inside after him, and find their way barred. It was perfect. It was flawless.

It was pretty damn boring, but aside from that...

Billy-Ray made a silent promise never to tempt fate again when, just as he began wondering whether blowing up the whole Sanctuary was worth it just to stave off further boredom, Skulduggery Pleasant's voice sounded from beyond the cracked door.

The Texan cursed silently from within the tiled wall. That wasn't something he'd considered. Since when were Wreath and Pleasant buddies? Since when was Pleasant an escort?

It don't change anything, he reminded himself. Even Pleasant can't get through door seals without dismantlin' them first. Just follow the plan. I'll be in and out before he can even realise it's me.

And the plan moved forward even more smoothly than Billy-Ray could have hoped. Wreath actually put his hand on the wall Billy-Ray was hiding under. Never suspected a thing. Without taking even a single step into the bathroom, Billy-Ray reached out to grab the ex-Necromancer's arm, and pulled him into the wall.

It was a short distance, but he purposely dragged it out to throw off any chance of Wreath thinking they were still in the underground structure. Then Billy-Ray tossed Wreath into the office before him, knowing full-well the trauma of such an experience when one was actually able to see. He grinned as he stepped out onto the carpet himself, the wall closing up behind them as effortlessly as it always had done for centuries before Aranmore Farm last year.

He tsked as he leaned back against the closed-up wall, straight razor held loosely in one hand. "Ya know, I gotta ask. Givin' up magic, tellin' the Temple to shove off, gettin' yourself recaptured... what do you get outta all this? Seems to me like you're just a sucker for punishment."

[peacefullywreathed]

It wasn't a current. It was a bubble, a suffocating bubble inside stone and magic, too close and too cold to register details. And that was without the soul beside him. Solomon gasped for air, his hands clenching, fingernails digging into his palms as he resisted the urge to struggle. It was difficult; his chest almost hurt with the pound of his heart, and the journey seemed to take forever. Forever with unseen earth all around him. Forever being clutched by a soul drenched in blood.

The deeply resonant presence of the rock parted and Solomon was flung out into empty space. He had no sense of up or down, nothing except the air and the familiar hum of the Sanctuary's walls. The sorcerer just barely managed to relax before he struck a desk, bit his tongue so as not to cry out, and tumbled in a heap to the floor.

Head ringing, his side and back throbbing hard where he'd hit the table, Solomon took a moment to find his breath before trying to push himself upright. He hissed at the pang in his ribs, but he was wearing his Ghastly suit; he'd be bruised but alright. One hand ran along the floor, trying to find the edge of the desk. Once found, he used it to pull himself to his feet, his knees trembling with shock and adrenaline.

"There are--times I wonder," he managed to say. He recognised that voice, by description if not anything else. Billy-Ray Sanguine, the Texan assassin. Solomon's skin was prickling wildly, and they were a good five feet away from each other.

Billy-Ray Sanguine's soul was a deep well filled with blood and limbs. Some of them had been in there for centuries. Just looking at him made Solomon want to throw up, so he didn't. Instead he fumbled for the desk's edges, taking one step and then another to put the piece of furniture between the two of them. His foot hit a chair; he kicked it closer in to keep it out of the way. The room around him settled, the ripples of Sanguine's magic still there but fading enough for Solomon to tell its basic dimensions. Any other furniture was going to be the problem.

"You weren't sent by the Temple." It wasn't a statement, and his words didn't keep him from feeling over the desk-surface in a vain attempt to find a weapon. There was nothing--the desk was unused. He rattled the drawers in lieu of opening them, but they were locked as well as empty. He was still in the Sanctuary; he just had to wait until Skulduggery figured out he wasn't in the bathroom. "Tenebrae is a fool, but he isn't stupid. He wouldn't risk making this kind of play so openly."

[skeletonenigma]

"Wasn't I?" This was something else Billy-Ray had been warned about. Even despite the terror Wreath had to be feeling, that was something the ex-Necromancer would say almost right away. He was a clever blind bastard, that much Billy-Ray could see for himself. Didn't change anything, though. It didn't matter what Wreath figured out. In less than a minute, Wreath would be dead. And the rest of the Sanctuary, the rest of Ireland, would be blaming the Temple.

