The last two days had been a mixture of relieving, stifling, boring, and utterly awful. On one hand, Solomon's knee was now mostly fine. The fact that it had been impaled with Necromancy made the treatment take longer than usual, but the thing that had really worked against him was being taken into a mortal hospital.
"What, did you think I could just dissolve all the stitches with a wave of my hand?" Professor Grouse had snapped. "You're going under the knife again, boy."
Not fun. At all. Solomon had resorted to cursing Skulduggery every which way. Fortunately, Kenspeckle's painkillers were far more effective. It had also all meant that by the time Solomon's knee was healed, Kenspeckle had refused to let him leave for other reasons. That had been an even more un-fun conversation.
Apparently there was something else ... wrong. Grouse hadn't been exactly sure what it was, except that his healing magic had read something odd in Solomon's body. Given what he'd just done with himself, Solomon had reluctantly agreed to stay in the Hibernian for a while longer. That, and because it was just as safe here, possibly safer, than anywhere else.
Grouse had told him to take regular walks. The Hibernian was big enough. Somehow, those walks tended to take him past the entrance, where Solomon often spent some minutes, or an hour, off a corridor where he could just see the door, wishing he didn't feel so much like a fox trapped by hounds. Wishing, also, that he didn't feel oddly ... cold. On occasion, but more frequently than before.
Which was when Erskine Ravel and Anton Shudder had walked in. At least, Erskine Ravel had walked in. Anton Shudder had been leaning on his shoulder, half carried by the other man. After a moment's hesitation, because both of these men were Skulduggery's friends and neither of them were particularly enamoured of Necromancers.
But he was no longer a Necromancer. After that initial uncertainty, Solomon had stepped forward to lend his own arm to the coughing Gist-user. The man's lips were flecked red. That wasn't a good sign. "What happened?"
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"What, did you think I could just dissolve all the stitches with a wave of my hand?" Professor Grouse had snapped. "You're going under the knife again, boy."
Not fun. At all. Solomon had resorted to cursing Skulduggery every which way. Fortunately, Kenspeckle's painkillers were far more effective. It had also all meant that by the time Solomon's knee was healed, Kenspeckle had refused to let him leave for other reasons. That had been an even more un-fun conversation.
Apparently there was something else ... wrong. Grouse hadn't been exactly sure what it was, except that his healing magic had read something odd in Solomon's body. Given what he'd just done with himself, Solomon had reluctantly agreed to stay in the Hibernian for a while longer. That, and because it was just as safe here, possibly safer, than anywhere else.
Grouse had told him to take regular walks. The Hibernian was big enough. Somehow, those walks tended to take him past the entrance, where Solomon often spent some minutes, or an hour, off a corridor where he could just see the door, wishing he didn't feel so much like a fox trapped by hounds. Wishing, also, that he didn't feel oddly ... cold. On occasion, but more frequently than before.
Which was when Erskine Ravel and Anton Shudder had walked in. At least, Erskine Ravel had walked in. Anton Shudder had been leaning on his shoulder, half carried by the other man. After a moment's hesitation, because both of these men were Skulduggery's friends and neither of them were particularly enamoured of Necromancers.
But he was no longer a Necromancer. After that initial uncertainty, Solomon had stepped forward to lend his own arm to the coughing Gist-user. The man's lips were flecked red. That wasn't a good sign. "What happened?"