"I have a closet full of suits," Dexter groaned. "It was raining this morning. I wore something weather resistant. But I want more suits. Suits I can leave in my closet here. When I get a closet. Or maybe a phone-booth. And that was Sol's idea. He wanted to engage the leth- lethal Russian assassin with a broken wrist. Hey--hey, Sol. At least I broke his wrist in revenge for you."
"Just what I always wanted," Solomon muttered. "Stop talking before you suffocate."
"Th- thought you'd never order." Dexter's voice lapsed into a raspy, gasping breathing. At least it wasn't gurgling, which meant nothing was punctured, but Dex's broken ribs were obviously putting pressure on his lungs.
Solomon put his back against the wall and fumbled for the sword's hilt with his good hand, but it was too light to have been sheathed. Useless as a cane then, and nothing to fight. He rested his head against the wall with a sigh in lieu of knowing how to reply to either Ghastly or Skulduggery. The first, grimly aware. The second, rattled but genuine. The genuineness was somehow startling.
"He was about to kill me," he said tiredly, answering Ghastly first. "I used the only weapon I had left." He hadn't realised there had been light, but maybe he should have. Whenever he used his magic now, it registered on the physical plane somehow. After a moment he tilted his head toward Skulduggery and said softly, so only the detective could hear him, "It was easier this time. I wasn't fighting the lifestream for control."
With his eyes closed, all the near details were foggy and yet somehow the ones further away were ... distinct. He could sense the angels in the corridor, the wards. Something else. Like a trail of footprints. He couldn't tell where they led, but he knew that those footprints held an echo of a scream. Solomon opened his eyes to look at Skulduggery. "Where did all your power go? Can you tell?"
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"Just what I always wanted," Solomon muttered. "Stop talking before you suffocate."
"Th- thought you'd never order." Dexter's voice lapsed into a raspy, gasping breathing. At least it wasn't gurgling, which meant nothing was punctured, but Dex's broken ribs were obviously putting pressure on his lungs.
Solomon put his back against the wall and fumbled for the sword's hilt with his good hand, but it was too light to have been sheathed. Useless as a cane then, and nothing to fight. He rested his head against the wall with a sigh in lieu of knowing how to reply to either Ghastly or Skulduggery. The first, grimly aware. The second, rattled but genuine. The genuineness was somehow startling.
"He was about to kill me," he said tiredly, answering Ghastly first. "I used the only weapon I had left." He hadn't realised there had been light, but maybe he should have. Whenever he used his magic now, it registered on the physical plane somehow. After a moment he tilted his head toward Skulduggery and said softly, so only the detective could hear him, "It was easier this time. I wasn't fighting the lifestream for control."
With his eyes closed, all the near details were foggy and yet somehow the ones further away were ... distinct. He could sense the angels in the corridor, the wards. Something else. Like a trail of footprints. He couldn't tell where they led, but he knew that those footprints held an echo of a scream. Solomon opened his eyes to look at Skulduggery. "Where did all your power go? Can you tell?"