"Thing is, this ain't open." Billy-Ray took a step forward, still with the ever-present smirk, unfortunately wasted on the blind. "Door's locked and sealed. No one knows we're here. More importantly, no one knows it's me." He spun the razor in his hand as he walked carelessly towards the desk. "People aren't gonna know what to think. They're gonna start blamin' the only people to actually threaten you. Hell, that makes sense to me, and I'm standin' right here. Doesn't really matter who sent me in the end. Either way, you're still gonna die."

Which was all well and good for Wreath, because he wouldn't have to worry about anything beyond the next few seconds. Even then, Billy-Ray could tunnel out of the Sanctuary without any difficulty. But Pleasant. This wasn't going to fool the skeleton detective. Pleasant would guess the truth, and the first person he'd go gunning for was Billy-Ray himself.

Yep. That settled it. Billy-Ray was going to have to go demand compensation from his bosses for not telling him Pleasant was involved, and then Billy-Ray was going to have to disappear.

He grinned as he reached the edge of the desk. Good thing he was good at disappearing.

[peacefullywreathed]

Sanguine was wrong. Solomon wasn't frightened; not in the way the Texan imagined. Not in the way he might have been, before, had he been helpless as a Necromancer. He was adrenalised, which was normal. He was determined, which was also normal. But he wasn't frightened. He was just resolute.

He wasn't going to die today. He refused. Not after all this, not after everything he'd been through. He would not.

Solomon steeled himself and lifted his head, watching Sanguine's soul. The smell and sight of that sluggish bleeding made his stomach roll; he clamped down on it. He was Solomon Wreath, and no matter his blindness or magiclessness, he would not let this cretin intimidate him.

Besides, he may not have been so magicless after all. Not as magicless as Sanguine believed. Solomon stood straight-backed behind the desk, but he let one hand drop, pressing it into the surface of the lifestream. He felt the shiver in his soul, the breach of that surface like in China's library--a tingle in his fingers and being that would have made his breath catch had things not been so dire. It felt like magic, and at the same time didn't. It was too almost too raw; the only time he could remember feeling his magic this raw was during his Surge--both times.

There may not have been much he could do with it, but there had to be something. Sanguine didn't know he could see the sigil. Solomon didn't know how to kill him. He wasn't sure he wanted to see that in any case, but he could ... blind him. The lifestream was blinding in itself, and surely against a man such as this, with his eyes and his talent--surely a bolt of pure lifestream energy would do the job for long enough.

He clenched his fist, like he would have to gather a fistful of shadows. His magic resonated all in him, singing in his being and his hand, and for a moment he drank it in--that feeling of power. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed it. Hadn't realised how much he'd wanted it. Golden light wisped in his fist, like he was hiding a small sun, blocked by the line of the desk as Sanguine spoke. Solomon let him, let the power build for as long as he could afford, and took a step sideways to maintain some distance. That, and get him even just one step nearer to the door.

"Firstly, Skulduggery will know," he said, and then he smiled. "Secondly, you're not good enough to kill me." With those words he flung the gathered bolt of energy in his hand at Sanguine and whirled to run for the door, hoping there was nothing in his way.

Golden light exploded through the room, dazzling, searing beyond mere eyesight to a man whose soul was drowned in blood.

[skeletonenigma]

"I imagine he will," Billy-Ray nodded. This, he knew from experience, was going to be the pleading. In Wreath's case, the logic. The quiet, and perfectly logical, variously mundane reasons for why killing him would be a bad idea.

To be honest, though, Billy-Ray hadn't been expecting that second comment. Most people accepted that he was the more powerful victor, at least, if not quite their imminent deaths.

Nor had Billy-Ray been expecting what happened afterwards.

Years later, Billy-Ray still wouldn't have any idea how to describe exactly what did happen. For one dizzying moment, he thought Wreath might have thrown something blinding in his direction - pepper spray, or a smoke bomb, something like that. In that same dizzying moment, the familiar knowledge that any blinding agent was useless against Billy-Ray surfaced the way it always did. One of the drawbacks of being able to see despite not having eyes - Billy-Ray still flinched at bright light before remembering it wouldn't affect him. Even now, after all these years.

So for one dizzying moment, he believed he was perfectly fine, and that Wreath was an idiot.

