Sanguine was wrong. Solomon wasn't frightened; not in the way the Texan imagined. Not in the way he might have been, before, had he been helpless as a Necromancer. He was adrenalised, which was normal. He was determined, which was also normal. But he wasn't frightened. He was just resolute.
He wasn't going to die today. He refused. Not after all this, not after everything he'd been through. He would not.
Solomon steeled himself and lifted his head, watching Sanguine's soul. The smell and sight of that sluggish bleeding made his stomach roll; he clamped down on it. He was Solomon Wreath, and no matter his blindness or magiclessness, he would not let this cretin intimidate him.
Besides, he may not have been so magicless after all. Not as magicless as Sanguine believed. Solomon stood straight-backed behind the desk, but he let one hand drop, pressing it into the surface of the lifestream. He felt the shiver in his soul, the breach of that surface like in China's library--a tingle in his fingers and being that would have made his breath catch had things not been so dire. It felt like magic, and at the same time didn't. It was too almost too raw; the only time he could remember feeling his magic this raw was during his Surge--both times.
There may not have been much he could do with it, but there had to be something. Sanguine didn't know he could see the sigil. Solomon didn't know how to kill him. He wasn't sure he wanted to see that in any case, but he could ... blind him. The lifestream was blinding in itself, and surely against a man such as this, with his eyes and his talent--surely a bolt of pure lifestream energy would do the job for long enough.
He clenched his fist, like he would have to gather a fistful of shadows. His magic resonated all in him, singing in his being and his hand, and for a moment he drank it in--that feeling of power. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed it. Hadn't realised how much he'd wanted it. Golden light wisped in his fist, like he was hiding a small sun, blocked by the line of the desk as Sanguine spoke. Solomon let him, let the power build for as long as he could afford, and took a step sideways to maintain some distance. That, and get him even just one step nearer to the door.
"Firstly, Skulduggery will know," he said, and then he smiled. "Secondly, you're not good enough to kill me." With those words he flung the gathered bolt of energy in his hand at Sanguine and whirled to run for the door, hoping there was nothing in his way.
Golden light exploded through the room, dazzling, searing beyond mere eyesight to a man whose soul was drowned in blood.
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He wasn't going to die today. He refused. Not after all this, not after everything he'd been through. He would not.
Solomon steeled himself and lifted his head, watching Sanguine's soul. The smell and sight of that sluggish bleeding made his stomach roll; he clamped down on it. He was Solomon Wreath, and no matter his blindness or magiclessness, he would not let this cretin intimidate him.
Besides, he may not have been so magicless after all. Not as magicless as Sanguine believed. Solomon stood straight-backed behind the desk, but he let one hand drop, pressing it into the surface of the lifestream. He felt the shiver in his soul, the breach of that surface like in China's library--a tingle in his fingers and being that would have made his breath catch had things not been so dire. It felt like magic, and at the same time didn't. It was too almost too raw; the only time he could remember feeling his magic this raw was during his Surge--both times.
There may not have been much he could do with it, but there had to be something. Sanguine didn't know he could see the sigil. Solomon didn't know how to kill him. He wasn't sure he wanted to see that in any case, but he could ... blind him. The lifestream was blinding in itself, and surely against a man such as this, with his eyes and his talent--surely a bolt of pure lifestream energy would do the job for long enough.
He clenched his fist, like he would have to gather a fistful of shadows. His magic resonated all in him, singing in his being and his hand, and for a moment he drank it in--that feeling of power. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed it. Hadn't realised how much he'd wanted it. Golden light wisped in his fist, like he was hiding a small sun, blocked by the line of the desk as Sanguine spoke. Solomon let him, let the power build for as long as he could afford, and took a step sideways to maintain some distance. That, and get him even just one step nearer to the door.
"Firstly, Skulduggery will know," he said, and then he smiled. "Secondly, you're not good enough to kill me." With those words he flung the gathered bolt of energy in his hand at Sanguine and whirled to run for the door, hoping there was nothing in his way.
Golden light exploded through the room, dazzling, searing beyond mere eyesight to a man whose soul was drowned in blood.