She pushed herself to her feet and kicked, her boot finding a perfect spot on Vile’s ribs. She kicked again, and again, shunting him along the ground. He tried to get up and she grabbed his head, started twisting, aiming to pull the whole thing right off. Shadows flew at her, covered her face, cutting off her oxygen. She felt Vile slip from her grip and lashed out blindly. Her left hand connected with him and the shadows went away as Vile stumbled back.

They observed each other, and Darquesse smiled, then quickly lifted off the ground. Vile followed her. It was as if the night reached down and raised him up. Darquesse laughed.

She flew high, and fast, and he gave chase. The sky was cloudless, the moon half-full, the stars out over the countryside that flashed beneath her. He was gaining and so she flew faster. She glanced back in time to see him give a burst of speed, and they collided, went spinning through the air, grappling. Everywhere Vile was in contact with her spikes would grow. They couldn’t get through her clothes but they cut her hands, her neck, her face. She hit him but his mask had turned sharp and jagged and it punctured her fist, breaking the knuckles.

She kicked away, swooped under his grab and veered towards the lights of the city, to where the sky turned orange and hid the stars. As she flew, she examined the pain she was feeling, then dampened it and healed herself. Healed her back and her fingernails too, all the little cuts and scratches and bruises. It was freezing up here, but she didn’t care about the cold. The wind in her face, her hair blown back, the trouble she was having taking a breath… It was all just a part of being alive. And Darquesse liked being alive.

She looked back. Vile flew like a bullet, arms down at his sides, streamlined and efficient. She laughed, holding her own arms out like Superman. All she needed now was a cape.

The night snatched Vile away. One moment he was behind her, the next he was gone. She looked round and he emerged from the dark ahead of her but she didn’t alter her course. She curled her hands into fists and flew straight into him, catching him in the gut, speeding on with him folded over her. His left hand grabbed her wrist, squeezed it so tightly her bones broke. She healed them instantly. He reached to her with his right hand, his armoured glove finding her face, his thumb seeking her eye. She turned her head but he had a good grip. If he burst her eyeball, how quickly would she be able to repair it?