Then the pain set in.

It wasn't normal pain either, although that was part of it. It seared. It burned brightly, practically scorched, like he was caught in the middle of a fire. Exactly like bright light, except it felt like his whole body was the set of eyes being painfully blinded. No... no, not his body. It went deeper than that. Some deeply buried pat of Billy-Ray screamed in agony, and the Texan uttered that scream without thinking, dropping to the floor, grabbing at his sunglasses and ripping them off like that would do anything to help. It felt like it would. It didn't.

The light filling the room was golden. Bright, golden, agonising, terrifying, harrowing, excruciating, torturing, all rolled up into one searing hot ball of pain that shouldn't have been painful, because it was just light, it was light, and Billy-Ray didn't have eyes...

Cursing, curling in on himself, limbs practically twitching with absolutely no way to defend against the blinding whatever-it-was, Billy-Ray instinctively did the only thing he could do - drop down into the floor.

Immediately, it all lessened. Narrowed to a point, then dispelled, leaving nothing but a foggy and achy afterglow - and not the good kind. Billy-Ray gave himself all of about a second to recover, shaking half with pain and half with fury, before his perilous grip on the razor tightened and he launched himself towards the doorway of the room.

Wreath shouldn't have been able to get out, but he shouldn't have had magic either. Billy-Ray was beginning to suspect that there was a whole lot he hadn't been warned about. With one last deliberate jerk to shake off the remains of the strange golden light, Billy-Ray shot upwards through the floor between the door and Wreath. The smirk was gone, all intent to toy with Wreath vanished. The instant he had a proper foothold on the carpet, Billy-Ray lunged forward with the razor and stabbed. It wasn't graceful. It wasn't pretty. The Texan assassin was beyond caring.

[peacefullywreathed]

The scream took Solomon by surprise; he flinched, stumbled, suddenly unsure of what was ahead of him. The pause wasn't long enough. Not with the sudden slurp of the floor receiving Sanguine, the way his bolt dissipated now its target had vanished from the immediate vicinity.

Sanguine's soul burst from the floor like an exploding boil, and with a curse Solomon threw himself to the side, knowing that the glint of a raw, open wound, unlike the congealing victims, was the weapon with which Sanguine bathed himself. He couldn't see the Texan's arm but he still lifted one of his own to deflect the blade on his Bespoke-tailored sleeve. It hit hard enough to jar his bone, scraping past his side.

It should have been easy to break away, once upon a time. Not now. Engulfed in the nearness of Sanguine's soul and sheer murderous intent directed all at him, Solomon flinched hard, staggering as if struck in the face. One hand groped for purchase in the lifestream; this time he had no chance to let it build. He just gripped another handful of his own soul's light and threw it at the Texan, just wanting some distance and still trying to orient himself toward the door.

[skeletonenigma]

The razor missed, somehow. It rebounded off what felt like armour rather than clothing, and too late, Billy-Ray realised that the suit Wreath was wearing must have been made by Ghastly Bespoke. Bulletproof. Damn it. What, the guy does something as simple as stop using Necromancy, and suddenly he gets all the preferential treatment? What was there between him and Pleasant?

Billy-Ray adapted easily and spun back around for another pass, aiming this time for Wreath's exposed neck. He cut the pass short when that damn golden light flashed around Wreath's fist, and expecting more of the worst, he reeled backwards and sank halfway into the floor.

It wasn't bad that time. Not nearly as bad. Still, Billy-Ray grunted with the pain of it crashing against his being again, like accidentally touching a frying pan, or an oven, or blinking up into the sun. He gritted his teeth and let the pain pass, let it flow over and past him, then disappeared down into the floor again.

He waited until Wreath was once more moving towards the door, then shot his hand up into the open air and grabbed the blind man's rising ankle to try and bring him crashing down onto the ground.

[peacefullywreathed]

It took a gasping moment before Solomon could recover his spinning head, before he could twist and run for the door again. This time, Sanguine's presence only half inside the floor made its presence ripple almost violently outward, an intrusion in the wards they couldn't stop.

Even when he pulled completely into the stone, he wasn't trying to hide, and his movement left ripples of their own, rebounding and crashing on each other. Solomon couldn't avoid the hand gripping his ankle; he let himself fall, forced himself to relax so the blow didn't stun him.

