Anton wasn't exactly ignoring either the zombies or Skulduggery's actions, but he was keeping an eye on both and not doing anything to stop his friend from taking things out on the Texan. He did, however, nod approvingly at Fletcher. The boy was courageous, Anton had no doubt, given his role at Aranmore Farm; this only proved it.
Without missing a beat, hardly even glancing over, Anton reached out and snagged the phone in midair, putting it to his ear.
"Uhhh. We've got a bit of a problem. You know how you said not to let anyone eat anything? Well, there's been a little, er, mistake, and someone got something from somewhere, and ..."
The man on the other end continued to ramble. Anton smiled. It was a satisfied sort of smile, the vindicated smile of someone for whom things had just fallen into place; the smile of someone who was supposed to be at a disadvantage and yet had the ease of someone in control. Anton looked at Sanguine. "How long did you say we had? Thirty seconds? You may want to rethink that for yourself. Your escape plan has hit a flaw."
The voice on the other end suddenly cut off, tone suspicious. "Who's that? Who's talking? Where's Sanguine?"
Anton strode to Sanguine and held out the phone, and his smile, deceptively calm, took on an almost savage edge. "I believe it's for you."
~~~
"Somehow," Solomon answered with a bleak and twisted smile, "I doubt it will be that easy. I have no magic. I've just made an enemy of a world-wide religion which will think nothing of hunting me down--or won't, as soon as they find out what I've done. I advanced too high in the clerical circle for them to simply let me go."
Then he tilted his head. "But, yes, in simple terms, I suppose it's accurate. I'm no longer a Necromancer."
Just potentially a soon-to-be-dead man. And yet, somehow, the words jolted him as he spoke them. The sorcerer blinked, startled by the sensation, by the weird sort of warmth in his chest. It was similar to how he'd felt when he stood before the barrel in spite of his terror. A knowledge, an awareness, of his own strength, of his own choice. A freedom he'd never felt before.
"I'm no longer a Necromancer," he repeated with a kind of wonder in his voice. He never would have expected to say those words and feel ... happy about it. Happiness wasn't something Necromancers generally strove toward. Immortality, comfort, security, yes--but they were willing to sacrifice great amounts to achieve those goals. Happiness ... was an abstract trait.
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Without missing a beat, hardly even glancing over, Anton reached out and snagged the phone in midair, putting it to his ear.
"Uhhh. We've got a bit of a problem. You know how you said not to let anyone eat anything? Well, there's been a little, er, mistake, and someone got something from somewhere, and ..."
The man on the other end continued to ramble. Anton smiled. It was a satisfied sort of smile, the vindicated smile of someone for whom things had just fallen into place; the smile of someone who was supposed to be at a disadvantage and yet had the ease of someone in control. Anton looked at Sanguine. "How long did you say we had? Thirty seconds? You may want to rethink that for yourself. Your escape plan has hit a flaw."
The voice on the other end suddenly cut off, tone suspicious. "Who's that? Who's talking? Where's Sanguine?"
Anton strode to Sanguine and held out the phone, and his smile, deceptively calm, took on an almost savage edge. "I believe it's for you."
~~~
"Somehow," Solomon answered with a bleak and twisted smile, "I doubt it will be that easy. I have no magic. I've just made an enemy of a world-wide religion which will think nothing of hunting me down--or won't, as soon as they find out what I've done. I advanced too high in the clerical circle for them to simply let me go."
Then he tilted his head. "But, yes, in simple terms, I suppose it's accurate. I'm no longer a Necromancer."
Just potentially a soon-to-be-dead man. And yet, somehow, the words jolted him as he spoke them. The sorcerer blinked, startled by the sensation, by the weird sort of warmth in his chest. It was similar to how he'd felt when he stood before the barrel in spite of his terror. A knowledge, an awareness, of his own strength, of his own choice. A freedom he'd never felt before.
"I'm no longer a Necromancer," he repeated with a kind of wonder in his voice. He never would have expected to say those words and feel ... happy about it. Happiness wasn't something Necromancers generally strove toward. Immortality, comfort, security, yes--but they were willing to sacrifice great amounts to achieve those goals. Happiness ... was an abstract trait.
And yet.