The dagger stopped two inches from his throat.
Not because of mercy, but because Raziel's hand was already moving.
The iron-bound tome he had used to crack the assassin's skull was still in his grip and he shoved it upward, catching the blade against the metal spine.
The impact jarred his entire arm.
The green glow of the poison hissed against the iron, eating into the book's cover, but the dagger deflected left and buried itself into the wooden shelf behind his head.
The assassin grunted and yanked the blade free, and that bought Raziel one second.
He used it.
He dropped his weight, went low, and rolled between the man's legs.
The archive floor was covered in fallen parchment and broken glass from the candle brackets and the glass cut into his palms.
But he was already up, already putting a heavy oak reading table between himself and the killer.
'Think. Stop panicking and think.'