It was instinct, or something like it. Necromancy required a channelling object. This--this was almost like touching a live wire of magic. He didn't need a conduit. He just needed intent and imagination. Solomon spread his palms outward, slamming into the floor on his forearms and absorbing the energy with gritted teeth. He fisted those ripples Sanguine had left and rolled, kicking out at the hand even has he yanked those lifestreamers, twisting them in a manner they hadn't been twisted before.

He wasn't sure what it would do.

He didn't particularly care, so long as it disrupted Sanguine's magic long enough for him to escape.

[skeletonenigma]

It worked. And yet, it didn't. Yet again, Wreath grabbed at something that made his fist glow, and Billy-Ray prepared to sink below the magic's effects before they could do any real damage to him.

It felt an awful lot like he'd just run headfirst into a solid brick wall.

He hadn't actually run headfirst into a solid brick wall, so no bones broke, nothing got bruised, nothing was twisted or sprained or fractured. In the grand scheme of things, Billy-Ray was going to be perfectly fine. It was just hard to remember that in the face of the sudden, overwhelming, crippling spasms that wracked his body as he reached for magic that just suddenly wasn't there. Suddenly blocked off. Suddenly totally and completely inaccessible, with Billy-Ray still halfway into the ground and only just rising to try and take advantage of Wreath's fall.

He was stuck, and it hurt. He couldn't breathe. The carpet was choking him. The surrounding stone pressed into him, no longer even attempting to part at his touch, constricting Billy-Ray's lungs and leaving his cry of pain a mere strangled guttural sound.

It only lasted a few seconds, but those few seconds felt like an eternity. Billy-Ray was faced squarely with the realisation that this must be what having your magic bound felt like. He'd never experienced it before. It was frustrating as hell; knowing you were about to die, feeling the magic that could easily save you, and not being able to reach it. Not even being able to touch it. It pulsed gently just out of reach, but there was nothing Billy-Ray could do except wait for it to sweep through him again.

It did, eventually, and he was able to sink back into the floor, panting heavily and just trying to get his breath back. He'd let go of Wreath at some point - it was difficult to know exactly when. Even more difficult to know exactly where Wreath was now. A part of Billy-Ray insisted that the best course of action at this point was to cut his losses, get out of here as fast as he could, and disappear off the face of the planet before anyone could come looking for him.

The other, more reasonable part of him really wanted that monetary compensation before he did. And Wreath wasn't dead yet.

Besides, it kind of seemed like Wreath wasn't sure of what he could do any more than Billy-Ray was. The ex-Necromancer was desperate, reaching out for anything that would save him. Now, as dangerous as that could be - and already had been - it also meant Wreath lacked finesse. And skill. Really, he was just desperate, and that was all that was dangerous.

Billy-Ray took a few deep breaths, let the feel of his magic and the earth around him seep back into his confidence, and extended his awareness above ground. Wreath was taking advantage of the respite to try and force the door open, and that obviously wasn't working.

At least, not until he put his hand right on top of where the sigil was.

Billy-Ray panicked. Could Wreath break that seal with just a touch? Probably not. But he was gearing up to try something, and Billy-Ray couldn't let him. Razor still in hand, breath back under control, Billy-Ray rose up behind the ex-Necromancer and stabbed the small blade through Wreath's hand before it could so much as glow again.

[peacefullywreathed]

The moment Sanguine's grip went slack Solomon rolled back to his feet and made for the door, almost running into the wall. He kept one hand firmly on it to hold his weight, half turned toward Sanguine to keep the man from having too clear a line to his back--not that there was much Solomon could do to stop that. He was a damned burrower.

Solomon found the door--and the sigil. It pulsed almost mockingly at him. In that way of a brain moving so fast it was almost illogical, Solomon noted the way the Sanctuary's wards gathered, like drawn-up silk, where his hand was pressed against the door, remembered Lynott saying--

"You, Elder Ravel and Grand Mage Deuce have unlimited security access to the whole of the Sanctuary, Elder Wreath."

He slammed his hand against the sigil and it swarmed with silken wards drawing tight. "Elder Wreath commands you--"

The floor's magic rushed out from under him and Solomon made to jerk away, but too late. Within the space of a moment Sanguine shoved him into the door and impaled his hand with his blade. The ex-Necromancer screamed, his hand jerking, and gripped the door to hold himself upright when that only made the pain shoot all the way up his arm.

