This wasn't how Kenspeckle's day had been meant to go. Not even remotely how it was meant to go. He had a date, for God's sake! (And no, he decided almost instantly, he did not regret the phrasing.) Fuming and terrified in equal turns, the professor allowed himself to be chivvied through the halls of his own lab, bound, blinded and gagged and hoping that Clarabelle had had the wits to hide. Or at least walk away calmly.
The only saving grace was that Billy-Ray Sanguine, having breached the lab's defences using his magic, had been unable to use it to escape again. Otherwise Kenspeckle might have been lost before he could stop to think. Instead, as Sanguine tried to use his power, the American cowboy had keeled over with a gasp while Springheeled Jack watched in impatient amusement.
It had taken Kenspeckle understandably long to remember Gabriel's directive. Then his gaze fell on the feathers he'd gathered and left on his desk--the ones Pleasant had left behind which the Archangel had shed--and the barrel of holy water as he was hustled from the room. Maybe the time they had to reach the road would be long enough. Just maybe ...
He heard the sound of a car-door crack open and felt a surge of helpless rage and despair. And then he heard a voice, an accented and urgent and somehow weighty voice, cry out from behind them.
"Professor!"
As he was shoved into the car Kenspeckle found himself torn between pre-emptively reprimanding the Archangel for straining himself, as he inevitably would, and hoping Gabriel would, just this once, ignore the professor's instructions to take it easy.
~~~
Even though Solomon was watching the priest move, step by reluctant step, the Necromancer was still surprised when Father O'Reilly actually sat down. True, the man wasn't looking directly at him. True, the way he sat, a good two feet away, indicated that he didn't really want to be there. But given that Solomon was expecting O'Reilly to keep walking down the aisle and out the door, it was a surprise.
It took a beat for Solomon to answer, a beat in which he, also, gathered himself and looked up. He'd been mistaken; the church had two stained-glass windows. This one was over the crucifix, too small for an image, but casting a rainbow mosaic on the floor before the altar. The Necromancer watched it and decided not to think too much. Thinking, apparently, was a drawback in this instance.
"I did," he acknowledged. It wasn't an admission, but a statement of fact and even though it was an ingrained instinct to be as concealing as possible, something in Solomon had broken. He was aware of it, aware because it was so easy to keep speaking even though, two days ago, he never would have. Maybe it was to aid his own thought process. Maybe it was because, for the first time, he had someone who had asked and actually wanted to listen.
"Christianity was my father's religion," Solomon said without looking over at the priest. "Sorcerers live much longer than mortals; I was born in sixteen-nineteen." His mouth quirked again. "In the middle of the Reformation. You may imagine it might have been difficult for him; a minor Irish nobleman, suddenly on the wrong side of the Church."
Idly the Necromancer's fingers ran over the head of his cane. A tell, a restlessness he couldn't be bothered to contain. "Up until I was eleven, the only religious conflict I knew was the obvious. Then I discovered I was ... unique. That I could do things no one else I knew could."
He hadn't begun with Necromancy. In fact it had been an Adept form of magic--an unintentional one, a talent. Solomon had always been a smooth talker, like China Sorrows. No one knew just how smooth, once. No one knew that he had once been able to force his will on others just by talking.
It was a talent he discovered by accident, when he was eleven. A much older boy, a Protestant Brit, had taunted him, telling him he may as well hang himself now because his father's faith would surely result in the same. Solomon, terrified and wrapped with an icy rage, had told him to leave him alone and do it himself.
And the boy had done so.
When he was twelve he and his father had been travelling from the village to the estate when they ran across a squad of British guards. His father was wealthy enough to be known by name, not wealthy enough to be seen as a good resource. For that, they had been considered fair game, and despite his father's gracious calm Solomon himself had been frightened. Frightened--but determined.
So he had told the men to fall on their swords.
And they had.
And the way his father had looked at him then ...
In the years after Solomon would wonder why he hadn't seen it coming, when two days later his own father had tried to have him exorcised.
That was when Solomon had stopped believing.
But as a child Solomon had loved his father. Loved him enough that even though he no longer believed, Solomon had stopped using magic---or tried. Not always succeeded; enough to know the magic hadn't gone away. But he tried.
Then, two years later, the King's guard came to the estate. They demanded the family and everyone attached leave, for the land no longer belonged to them. Not for any reason; just because they were natively Irish, and Catholic, and refused to submit. Solomon knew his father would fight. Da had always, always said he would fight, when--not if--they came to take what was his.
Somehow Solomon had never quite thought it would happen. Never thought that his land by birthright would become a war-zone--what he, as a fourteen-year-old, thought must have been a warzone. (What he later knew was but a minor skirmish.) That he would see his father struck down before him with the man's own cane. That he would see the guards come for him, only a frightened youth.
Many people say that when they lose control in the heat of battle, the memory becomes hazy. It hadn't been so for Solomon. Every image, even now, was sharp with clarity. Not like glass but like crystal, cold and sharp-edged. Unyielding.
Solomon had snatched up his father's cane, sticky with his blood. His magic had roared in him that day, drawing on the death in the ground, guards and family alike--until there were no more guards left. Until there was no one left.
Someone had sensed the magic--a Necromancer, a minor cleric. He'd taken Solomon to the nearest Temple. At fourteen, Solomon had known what he was. What he was meant to be. What he wanted.
He wouldn't die like his father, cut down on what was his. He wouldn't be murdered for the sake of a God who did not come. He would live--for always.
It was only when he fell silent that Solomon realised he had, in fact, been talking. He'd never mentioned his father before. Never--except once, to one person, a lifetime ago. "I loved him," he said, his gaze on the window and aware of the itch on his cheeks which may have been drying tears. He couldn't be sure. "But I believed him a fool. Perhaps not." The last was murmured. "Perhaps misinterpreting, but not a fool. Not a fool."
