Sylvie’s hearing blacked out. She lunged out of her crouch like any linebacker and tackled Lilith around the knees, taking her to the roof. Or at least, that was her intent. Lilith’s body was as unyielding as granite. Side effect of the invulnerability spell? Or evidence of Bran’s power successfully integrated? Sylvie didn’t stop to theorize.
Lilith stopped the vortices with a frustrated shout, fisting them in one hand. She dodged Sylvie’s next lunge, but when Sylvie elbowed her in the throat, Lilith actually quailed. Sylvie noted it, but the neck jab had never been more than a feint. She had a more important target.
Sylvie’s other arm snapped out, a knife-edged hand aimed at one thing only: the spell sticks clenched in Lilith’s fist. She struck them straight on, yelped at the jolt they gave her, as unpleasant and as startling as the dentist’s drill. One of them slipped Lilith’s grip, and the golden glow stopped completely.
Sylvie made an attempt for the second stick, but Lilith burned some of her stolen power to fling Sylvie away without touching her. Sylvie, half-expecting it, rolled this time and saved herself a concussion.
Sylvie panted, “No finesse, no points for style. Brute force is so passe. Some god you’ll be.”
Lilith ignored her, scrabbling for the fallen stick, and Sylvie pounced, this time, directly for the neck: She liked it when Lilith flinched. She wanted to see it again.
Lilith’s back was to her, her nape bared as she fumbled the sticks back to her hands, back to spinning. Perfect for Sylvie. She got both hands around Lilith’s neck, but her nails made no impression. Lilith sent her sprawling back, without apparent effort.
But Sylvie had felt something beneath the bland button-down collar, a serpent slide of leather under her clawing fingers.
A flash of memory; Lilith in the subway, tricked out in goth cowboy gear, complete with sheriff’s star. It had hung from a woven leather thong. Then, Sylvie had thought it just wry fashion statement. But if Lilith wore it still, wore it when every other part of her masqueraded as a white-collar worker, from the crisp white blouse to the navy pumps beneath dark slacks—it might be something else. Something important.
A hailstorm of pebbles and gravel poured from the sky, stinging Sylvie’s bare hands, her neck, her head, increasing in size as the torrent continued. Sylvie huddled up, protecting her face, wincing as a rock the size of a softball pelted the roof inches from her, biting her lip as her back stung and welted.
Lilith was getting the hang of her stolen power and had found a way to keep Sylvie off her back from a distance.
Dunne was murmuring again; this time it wasn’t in any language Sylvie recognized, something liquid. She wondered briefly if it was aimed at helping her. She doubted it.
Sylvie rolled away, aiming for the shelter of the rooftop stairwell. Each step toward safety put Lilith farther from her reach.
The golden motes in the air swirled suddenly, blown as if in a sudden draft. A faint ripping sound reached her, and a sudden stink of arterial blood. Erinya emerged onto the roof in human form, sheeted in blood, with three livid claw marks across her face.
Magdala galloped into sight on Erinya’s tail, four-legged, skeletal, bat-winged, and heading straight for Lilith.
Lilith threw up her hand defensively; fire leaped from her fingers, first ruddy, then white-hot, coiling around her palm. The fiery blast washed over both Furies, tumbling them over the edge of the roof. Sylvie clapped hands over her eyes before realizing it wasn’t balefire, that she hadn’t just bought herself a ticket to an ashy death. Lilith wasn’t that strong yet, couldn’t summon balefire by wishing it. Yet.
The glow that stippled Lilith’s skin faded, as did the fire. The rocks pelting Sylvie shrank back to pea-sized, stinging, but mostly harmless. Lilith panted and forced the vortex spell back into action.
Don’t let her get that strong, the dark voice said. Stop her now. With no further plan than that, Sylvie moved forward. She didn’t even bother with stealth. Between the whine of the vortex spell, the rattle of falling gravel, and the Furies clawing their way back onto the roof, Lilith’s attention was well and truly elsewhere.
Lilith wasn’t a sorcerer, or hadn’t been. Her invulnerability had nothing to do with her immortality; she’d implied as much in the El station. It might have everything to do with an amulet. Gadget witches did so love their trinkets.
Sylvie got her hands on the cord, and Lilith knocked her back again, but it was too late. The thong whizzed through Sylvie’s clawing hands, the sheriff’s star thunked into her palm, and Sylvie yanked. The thong snapped, leaving a tiny red welt on Lilith’s neck, already beading with blood.
Lilith clapped her hand to it, eyes wide and wild.
“Forgotten what pain feels like?” Sylvie asked. “I’ll remind you.” She drew her fist back and punched Lilith in the face.
Stupid, the dark voice said. A wasteful blow.
But so very satisfying, Sylvie told it. Between her fingers, the thong seethed with motion and repaired itself. Sylvie laughed, and slung it around her own neck. Now, this is more like it.
Sylvie had never been all that fond of hand-to-hand fighting. She much preferred her guns, which made variables of size and strength almost irrelevant.
But this—she was just as glad the guns were spent. She craved Lilith’s skin shredding under her nails. Use her, would she? Sylvie didn’t play pawn for anyone. She stepped out into the spray of gravel, pausing for a brief second to enjoy the fact that she couldn’t feel its sting.
Erinya crouched low, ready to dive in, and Sylvie’s attention swerved. “Mine,” she growled.
Erinya dropped her eyes in surprising obedience. Lilith took the chance to murmur a spell under her breath and vanished. Magdala clambered over the roof’s edge, fighting her own weight, and sniffed. “Still here,” she growled. “Somewhere.”
Sylvie swept the rooftop with her gaze. An eddy of gold shimmered near the other side of the roof, not spilling over, but disappearing steadily nonetheless.
There, Bran said, a thready whisper.
No shit, she thought, already in motion. If she misjudged, if Lilith dodged the right way, Sylvie would find herself over open air, but that thought only occurred in the tiny piece of space and time between motion and contact. She slammed into Lilith hard, nearly had them both over the edge.
Doesn’t matter, the dark voice crowed. You can stick the landing. Sylvie laughed again, an edge of mania in it. Lilith flared under her hands, bubbles of power rising, bursting against Sylvie’s clutching hands.
“Burn,” Lilith said. The illusion of invisibility broke with her voice.
Sylvie’s shirt smoked.
Sylvie shook Lilith, even while slapping at her own skin, damping whatever blaze had started. The metal of the star felt warm against her skin.
Lilith jabbed at her eyes with the spell sticks, and Sylvie caught her wrist, pounded it against the edge of the roof. Lilith yelped. The sticks clattered free. Sylvie snatched them, ready to hurl them over the edge.
“Burn,” she heard Lilith shout beneath her, and the sheriff’s star on Sylvie’s chest burst into white-hot flame under Lilith’s touch. The star fell free; slagging as it went. Sylvie screamed as the molten metal wrapped around her arm for a brief caress before dripping to the ground. Her hands spasmed, and she dropped the spindles.
Beneath her, Lilith screamed also, as the effort she poured into breaking the invulnerability charm left her mostly human again. Sylvie wrapped a hand in Lilith’s hair, attempted to pound her skull into the roof.
Lilith gouged at Sylvie’s neck, reaching toward her eyes, and Sylvie rolled away, covering the spindles with her body. Lilith tried to get them, nails digging at Sylvie’s side, and Sylvie fumbled a rock into her hand. She brought it up, crashing it into Lilith’s temple. Lilith dodged in time to turn it into a scalp wound, nothing more serious, and Sylvie, in pure incandescent rage, rolled her over and struck down.