But his palm was still over the sigil. "Break," he snarled, and the sigil shattered with a soft rising pulse of magic, swamped by the Sanctuary's wards.

Now he had a problem. Now he had the problem of the Texan having shoved him into a door which opened inward. Solomon twisted, trying to keep Sanguine from being directly behind him and to get his other hand in a position from which he could retaliate.

[skeletonenigma]

The pain of having a hand impaled clearly didn't do much to deter Wreath from escaping. Ordinarily, Billy-Ray would have respected that. Right now, he was getting murderously frustrated. With the sigil he'd carved broken, the physics of the way the door opened was the only thing still giving Billy-Ray an advantage in the scuffle. And someone must have heard the scream by now. If not a Cleaver, or a passing official, then it would definitely be Pleasant. The skeleton's well-timed rescues were practically his trademark.

By all logic, Billy-Ray should just snap Wreath's neck and be done with it - disappear before anyone else arrived on the scene. Two problems with that. Firstly, Wreath wasn't giving him a good angle. Twisting out of the way like a little black snake was working in his favour for that. Secondly, a snapped neck didn't point to Necromancers quite as nicely as a good deep stab wound did.

Solomon Wreath's hand, however, was still pinned to the door. And Billy-Ray's razor was still stuck in it. If nothing else, he needed that razor back.

He also needed to not be touched by one of Wreath's fists while it was glowing.

The ex-Necromancer's free hand was coming up. Reacting in pure instinctive avoidance of that horrible lightning pain, Billy-Ray knocked it down with one arm, kneed Wreath hard in the groin to double him over, and reached over behind his back for the razor. The handle, at least, was within easy reach like this, and it didn't take all that much strength to pull it free when Billy-Ray got a good grip on it. Blood was smeared along the silver edge, its metallic smell filling the air.

The Texan assassin barely took a moment to admire that before spinning the blade down to slice across the back of Wreath's neck.

[peacefullywreathed]

The angle at which Solomon was turned meant the knee didn't connect completely--but it was still more than enough to send the man buckling, gasping with the pain of the blow. He leaned into the door as he sank to the floor, fighting the paralysis of that pain to turn and face Sanguine even from the floor.

Pain ripped through his hand and he yelped, but yanked his hand back to use his sleeve as a shield again in lieu of losing his head. The blade caught the edge of it, raking a long thin gash in his arm but then catching on the fabric. Solomon grit his teeth as he lifted his head, his arm shaking. His whole body throbbed; he could barely move.

He could barely move but he absolutely refused to die here, at the hands of Billy-Ray Sanguine.

Solomon was aware of their souls, of Sanguine's drenched in blood and his own, aversive to it, but not recoiling from it. What he did then was somewhere between instinct and not--a sensation with which he was familiar, but which wasn't like previous times at all. He didn't try to pull anything in. He took pushed back instead, because it was his soul, damn it, and it would do what he said, and he wanted it to get rid of that blood-bathed animal before him.

Like touching a live wire. His magic, his soul, his self beat within him and for a moment Solomon felt lit up, breathing in pure magic. He shoved back against Sanguine, against his soul rather than his body. Golden light blazed from the cleric's eyes, lit his face, cascaded around him and to the floor in a brilliant molten aura, not precisely blinding but just as painful to the touch as the bolt earlier.

Sanguine's soul recoiled and Solomon felt the weight of him rock back. His uninjured hand was already groping for the doorknob, twisting it. The sorcerer rolled to the side to yank the door open and use it as a shield in response to the running footsteps he could hear in the corridor, leaving the room wide open and bathed in light.

[skeletonenigma]

For what felt like hours, the world didn't exist. Nothing existed beyond that light and that pain, pure pain radiating through every nook and cranny of his being - Billy-Ray's head was swimming with it, vibrating, pulsating viciously - a command center deciding how much pain the rest of him was going to be in.

