They were the exact same conditions as last time. The ones which Gabe had been entirely incapable of keeping. He bit his lip and ducked his head with chagrin, but nodded. He was about to say something when--
"Hey, man, I'm not sure whether to be approvin' or disappointed on Gabe's behalf. Here I'd have figured you want him under your hands all day long."
Gabe's face reddened and he made a very un-angel-like strangled noise, his hand jerking up as he made to--to--to do something. Like maybe take Rafe's voice. Except he couldn't, because he'd just promised, and Rafe was dancing away laughing like a loon while Gabe stood there blushing.
All of a sudden he wasn't sure about this 'free-will' thing. It shouldn't have even been embarrassing, at least not for himself. Rafe knew he wasn't interested in sex.
It was just that Skulduggery was embarrassed. Because Skulduggery was new enough to these feelings, and he had been a sexual being, and it implied things that were inappropriate without even considering that Skulduggery considered this inappropriate to begin with. So even though it was embarrassment on Skulduggery's behalf, it was intense, uncomfortable, and something Gabe could do a great deal without.
He ran quickly through several courses of action before decided ignoring Rafe was once again the better part of valour and turned back to Skulduggery. "I'll trade you one use of my healed wings if we can start on this investigation now, with whomever wants to join us."
"Oh, good, 'cos I always wondered--"
"--except him," Gabe added, politely ignoring his brother. Or at least as politely as possible when he was still red and outright ignoring someone.
The Archangel was almost certain that, right at this moment, it was an offer Skulduggery wouldn't be able to refuse. Gabe couldn't blame him at all. And when Skulduggery took him up on that offer, he swept the detective away while trying not to think of all the quips about the two of them being alone which Raphael was going to make in their absence.
~~~
Something was wrong. Something was--something was wrong. Very wrong. It wasn't any physical sense; not sound, not taste, not smell or touch and most certainly not sight, because he was fairly sure his eyes were closed. At least, he hoped his eyes were closed. He couldn't be entirely sure, because there was something about this blackness that was also ... wrong.
To be perfectly honest, Solomon wasn't even sure that he was awake. He felt like he was drifting, half-aware, in a haze. Except for a whisper ... some sort of whisper. Not anything from which he could hear details. Just enough to know there was one. And it was cold. It was so, so cold.
He wasn't shivering. He couldn't even feel his body.
He wasn't awake.
But then suddenly, with that realisation, he was. There was a hard stone floor under him. His eyelids flickered and dim light shone through their cracks. He took a breath and it hurt, hurt not because he was injured but because the motion had all other sensations filtering in. A low ring in his ears which he realised sounded exactly like the Scream. The cold, cold that twisted his insides, made him feel like there was a pin of ice in his heart. Something cold and seething, something which pricked his skin from inside out as if seeking an exit--or a fix.
Solomon cried out breathlessly and curled in on himself, breathing in the suffocating magic of death in this dimly lit room, and remembered.
Exiting the Hibernian wasn't as easy as just stepping out the front door, no matter how much Solomon watched it. There were backdoors, ones the ex-Necromancer had covered once he was well enough to actually scout them--and Skulduggery had pointed them out to him. Or refused to, until Solomon could point them out himself. Solomon had been caustic at the time, but he couldn't deny he'd appreciated the distraction.
Now he hurried through the backstreets, his heart pounding slowly, his skin alive with adrenaline. He was eminently aware of everything around him, the gun in one side of his coat and the knife in the other. And yet neither mattered; if he was found, he was a dead man.
So he just had to be careful not to be found.
He should have known better.
It wasn't that he had relaxed his guard. He hadn't. It probably wasn't even that he hadn't been careful enough while leaving. He'd been as careful as it was possible to be.
Sometimes being careful just wasn't enough.
Solomon felt the magic in the sick turn of his stomach, the sudden chill, the way his skin prickled in a way adrenaline just couldn't do. He stopped short on his way down the alley, his breath catching and hand snapping toward the gun. Even that short distance wasn't enough.
