The fact that Skulduggery stopped short made Corrival's eyes narrow and the old sorcerer start to turn back toward them, but Skulduggery had already begun to talk by then. Moreover, Anton Shudder had, for the first time since last night, looked at either of them even remotely in the eye before looking away again uncomfortably.

So for the sake of Skulduggery's comfort of mind, Gabriel jumped in before--he hoped--Corrival's thoughts could progress too far. "Deal," he said, and mustered an almost teasing smile. "Just don't go leaping in front of explosions. I've already had to rescue you once."

With that he leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly and not inhaling again afterward. The Archangel detached himself, let his consciousness seep into the Stadium, felt and experienced all the joy and frustration and sheer energy of the crowd within it. He let all those souls pass by; he was searching only for one. It was a high-speed search, one that imbued himself almost fully into the building, and if he'd been a physical being the speed of it would have made him dizzy in the face of his injuries. As it was, it made his mind whiplash, and although he couldn't feel the throb of the rising headache, he did feel the metaphysical tremble which indicated its presence once he returned.

Then, all at once, there it was. A deep stain amongst the crowd, familiar and old and bitter. Magical, where most of the others weren't. Gabriel opened his eyes, and in them was an inconceivable distance and depth and breadth. "He's up two storeys, in the Staff-Only hall just before the Section-B terrace. He's waiting."

With a blink the Archangel withdrew back into himself, a snapback effect which shouldn't have hurt at all. For a moment the pain was suspended; then it came crashing in and all the blood drained from the Archangel's face. He closed his eyes, bit his lip, and let the wall take his weight as he tried to wrestle that headache into some semblance of mercy.