The very first thing he forced himself to be aware of through it all was the floor. Beneath him, hard and solid. So he was on his back. That was a bad thing. That was a bad thing because it left Billy-Ray vulnerable to whoever might have heard the fight from out in the hallway. The door was unsealed now. Anyone could come in. Anyone could come in and -

Billy-Ray seized on an instinctive panic and hurled himself blindly to the side. A split second later, a gunshot rang out. Barely able to see and with his head still pounding, Billy-Ray opened the floor beneath him and fell into the sweet, hard earth. Darkness closed in over his head, protecting him, even as the sound of another bullet penetrated through into the ground.

For an amount of time he couldn't quite distinguish, he lay suspended in the stone floor and just breathed. Sight slowly came back, then basic awareness, then the ability to form basic conclusions. Gunshots. Two of them. Pleasant; of course it was Pleasant. It was always Pleasant.

The recovery time couldn't have been too long, either, because the skeleton detective was still standing perfectly still in the middle of the dusty office, gun pointed unerringly at the floor where Billy-Ray disappeared.

A few more breaths, a little more time to gather his wits, and Billy-Ray considered his options. The only way he'd ever actually be able to finish the assassination now was if he pulled Wreath down into the floor, where Pleasant couldn't follow, and left him there to slowly suffocate. That... wasn't an option. Anything that possibly led to being blasted by more golden light wasn't an option. Hell, Billy-Ray would take a bullet in his shoulder or a sword along his ribs before he'd go back in for more of that golden light.

Assassination was out of the question, then. Heading back into the room at all was a suicide mission. And yet, now that he'd been seen, Billy-Ray was as good as dead already. Attempted murder of an Elder, and no cell or binding magic that could hold him? If Pleasant didn't actually kill him first, Billy-Ray didn't put it beyond the current Sanctuary to come up with a punishment even more nasty.

The Texan scowled angrily down into the earth. He'd failed. Worse than that, he'd been defeated. His reputation was going to suffer for this. His bosses - they weren't going to be happy. Probably wouldn't even pay him.

But since there was nothing else for it, Billy-Ray picked himself up - so to speak - and dusted himself off - again, so to speak - before tunneling down and away, plans of revenge already brewing in his mind.

[peacefullywreathed]

"Are you alright? And do you realise something's glowing?"

The two gunshots rang out and lingered in the air, but the world was suddenly stillness up until Skulduggery spoke. Solomon remained pressed against the wall between it and the door, breathing hard but controlled. His groin throbbed; so did his wrist and hand. He brought his arm to his chest, fisting a piece of his coat to put pressure on both wounds at once. After a moment he managed to catch his breath enough to answer the detective.

"I'll live. And no, actually, I didn't, but it's probably me."

It had to be. He still felt ... open. Sort-of. Not exactly the same way using the Death Aura had made him feel open--not as if he was collecting things and drawing them in. More as if he was extending himself outward against them. He could sense Skulduggery's soul from here, sense that it was a friend because of the way his magic met it and let it pass without objection.

He gave the door a shove to make it swing out, but didn't quite try to rise yet in lieu of figuring out how to turn off what he'd just done. He breathed out and then in again, and on the inhale collected himself, wanted himself to be all in one place again. Something unlatched and in a rush the extended awareness faded.

The light was already fading from around his face, but the little cascading pool around him maintained its integrity for a few moments longer before being released, washing away like a quiet rush of surf.

Another breath, and then Solomon spoke, still without moving, over the sound of Cleavers approaching. "I think he's left. I can't see any changes in the wards' integrity anymore."

[skeletonenigma]

Skulduggery resisted the urge to point out that, yes, it was Solomon glowing. There were certain things that just weren't obvious to blind men, and emphasizing said things would only be kicking a man when he was down. Skulduggery made a conscious effort only to do that to criminals.

The way he was glowing was interesting, though. The light expanded outwards, moving through most physical objects the way light tended to do - or bounce around them, if scientists could be believed - and yet, there were certain places it pooled. Like at Skulduggery's feet. The light wisped calmly around his shoes like a small shoal of tiny fish that had found a safe haven.

That was just what he needed. His soul to become a safe haven for every other soul he encountered, from angel on down to sorcerer. It felt a lot like being one of those classy motorway motels.

