Tome's account of events that have taken place here.
Pacing back and forth, the Mastigos wringed his hands and pitched spell after spell at the wards until they finally shattered. His casting had become more and more extreme, until he nearly pulled out the scalpel...but for now, that little secret was kept under wraps properly.
Scanning about, he could not find the location of the captured Hierarch. He narrowed his eyes and turned to the others with a shake of his head and opened a scrying window in the pocket mirror he had with him, turning it to Old Lady Fate and nodding to her encouragingly.
He should have remembered her namesake.
Peering into the reflection, she saw it all...he could tell that much. The wizened, ancient Romani woman closed her eyes and shook her head slowly as she muttered, "He has passed on."
Pacing back and forth, Tome mulled over the possibilities and tried more castings. Anything could be forged--that was often the problem with magic and death--and so these situations could be faked.
The rumble of a motorcycle suddenly snapped the Ladder out of his reverie as Levi sped off. For a moment, Tome pondered the rudeness of leaving without some indication, but this was interrupted by the realization: Death leads to vengeance amongst the martial minded.
Tome retrieved his mirror from the old woman and peered into it. Blood began to trickle from his nostrils as his head pounded and his veins stood on end against his skin, concentrating on the identity of one Theodore Levi Rosenberg as the tug of resistance from numerous protection spells culminated to prevent him from trying to retrieve the emotionally distraught Arrow before he could harm himself. Supernal fists pounded at the barriers and pulled at the threads, ricocheting impotently against whatever impenetrable barrier Jericho's enraged mind had mustered.
All at once, the barrier shattered, but there was nothing to behold. No Jericho, no adversary...nothing. A horrible silence suddenly punctuated by a distant explosion was knowledge enough of what happened.
The ties of bindings had been cut away and frayed, letting the edges blow about into convoluted tangles. In his mind, Archibald struggled to retie them in a way that made sense and did not threaten to unravel his network of friends.
Lowering the mirror slowly, Tome looked at the remaining mages and wore his best grieving face. He knew that there was more to feel in the human condition than he often exhibited, but for now he felt the absence of old friends and the loss of the consilium's most stable foundations. He mulled over the calculations of what he would have to tell Lex, Zohar, Indigo, Olivia...everyone who he'd shared friendship with in common with Jericho--no, Camael.
There was much to do. Too much. He gathered the others together and drove them back to The Oxford, keeping his outward appearance as normal as societal expectations allowed while his mind whirled with plans and thoughts of what needed to be done in Denver to ensure these deaths did not cripple them.
It was the only course of action he knew for the moment.