Not for the first time, Gabriel was purely and simply frustrated by his inability to move and fight as he should. Even the power he had in his voice to call out to Kenspeckle from such a distance--such little power!-- made his head throb warningly.
He didn't even need to give Skulduggery the push; the Archangel merely let go of his arm as the detective sped away, ahead of him and Fletcher. Gabe himself moved as quickly as he could manage without actively using power, but in lieu of the inescapable urgency as he'd felt when Skulduggery lost control, that wasn't nearly quick enough. On instinct he spread his wings to pursue the car and then faltered at the ripples of pain which reminded him they were, indeed, still injured. (The result was a small, abrupt gust of wind around them which fluttered their clothes--an aborted movement.)
"Damn it," the Archangel muttered as the car vanished from sight. He would still sense Kenspeckle's frightened but controlled soul, knew he'd be okay for the moment, but in only seconds all their souls had vanished into greater crowd of Dublin. Without concentrated effort, Gabe wasn't going to be able to track them.
And now they had Kenspeckle, and Myron had known nothing. Or at least hadn't known if he did.
"Am I bein' replaced?" Sanguine's horrified voice drew Gabe's attention from the car. The Archangel looked at him and then made a noise of disgust, and from the outside it was hard to tell if it was due to the man's presence or just his words.
From the inside, Gabe had to resist recoiling, resist showing that much weakness. "Unless you're suddenly on the side of the angels now, pretty sure you ain't bein' replaced," he pointed out with an edge in his tone, still some feet behind Skulduggery. Then, in fit of frustration and a stab of Skulduggery's taunting black humour, he grumbled, "Wish I hadn't lost my hat."
~~~
After all this. After all this, Solomon marvelled, and Father O'Reilly was still there. Solomon had talked because he had nothing left to lose; because he had seen the other side's hand and knew they were trump him handily. Without any idea how to proceed, all Solomon had had were words.
And Father O'Reilly was still there.
For some long moments Solomon stared at the priest, his head angled in such a way to indicate genuine consideration and yet the expression in his eyes nothing less than wondering confusion.
Oh, he knew Christianity was meant to be all about benevolence, but his experiences said very much otherwise. Yet now he found himself in a situation where Christianity was being everything it was supposed to be. Its cleric, genuinely helpful, genuinely caring even in his terror. Hadn't that been what Solomon wanted? Wasn't that why he'd come to this church, to this man?
No. He'd come here wanting a way out, hoping that a man who'd seen angels might have a little more information to offer. But he'd never truly expected ... acceptance. Even reluctant acceptance.
Awkwardly, uncertainly, the Necromancer shifted on the pew and looked away. What did he want to know? The more pertinent question was what he didn't want to know! What he was terrified of knowing. What made his palms sweaty and his chest tight, his skin prickling. Solomon had known many kinds of fear. The fear of death. The fear of lost opportunities. Of loss of faith.
Of losing his father's love.
"Da, please!"
"I bid you be silent!"
"Ailbe, focus! We cannot allow ourselves to be put aside--not here and now. For your son's sake."
"I'm not--"
"Be silent, demon. Be silent and let my son hear this. We will deliver you from evil, Kian. We will."
His father's voice rang in Solomon's head, choked with rage and despair and determination, and the tears he had never let fall. And the question came out before Solomon could stop it, his voice small and vulnerable in ways he hadn't let himself be since he'd been a boy. "Am I evil?"
no subject
He didn't even need to give Skulduggery the push; the Archangel merely let go of his arm as the detective sped away, ahead of him and Fletcher. Gabe himself moved as quickly as he could manage without actively using power, but in lieu of the inescapable urgency as he'd felt when Skulduggery lost control, that wasn't nearly quick enough. On instinct he spread his wings to pursue the car and then faltered at the ripples of pain which reminded him they were, indeed, still injured. (The result was a small, abrupt gust of wind around them which fluttered their clothes--an aborted movement.)
"Damn it," the Archangel muttered as the car vanished from sight. He would still sense Kenspeckle's frightened but controlled soul, knew he'd be okay for the moment, but in only seconds all their souls had vanished into greater crowd of Dublin. Without concentrated effort, Gabe wasn't going to be able to track them.
And now they had Kenspeckle, and Myron had known nothing. Or at least hadn't known if he did.
"Am I bein' replaced?" Sanguine's horrified voice drew Gabe's attention from the car. The Archangel looked at him and then made a noise of disgust, and from the outside it was hard to tell if it was due to the man's presence or just his words.
From the inside, Gabe had to resist recoiling, resist showing that much weakness. "Unless you're suddenly on the side of the angels now, pretty sure you ain't bein' replaced," he pointed out with an edge in his tone, still some feet behind Skulduggery. Then, in fit of frustration and a stab of Skulduggery's taunting black humour, he grumbled, "Wish I hadn't lost my hat."
~~~
After all this. After all this, Solomon marvelled, and Father O'Reilly was still there. Solomon had talked because he had nothing left to lose; because he had seen the other side's hand and knew they were trump him handily. Without any idea how to proceed, all Solomon had had were words.
And Father O'Reilly was still there.
For some long moments Solomon stared at the priest, his head angled in such a way to indicate genuine consideration and yet the expression in his eyes nothing less than wondering confusion.
Oh, he knew Christianity was meant to be all about benevolence, but his experiences said very much otherwise. Yet now he found himself in a situation where Christianity was being everything it was supposed to be. Its cleric, genuinely helpful, genuinely caring even in his terror. Hadn't that been what Solomon wanted? Wasn't that why he'd come to this church, to this man?
No. He'd come here wanting a way out, hoping that a man who'd seen angels might have a little more information to offer. But he'd never truly expected ... acceptance. Even reluctant acceptance.
Awkwardly, uncertainly, the Necromancer shifted on the pew and looked away. What did he want to know? The more pertinent question was what he didn't want to know! What he was terrified of knowing. What made his palms sweaty and his chest tight, his skin prickling. Solomon had known many kinds of fear. The fear of death. The fear of lost opportunities. Of loss of faith.
Of losing his father's love.
"Da, please!"
"I bid you be silent!"
"Ailbe, focus! We cannot allow ourselves to be put aside--not here and now. For your son's sake."
"I'm not--"
"Be silent, demon. Be silent and let my son hear this. We will deliver you from evil, Kian. We will."
His father's voice rang in Solomon's head, choked with rage and despair and determination, and the tears he had never let fall. And the question came out before Solomon could stop it, his voice small and vulnerable in ways he hadn't let himself be since he'd been a boy. "Am I evil?"