It drew back and faded as soon as Solomon realised he was the one glowing. It didn't leave behind any feelings of comfort, as Gabe so often did - nor did it dampen any of the anger Skulduggery still felt towards a certain Texan assassin. That was fine, though. He forced that feeling aside himself. Solomon was alive, and that was what mattered for the moment. Blind, some would argue helpless, and the ex-Necromancer still managed to hold off a relatively successful assassin sorcerer. And one who was fully healed from his earlier trouble, it seemed.

Skulduggery shook his head. "If I hear one more argument about feeling coddled..." He stepped over and offered a hand to help Solomon to his feet. The Elder's right hand, Skulduggery noticed, was bleeding profusely, the flow only partly stemmed by the lowered sleeve of a perfectly good suit. Stabbed by Sanguine's razor, no doubt. That wound would never fully heal.

"He wasn't sent by the Temple." With Solomon out of direct danger, it was easy to fall back on what Skulduggery knew best - figuring things out. It kept anger at bay. "He probably wanted us to think he was, but the Temple doesn't have the means or the resources to heal a stab wound in the gut when it was already badly healed once. He'd need a specialist for that. Kenspeckle Grouse, or someone similar. Now, clearly Professor Grouse didn't order a hit on you, which narrows down our list of suspects somewhat, but not nearly enough. The specialist was most likely hired as well. So the question is, what would someone have gained not by your death, but by everyone thinking you were killed by Necromancers?"

War, that's what they would have gained. Firstly, Ireland would lose confidence in its own Sanctuary. Secondly, the rest of the world would as well - and the rest of the world would be keen to swoop in on a Cradle of Magic. Thirdly, the Necromancer Temple would probably be attacked - not that Skulduggery could really bring himself to care about that. The world would be in a very quiet and organised kind of chaos. Mortals weren't blind or stupid - they would notice something. Who would gain from that?

Sorcerers. A very specific group of sorcerers who despised hiding in the shadows. They would benefit from that. The town nearest to here - Roarhaven. Roarhaven, where a Sanctuary already existed. This one was nearly blown up. Nearly blown up by a woman whose motivations were still unclear. It would have been blown up, if it weren't for Gabe, and it would have taken out practically all opposition to a Sanctuary in Roarhaven at the same time. Including the Sanctuary's Prime Detective, who was best known for his disturbances.

Skulduggery kept his suspicions to himself for the moment, though. "Impressive work, by the way, holding him off. What did you do?"

[peacefullywreathed]

"Believe me," Solomon said wryly, "I'm no longer feeling coddled. And no, he wasn't, and yes, he did. He admitted to it. He even admitted that the intent was to frame the Necromancers, though not why."

He looked up past Skulduggery, unaware that any hand was extended at all. He was, however, extremely aware when a Cleaver came through the door, all hard intent and hollowness. His attention drawn by that for the moment, the ex-Necromancer jerked a little in surprise when Skulduggery took his uninjured hand and hauled him to his feet. Solomon swayed for a moment, wincing and taking a limping step at the aches and pains in his body.

"I wonder if Kenspeckle takes house-calls." The man was already on call for Sanctuary emergencies, but Solomon wasn't sure he wanted his ear ripped off for not being careful enough. Even though all he'd been doing was going to the bathroom. Who expected to be attacked in the bathroom?

Which was precisely why Sanguine had done it.

Solomon tilted his head, half in amusement. "I threw pieces of lifestream at him. Apparently souls literally bathed in blood don't appreciate being hit by manifestations of life."

The Cleavers were flanking the door and the corridor, now, and Solomon sensed the ripple in his surroundings that was souls approaching. Deuce and Ravel, if the Sanctuary was reacting. Deuce came through the door, eels snapping, barely a few moments later. "What happened?"

"I spontaneously decided to host an American madman," Solomon told him, moving gingerly closer to the door and leaning on Skulduggery as he went.

[skeletonenigma]

"You were attacked?" Erskine was through the door only a second after Corrival, and it didn't take much to deduce what Solomon meant by his offhanded remark. Skulduggery was probably the only thing keeping him upright. "By whom?"

"Sanguine," Skulduggery answered him. "Ambushed him in the bathroom and locked me out with a seal. Fortunately, Solomon isn't as helpless as even our enemies seem to be assuming."

