Billy-Ray shrugged as they moved, teeth clenched and muscles taut while he tried to ignore the pain. "Yer an unknown quantity," he answered, pleased to find that the good humour hadn't completely left his voice yet. "I ain't tryin' to accomplish anythin'. Just tryin' to cross all the t's and dot all the i's. You could always save my Dad the trouble, though. Adept?"
The wound was beginning to twinge, on top of the pain radiating out through his limbs. Billy-Ray slowed to a stop, felt the earth shift back up above his head, and then trickle slowly down to his feet when he glanced up. Another annoying little thing; the dirt shouldn't be moving at all when Billy-Ray didn't want it to, but he couldn't hold it back. He couldn't stop the foul taste in his mouth, either, but the slow trickle of dirt was far more worrying just then. Billy-Ray idly wondered if staying in this one spot for long enough would slowly bury him alive.
For the first time in his life, Billy-Ray felt the effects of claustrophobia. The small space closed in on him, and the distinct lack of oxygen weighed onto his mind. Space like this, it probably had... what, fifteen minutes of air? Less, since Gabe would also need to be breathing. And if he was anything like Cain, he'd be breathing faster from panic. Better give the rest only five minutes, just to be safe.
Not for the first time, Billy-Ray cursed Cain, that day, and his uncharacteristic lack of attention. It really wasn't fair that he still had to pay for it, while Cain walked around and continued to not be in pain. Continued to be alive.
"How'd you and Skulduggery meet?" he asked. "Runnin' from Faceless Ones? Actually, how'd you end up over there?"
~~
Fletcher's eyes hardened. Gabe had said the same thing, but somehow, when the Archangel talked about how much the others took Fletcher for granted, it didn't sound nearly as bad, or as pointed. Gabe was trying to help, after all. Solomon meant it as a thinly veiled insult, which Fletcher did not appreciate, but he was able to keep his mouth shut.
A feat made easier when it occurred to him what must be running through the priest's mind right now. Father O'Reilly looked a little like he'd seen a ghost. Fletcher struggled with what to say as the priest turned back to Solomon, opened his mouth, closed it again, and slowly sat back down on the pew.
A sudden thought gripped Fletcher as he moved forward a little bit - was everything he and Val did considered blasphemy? - and he grimaced. "I'm sorry. It was Val's idea. The girl who was with me. It was just... easier, really, but we shouldn't have done it."
"The first time you were here." The priest's voice was weak, but surprisingly coherent. Fletcher wasn't used to people keeping themselves together so well when they discovered what he could do, and he imagined this - getting mistaken for an angel - was about ten times worse. The composure was really quite impressive. "The way you looked..."
"Oh." Fletcher managed a sheepish grin. "Yeah. That was Gabriel. Sorta happens just by standing near him." The expression on the priest's face grew, if it was possible, even more incredulous, and Fletcher hastily tried to backtrack. "Not all the time. Most of the time he just looks..." ... like an American cowboy. Yeah. Like that would go over well. "You know what? Never mind. Gabriel says he'll be over as soon as he can, he's just in the middle of something right now. But he really wants to. He says to hold down the fort until he can make it. Is... is that okay?"
Although Fletcher didn't know it, that wasn't quite the right thing to say. Father O'Reilly blinked, heard a short laugh barked out by someone, and took a moment to realise that it had been him. The ludicrousness of a question like that after a speech like that was suddenly the most humourous thing in the world. He almost didn't want to dignify it with a response, despite the angel's - the boy's - no, wait. The man's? How old did a sorcerer have to look before they weren't children anymore? Twelve? - good intentions. "Yes. It..." He took a deep, steadying breath. "It's fine."
Father O'Reilly had never found reason to crave alcohol before now. He suddenly found himself wondering if it would help.
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The wound was beginning to twinge, on top of the pain radiating out through his limbs. Billy-Ray slowed to a stop, felt the earth shift back up above his head, and then trickle slowly down to his feet when he glanced up. Another annoying little thing; the dirt shouldn't be moving at all when Billy-Ray didn't want it to, but he couldn't hold it back. He couldn't stop the foul taste in his mouth, either, but the slow trickle of dirt was far more worrying just then. Billy-Ray idly wondered if staying in this one spot for long enough would slowly bury him alive.
For the first time in his life, Billy-Ray felt the effects of claustrophobia. The small space closed in on him, and the distinct lack of oxygen weighed onto his mind. Space like this, it probably had... what, fifteen minutes of air? Less, since Gabe would also need to be breathing. And if he was anything like Cain, he'd be breathing faster from panic. Better give the rest only five minutes, just to be safe.
Not for the first time, Billy-Ray cursed Cain, that day, and his uncharacteristic lack of attention. It really wasn't fair that he still had to pay for it, while Cain walked around and continued to not be in pain. Continued to be alive.
"How'd you and Skulduggery meet?" he asked. "Runnin' from Faceless Ones? Actually, how'd you end up over there?"
~~
Fletcher's eyes hardened. Gabe had said the same thing, but somehow, when the Archangel talked about how much the others took Fletcher for granted, it didn't sound nearly as bad, or as pointed. Gabe was trying to help, after all. Solomon meant it as a thinly veiled insult, which Fletcher did not appreciate, but he was able to keep his mouth shut.
A feat made easier when it occurred to him what must be running through the priest's mind right now. Father O'Reilly looked a little like he'd seen a ghost. Fletcher struggled with what to say as the priest turned back to Solomon, opened his mouth, closed it again, and slowly sat back down on the pew.
A sudden thought gripped Fletcher as he moved forward a little bit - was everything he and Val did considered blasphemy? - and he grimaced. "I'm sorry. It was Val's idea. The girl who was with me. It was just... easier, really, but we shouldn't have done it."
"The first time you were here." The priest's voice was weak, but surprisingly coherent. Fletcher wasn't used to people keeping themselves together so well when they discovered what he could do, and he imagined this - getting mistaken for an angel - was about ten times worse. The composure was really quite impressive. "The way you looked..."
"Oh." Fletcher managed a sheepish grin. "Yeah. That was Gabriel. Sorta happens just by standing near him." The expression on the priest's face grew, if it was possible, even more incredulous, and Fletcher hastily tried to backtrack. "Not all the time. Most of the time he just looks..." ... like an American cowboy. Yeah. Like that would go over well. "You know what? Never mind. Gabriel says he'll be over as soon as he can, he's just in the middle of something right now. But he really wants to. He says to hold down the fort until he can make it. Is... is that okay?"
Although Fletcher didn't know it, that wasn't quite the right thing to say. Father O'Reilly blinked, heard a short laugh barked out by someone, and took a moment to realise that it had been him. The ludicrousness of a question like that after a speech like that was suddenly the most humourous thing in the world. He almost didn't want to dignify it with a response, despite the angel's - the boy's - no, wait. The man's? How old did a sorcerer have to look before they weren't children anymore? Twelve? - good intentions. "Yes. It..." He took a deep, steadying breath. "It's fine."
Father O'Reilly had never found reason to crave alcohol before now. He suddenly found himself wondering if it would help.