The Necromantic fist struck him just as his fingers grazed the handle; Solomon went flying back and hit the wall, winded twice over. He gasped for breath and his knees shook, but he didn't fall; something freezing yanked him back upright against the wall. Solomon's chest ached with lack of air, the shadows around his wrists and shoulders making his skin burn with ice and something deep within him coil and uncoil. He was helpless to do anything as Tenebrae walked forward and quite calmly rifled through Solomon's coat for both his weapons, tossing them carelessly aside.
"Solomon," he said in an admonishing, fatherly tone, "I'm disappointed in you. First you betray me--no." He shook his head. "You betray the Temple, the faith, and then you expect us to have given up watching you after only two days. For shame."
Solomon coughed, dragged in air, and managed to hold it. That didn't mean he could talk, though he tried; all that came out was a croak. Tenebrae lifted a hand. "No, no; there's no need for that. It really doesn't matter what you have to say. What matters, Solomon--" Tenebrae's voice turned gently stern. "--what matters is that you come home."
There were others in the alley, Solomon was dimly aware. Others drawing shadows and magic after them, shadows which shrieked in his head and made that tightness in his body worsen until his whole being rang with it. He tried to talk, but all that came out with a groan.
He didn't even see who struck the blow.
Laying on the hard stone floor, Solomon wrapped his arms around himself and tried to breathe. It was hard--almost impossible. His magic bubbled under his skin, whispering and demanding and scattering his thoughts everywhere. His mouth was dry, his stomach roiled, but his throat was too closed for even the consideration that anything might come up.
He was at the Temple, he knew. He couldn't be anywhere else. He was at the Temple, in one of the dungeons. At the Temple, in a dungeon, and all around him was death, death, death--
His magic shrieked and coiled with helpless need for an exit, and Solomon's body clenched, his fingernails digging hard enough into his palms to draw blood. The shadows around him were still; the war wasn't in them. He had no means by which to control them.
It hadn't been this bad at the Hibernian, Solomon thought dizzily.
He hadn't been in the middle of Ireland's most powerful seat of Necromantic magic at the Hibernian.
After an interminable length of time Solomon's body relaxed and he sank against the floor, panting, his shaking hands wrapped in his shirt to try and stave off the sting in his palms. Someone had taken his coat. It was dark. Dark, and whispering, and all the while, his magic simmered under his skin.
And he wondered how long he'd be able to resist it.
no subject
"Hey, man, I'm not sure whether to be approvin' or disappointed on Gabe's behalf. Here I'd have figured you want him under your hands all day long."
Gabe's face reddened and he made a very un-angel-like strangled noise, his hand jerking up as he made to--to--to do something. Like maybe take Rafe's voice. Except he couldn't, because he'd just promised, and Rafe was dancing away laughing like a loon while Gabe stood there blushing.
All of a sudden he wasn't sure about this 'free-will' thing. It shouldn't have even been embarrassing, at least not for himself. Rafe knew he wasn't interested in sex.
It was just that Skulduggery was embarrassed. Because Skulduggery was new enough to these feelings, and he had been a sexual being, and it implied things that were inappropriate without even considering that Skulduggery considered this inappropriate to begin with. So even though it was embarrassment on Skulduggery's behalf, it was intense, uncomfortable, and something Gabe could do a great deal without.
He ran quickly through several courses of action before decided ignoring Rafe was once again the better part of valour and turned back to Skulduggery. "I'll trade you one use of my healed wings if we can start on this investigation now, with whomever wants to join us."
"Oh, good, 'cos I always wondered--"
"--except him," Gabe added, politely ignoring his brother. Or at least as politely as possible when he was still red and outright ignoring someone.
The Archangel was almost certain that, right at this moment, it was an offer Skulduggery wouldn't be able to refuse. Gabe couldn't blame him at all. And when Skulduggery took him up on that offer, he swept the detective away while trying not to think of all the quips about the two of them being alone which Raphael was going to make in their absence.
~~~
Something was wrong. Something was--something was wrong. Very wrong. It wasn't any physical sense; not sound, not taste, not smell or touch and most certainly not sight, because he was fairly sure his eyes were closed. At least, he hoped his eyes were closed. He couldn't be entirely sure, because there was something about this blackness that was also ... wrong.
To be perfectly honest, Solomon wasn't even sure that he was awake. He felt like he was drifting, half-aware, in a haze. Except for a whisper ... some sort of whisper. Not anything from which he could hear details. Just enough to know there was one. And it was cold. It was so, so cold.