Erskine's gaze combed the room very quickly, but he wasn't a detective. No furniture was overturned, no signs of a struggle anywhere, and that was all he could see. Skulduggery probably saw a lot more. Skulduggery could probably piece together the entire fight with just a cursory glance. Erskine didn't know much beyond what he and Corrival had been hastily told on their way here, and what they'd been told... didn't make any sense at all. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder into the hallway. "The fellow back there said this room was glowing."

"Ah, yes. That would have been Solomon."

He said it like that was some sort of explanation, and Erskine wondered if he was missing something obvious. "Has Solomon become a light bulb since last I saw him?"

"Not really."

"Is this supposed to make sense to me?"

Skulduggery shrugged one shoulder, careful not to dislodge Solomon on his other side. "Probably not."

When would Erskine learn that getting a straight answer out of Skulduggery was more trouble than it was worth? He turned, exasperated, to Solomon instead. "Why were you glowing?"

[peacefullywreathed]

"I wanted to mimic an electric eel," Solomon said deadpan. "I thought maybe it would help me communicate with Deuce's."

Skulduggery had no idea what he'd been talking about. Solomon could tell by the dust on his panes. It amused him. It would have amused him more if he'd known exactly what he'd done himself, but he could at least figure it out. He'd just been trying to blind Sanguine, but that energy he'd thrown at him had truly hurt him.

Like looking at Gabriel had hurt Solomon.

He refused to explain until they were out of the office and somewhere more private, because the very last thing he wanted was his exact abilities to become common knowledge. So in spite of Erskine's annoyance, he answered with nothing but quips until they were down the hall in Corrival's office and the door was closed.

"Alright, Wreath, talk," Corrival said gruffly, and Solomon heard a rustle of a coat being taken off. "I walk into the Sanctuary to find out someone's been screaming and you've apparently vanished. I haven't even sat down yet. Which I'm going to do right now, by the way."

Judging by the creak of his chair, he did, and Solomon's mouth quirked. At least the man had gotten another chair; it meant Solomon could sit too until Kenspeckle--or whoever they were calling in--had arrived to tend his hand.

"I can manipulate the lifestream," he said simply. "I was only trying to blind him, but apparently ..." He hesitated. How was he meant to explain this? 'Apparently I can throw holy magic?' He wasn't sure how or why he had even done it himself, except that that's the only thing he could think it would be.

"Apparently what I was throwing at him was rather more ... divine ... in magical nature than I was expecting. He got my hands pinned at the door, though, so I just tried to metaphysically push him away." A beat, before he realised he should probably explain that. "With my soul. If his soul can make me want to be sick, I figured mine might be able to hurt him back."

[skeletonenigma]

Erskine blinked, just the slightest bit nonplussed, before he shook his head with amusement. "And you were trying to say that 'Prophet Wreath' was too pretentious?"

"It is," Skulduggery spoke up from the corner of the office, where he'd remained standing against the wall with his arms folded. "Let's not jump to any conclusions until we can have the 'divine' aspect verified by an expert."

Verified by an expert. Right. And that was only half the problem at the moment, disregarding the obvious question of why Sanguine was trying to kill an Elder. The other half was what the witnesses in the corridor outside - of which there were only two, thank God - truly saw. How much they'd figure out. How much they'd tell others.

If Erskine was lucky, the stories would be as vague as they sounded, and the only real tidbit to get out would be that Solomon wasn't exactly helpless. That could easily be spun into a good thing. It was practically a good thing already. If Erskine was very unlucky, one of them actually saw Solomon himself glowing, and who knew where the stones would fall from there. Fortunately, Erskine very much doubted they saw more than a weird glow coming from the office.

Sanguine, on the other hand...

"Do we know who hired Sanguine?" he asked, figuring Skulduggery might already know.

The skeleton inclined his head. "We don't. But we can guess."

"The Temple?"

"No. The Temple, we can rule out. Sanguine himself admitted he was hired to make it look like the Temple was involved, but Tenebrae's far too careful for something this rash. Besides, the Temple wouldn't have been able to heal Sanguine back to his full ability."

Sanguine was back to his full ability? Damn it. No wonder he'd been able to sneak in so easily. A dark expression settled over Erskine's face. He still may not be sure about Wreath, but an attack against one Elder was an attack against them all. "Then who did?"

"That," said Skulduggery, "is what I'm going to try and find out."