"To defeat a zombie horde?" Anton asked, and shook his head. "Not enough, even if they all fought. We can ask them, but most will likely choose to barricade themselves in their rooms. They're civilians and petty lawbreakers, Skulduggery." His voice was even as he spoke, almost casual, perhaps. Not unworried, but not concerned either. The number of zombies Anton had seen out there, he knew he and Skulduggery together could handle. It was be hard, but not impossible.
The question was whether they could handle them without most of the hotel's inhabitants being killed and-or turned. Whether they could handle them without losing even one Remnant. Whether they could handle them without either Fletcher Renn or Anton himself becoming victims.
And whether they could handle them without losing the lead on Sanguine.
"I will charge Hotel damages to your tab," Anton informed Sanguine calmly as he turned toward the stairs to go and ask the other residents if they planned to join them. Most of them, as expected, offered a resounding no. He advised those to barricade themselves inside their rooms.
But two, Mr Jib and Miss Nuncio, agreed to help defend the Hotel. Anton was a bit surprised, and both saddened and gratified, by the latter, though he didn't show any of it. Nuncio's field of magic wasn't combat-based. That she would volunteer even so spoke well of her.
Anton already knew she wouldn't survive to see the next dawn. Civilians. That he should have to ask civilians to be cannon fodder again. Sanguine and his father weren't going to escape this unscathed, he promised himself as he made his way downstairs, foolhardy Mr Jib puffing and brave Miss Nuncio pale.
"Most of the residents have chosen to bar themselves in their rooms," he told the others once he arrived back downstairs, casting an eye over the preparations they'd already begun to make. "Mr Jib and Miss Nuncio will help us defend the Hotel."
Not a whit of his displeasure showed on his face or in his voice, but his gaze caught Skulduggery's eyeless skull and he knew the detective had seen it nonetheless.
Skulduggery would survive. Anton likely would. Fletcher Renn, unless he was smart enough to run, may as well. Nuncio was already dead, but she'd likely survive longer than Jib, who wasn't taking this seriously enough to last the battle either.
Civilians fighting.
In a sanctuary.
Billy-Ray Sanguine and Dreylan Scarab would pay.
~~~
Valkyrie opened her mouth to say something. She didn't get a chance. Solomon didn't get a chance. His spine and skin prickled abruptly with the kind of premonition far, far too late to be of any help at all, and his stomach turned over with that sick kind of fear.
His reactions were slow. He knew they were. He hadn't slept for more than a fitful couple of hours all told in the last thirty hours. The moment the shadows erupted at inside the apartment, the sorcerer had shot to his feet--and then stumbled when his vision burned white with dizziness.
Gritting his teeth, still able to hear Craven's smug voice over the pulse in his ears, Solomon instinctively reached out to retaliate--and realised, too late, that he couldn't. His magic thrummed just out of reach, a heaviness in him whose location he couldn't quite pinpoint except it was everywhere. He knew it was there. Untouchable. His skin burst with goose-bumps and he shuddered violently with the sudden cold wash.
Only a few moments. A few brief moments of slowed reaction times as he went for the gun inside his coat, drew it, levelled it at Craven, and fired. The living-room was small; he didn't need much space. At this distance, even in his condition, he ought to be able to wound Craven badly. If.
If Craven's reflexes were as bad as Solomon's currently were.
If Craven wasn't expecting the gun.
If Solomon hadn't wasted too much time with magic he could no longer use.
no subject
The question was whether they could handle them without most of the hotel's inhabitants being killed and-or turned. Whether they could handle them without losing even one Remnant. Whether they could handle them without either Fletcher Renn or Anton himself becoming victims.
And whether they could handle them without losing the lead on Sanguine.
"I will charge Hotel damages to your tab," Anton informed Sanguine calmly as he turned toward the stairs to go and ask the other residents if they planned to join them. Most of them, as expected, offered a resounding no. He advised those to barricade themselves inside their rooms.
But two, Mr Jib and Miss Nuncio, agreed to help defend the Hotel. Anton was a bit surprised, and both saddened and gratified, by the latter, though he didn't show any of it. Nuncio's field of magic wasn't combat-based. That she would volunteer even so spoke well of her.
Anton already knew she wouldn't survive to see the next dawn. Civilians. That he should have to ask civilians to be cannon fodder again. Sanguine and his father weren't going to escape this unscathed, he promised himself as he made his way downstairs, foolhardy Mr Jib puffing and brave Miss Nuncio pale.
"Most of the residents have chosen to bar themselves in their rooms," he told the others once he arrived back downstairs, casting an eye over the preparations they'd already begun to make. "Mr Jib and Miss Nuncio will help us defend the Hotel."
Not a whit of his displeasure showed on his face or in his voice, but his gaze caught Skulduggery's eyeless skull and he knew the detective had seen it nonetheless.
Skulduggery would survive. Anton likely would. Fletcher Renn, unless he was smart enough to run, may as well. Nuncio was already dead, but she'd likely survive longer than Jib, who wasn't taking this seriously enough to last the battle either.
Civilians fighting.
In a sanctuary.
Billy-Ray Sanguine and Dreylan Scarab would pay.
~~~
Valkyrie opened her mouth to say something. She didn't get a chance. Solomon didn't get a chance. His spine and skin prickled abruptly with the kind of premonition far, far too late to be of any help at all, and his stomach turned over with that sick kind of fear.
His reactions were slow. He knew they were. He hadn't slept for more than a fitful couple of hours all told in the last thirty hours. The moment the shadows erupted at inside the apartment, the sorcerer had shot to his feet--and then stumbled when his vision burned white with dizziness.
Gritting his teeth, still able to hear Craven's smug voice over the pulse in his ears, Solomon instinctively reached out to retaliate--and realised, too late, that he couldn't. His magic thrummed just out of reach, a heaviness in him whose location he couldn't quite pinpoint except it was everywhere. He knew it was there. Untouchable. His skin burst with goose-bumps and he shuddered violently with the sudden cold wash.
Only a few moments. A few brief moments of slowed reaction times as he went for the gun inside his coat, drew it, levelled it at Craven, and fired. The living-room was small; he didn't need much space. At this distance, even in his condition, he ought to be able to wound Craven badly. If.
If Craven's reflexes were as bad as Solomon's currently were.
If Craven wasn't expecting the gun.
If Solomon hadn't wasted too much time with magic he could no longer use.
No time to think--just to hope.