It didn't make the ache in his chest ease at all. An ache he hadn't felt since he was fourteen.
no subject
The only saving grace was that Billy-Ray Sanguine, having breached the lab's defences using his magic, had been unable to use it to escape again. Otherwise Kenspeckle might have been lost before he could stop to think. Instead, as Sanguine tried to use his power, the American cowboy had keeled over with a gasp while Springheeled Jack watched in impatient amusement.
It had taken Kenspeckle understandably long to remember Gabriel's directive. Then his gaze fell on the feathers he'd gathered and left on his desk--the ones Pleasant had left behind which the Archangel had shed--and the barrel of holy water as he was hustled from the room. Maybe the time they had to reach the road would be long enough. Just maybe ...
He heard the sound of a car-door crack open and felt a surge of helpless rage and despair. And then he heard a voice, an accented and urgent and somehow weighty voice, cry out from behind them.
"Professor!"
As he was shoved into the car Kenspeckle found himself torn between pre-emptively reprimanding the Archangel for straining himself, as he inevitably would, and hoping Gabriel would, just this once, ignore the professor's instructions to take it easy.
~~~
Even though Solomon was watching the priest move, step by reluctant step, the Necromancer was still surprised when Father O'Reilly actually sat down. True, the man wasn't looking directly at him. True, the way he sat, a good two feet away, indicated that he didn't really want to be there. But given that Solomon was expecting O'Reilly to keep walking down the aisle and out the door, it was a surprise.
It took a beat for Solomon to answer, a beat in which he, also, gathered himself and looked up. He'd been mistaken; the church had two stained-glass windows. This one was over the crucifix, too small for an image, but casting a rainbow mosaic on the floor before the altar. The Necromancer watched it and decided not to think too much. Thinking, apparently, was a drawback in this instance.
"I did," he acknowledged. It wasn't an admission, but a statement of fact and even though it was an ingrained instinct to be as concealing as possible, something in Solomon had broken. He was aware of it, aware because it was so easy to keep speaking even though, two days ago, he never would have. Maybe it was to aid his own thought process. Maybe it was because, for the first time, he had someone who had asked and actually wanted to listen.
"Christianity was my father's religion," Solomon said without looking over at the priest. "Sorcerers live much longer than mortals; I was born in sixteen-nineteen." His mouth quirked again. "In the middle of the Reformation. You may imagine it might have been difficult for him; a minor Irish nobleman, suddenly on the wrong side of the Church."
Idly the Necromancer's fingers ran over the head of his cane. A tell, a restlessness he couldn't be bothered to contain. "Up until I was eleven, the only religious conflict I knew was the obvious. Then I discovered I was ... unique. That I could do things no one else I knew could."
He hadn't begun with Necromancy. In fact it had been an Adept form of magic--an unintentional one, a talent. Solomon had always been a smooth talker, like China Sorrows. No one knew just how smooth, once. No one knew that he had once been able to force his will on others just by talking.
It was a talent he discovered by accident, when he was eleven. A much older boy, a Protestant Brit, had taunted him, telling him he may as well hang himself now because his father's faith would surely result in the same. Solomon, terrified and wrapped with an icy rage, had told him to leave him alone and do it himself.
And the boy had done so.
When he was twelve he and his father had been travelling from the village to the estate when they ran across a squad of British guards. His father was wealthy enough to be known by name, not wealthy enough to be seen as a good resource. For that, they had been considered fair game, and despite his father's gracious calm Solomon himself had been frightened. Frightened--but determined.
So he had told the men to fall on their swords.
And they had.
And the way his father had looked at him then ...
In the years after Solomon would wonder why he hadn't seen it coming, when two days later his own father had tried to have him exorcised.
That was when Solomon had stopped believing.
But as a child Solomon had loved his father. Loved him enough that even though he no longer believed, Solomon had stopped using magic---or tried. Not always succeeded; enough to know the magic hadn't gone away. But he tried.
Then, two years later, the King's guard came to the estate. They demanded the family and everyone attached leave, for the land no longer belonged to them. Not for any reason; just because they were natively Irish, and Catholic, and refused to submit. Solomon knew his father would fight. Da had always, always said he would fight, when--not if--they came to take what was his.
Somehow Solomon had never quite thought it would happen. Never thought that his land by birthright would become a war-zone--what he, as a fourteen-year-old, thought must have been a warzone. (What he later knew was but a minor skirmish.) That he would see his father struck down before him with the man's own cane. That he would see the guards come for him, only a frightened youth.
Many people say that when they lose control in the heat of battle, the memory becomes hazy. It hadn't been so for Solomon. Every image, even now, was sharp with clarity. Not like glass but like crystal, cold and sharp-edged. Unyielding.
Solomon had snatched up his father's cane, sticky with his blood. His magic had roared in him that day, drawing on the death in the ground, guards and family alike--until there were no more guards left. Until there was no one left.
Someone had sensed the magic--a Necromancer, a minor cleric. He'd taken Solomon to the nearest Temple. At fourteen, Solomon had known what he was. What he was meant to be. What he wanted.
He wouldn't die like his father, cut down on what was his. He wouldn't be murdered for the sake of a God who did not come. He would live--for always.
It was only when he fell silent that Solomon realised he had, in fact, been talking. He'd never mentioned his father before. Never--except once, to one person, a lifetime ago. "I loved him," he said, his gaze on the window and aware of the itch on his cheeks which may have been drying tears. He couldn't be sure. "But I believed him a fool. Perhaps not." The last was murmured. "Perhaps misinterpreting, but not a fool. Not a fool."
It didn't make the ache in his chest ease at all. An ache he hadn't felt since he was fourteen.