Not fast enough. Not nearly fast enough. Solomon still wasn't quite recovered from his dizziness when Craven's Necromantic spear shot out. With a curse of his own, with Valkyrie's cry ringing, the sorcerer tried to twist out of the way.

Even with the armchair at his back, he should have been able to dodge--except that the sharp movement made the world turn on its axis, the white burn that never quite left washing over his vision again. His cane-hand flung out futilely to catch his balance and pain shot through his leg just under his knee. It shook and a moment later buckled, and Solomon gasped with the agony that jabbed all the way up his thigh.

Fortunately, he knew his apartment well. Very well. Its exact dimensions. He let himself fall against the wall beside which the armchair was located at cross-angles. It felt like he hit hard enough to jar even though he didn't. It was pure survival instinct which made him raise the gun again, finding Craven through his swimming vision and firing, his finger pulling the trigger again and again.