He wasn't shivering. He couldn't even feel his body.
He wasn't awake.
But then suddenly, with that realisation, he was. There was a hard stone floor under him. His eyelids flickered and dim light shone through their cracks. He took a breath and it hurt, hurt not because he was injured but because the motion had all other sensations filtering in. A low ring in his ears which he realised sounded exactly like the Scream. The cold, cold that twisted his insides, made him feel like there was a pin of ice in his heart. Something cold and seething, something which pricked his skin from inside out as if seeking an exit--or a fix.
Solomon cried out breathlessly and curled in on himself, breathing in the suffocating magic of death in this dimly lit room, and remembered.
Exiting the Hibernian wasn't as easy as just stepping out the front door, no matter how much Solomon watched it. There were backdoors, ones the ex-Necromancer had covered once he was well enough to actually scout them--and Skulduggery had pointed them out to him. Or refused to, until Solomon could point them out himself. Solomon had been caustic at the time, but he couldn't deny he'd appreciated the distraction.
Now he hurried through the backstreets, his heart pounding slowly, his skin alive with adrenaline. He was eminently aware of everything around him, the gun in one side of his coat and the knife in the other. And yet neither mattered; if he was found, he was a dead man.
So he just had to be careful not to be found.
He should have known better.
It wasn't that he had relaxed his guard. He hadn't. It probably wasn't even that he hadn't been careful enough while leaving. He'd been as careful as it was possible to be.
Sometimes being careful just wasn't enough.
Solomon felt the magic in the sick turn of his stomach, the sudden chill, the way his skin prickled in a way adrenaline just couldn't do. He stopped short on his way down the alley, his breath catching and hand snapping toward the gun. Even that short distance wasn't enough.
The Necromantic fist struck him just as his fingers grazed the handle; Solomon went flying back and hit the wall, winded twice over. He gasped for breath and his knees shook, but he didn't fall; something freezing yanked him back upright against the wall. Solomon's chest ached with lack of air, the shadows around his wrists and shoulders making his skin burn with ice and something deep within him coil and uncoil. He was helpless to do anything as Tenebrae walked forward and quite calmly rifled through Solomon's coat for both his weapons, tossing them carelessly aside.
"Solomon," he said in an admonishing, fatherly tone, "I'm disappointed in you. First you betray me--no." He shook his head. "You betray the Temple, the faith, and then you expect us to have given up watching you after only two days. For shame."
Solomon coughed, dragged in air, and managed to hold it. That didn't mean he could talk, though he tried; all that came out was a croak. Tenebrae lifted a hand. "No, no; there's no need for that. It really doesn't matter what you have to say. What matters, Solomon--" Tenebrae's voice turned gently stern. "--what matters is that you come home."
There were others in the alley, Solomon was dimly aware. Others drawing shadows and magic after them, shadows which shrieked in his head and made that tightness in his body worsen until his whole being rang with it. He tried to talk, but all that came out with a groan.
He didn't even see who struck the blow.
Laying on the hard stone floor, Solomon wrapped his arms around himself and tried to breathe. It was hard--almost impossible. His magic bubbled under his skin, whispering and demanding and scattering his thoughts everywhere. His mouth was dry, his stomach roiled, but his throat was too closed for even the consideration that anything might come up.
He was at the Temple, he knew. He couldn't be anywhere else. He was at the Temple, in one of the dungeons. At the Temple, in a dungeon, and all around him was death, death, death--
His magic shrieked and coiled with helpless need for an exit, and Solomon's body clenched, his fingernails digging hard enough into his palms to draw blood. The shadows around him were still; the war wasn't in them. He had no means by which to control them.
It hadn't been this bad at the Hibernian, Solomon thought dizzily.
He hadn't been in the middle of Ireland's most powerful seat of Necromantic magic at the Hibernian.
After an interminable length of time Solomon's body relaxed and he sank against the floor, panting, his shaking hands wrapped in his shirt to try and stave off the sting in his palms. Someone had taken his coat. It was dark. Dark, and whispering, and all the while, his magic simmered under his skin.
And he wondered how long he'd be able to resist it.