With his glyph finished, there's a moment where Carlisle feels emboldened. He's not one to feel confidence when facing the unknown, and the quandary of this exorcism does nothing to bolster his nerves; however, as he prepares himself to activate his glyph, he can't help but feel the least bit hopeful. Glacius is a powerful warrior, and Carlisle himself, albeit an amateur magician, is a capable healer. He— no, they can do this. He steps onto the point of activation -- it's too large for just his hands to serve as a conduit -- and the glyph slowly lights up, bit by bit. He bites back some initial tiredness clinging to him, his heart still racing as his energy works into every line of the painted seal. He must concentrate, he urges himself, pressing his hands together to contain his channel.

That concentration is almost broken as Glacius calls his name, leaps before him, and is pelted by the icy shards conjured by the demon, its own magic a bastardization of both the alien's and his own. As his defender collapses in a mangled heap, Carlisle feels the freezing spray against his face. It dots his glasses, his expression contorting as the disembodied mandible slides to a halt at his boot.

He is frozen in that moment, a torrent of emotions tearing through him: horror at the brutality; fear that the perpetrator will now come for him -- and it most certainly will, is. There's frustration he didn't inscribe faster or study harder so he could do so, and anger at his helplessness, that there's nothing he can do.

But there is something, and he must do it: not just for himself, but for Glacius and for Emily. He wants to run, either away or to his comrade's side, but forces himself to stay on his glyph, the light almost all the way around the circle. Even with his injuries, Glacius is trying to get back to his feet. He needs time, and perhaps, if nothing else, Carlisle can give him that. All he can do is hope his glyph works in some way, that she can be saved... that they all can be.

Carlisle steels himself and prepares to channel into his hands, hoping he might be able to deter the demon for another moment, but finds he never had a chance. The creature is far faster than him, and bolts right through his glyph, stepping across it before it is fully active. The clergyman hardly has time to process it, to see what happens before the demon rakes its claws against him. They tear through his tabard, through his jacket, through his flesh and down to his bone; the impact alone is enough to knock him off his feet, sending him skidding along the ground.

Though his senses are flooded with panic, Carlisle tries to rise, to get up against the pain in his chest; he fails, the injury and energy required to activate the glyph having completely drained him.

But as his eyes roll back into his head, he does see the glyph light up beneath the creature.