There is a part of Eliot's psyche, the part that isn't completely frozen and scared shitless, that feels a deep and abiding irritation at the very idea that this is what's happening. Of all the things he's done in his life, all the nonsense he's endured, fantastical and otherwise, here he is about to get murdered by a fucking ghost. It's offensive, really, the gall of this awful city to do this to him. A ghost, really? Eliot's better than this, he shouldn't be laid low by an evil shadow creature like an amateur.

He frowns, the anger giving him some small bit of momentum, and if Martin weren't recovered enough to get up and haul him back, if he didn't need two hands to cast the spell, he'd be ready to magic missile this fucking thing's amorphous face off.

But instead he is tugged to his feet, and scrambles back with Martin into another room--the bedroom, he realizes, once Martin slams the door shut. For whatever reason the little bit of wood is enough to make him feel somewhat safe, even though he knows logically if the thing wanted to, it could probably come straight through. But it didn't seem to follow them as they retreated, and it might only move slowly. They might have time to come up with...something.

"So," Eliot says, panting for breath as he braces against the door, "I love what you've done with the place."