Situla was indifferent to the threat, she had nothing to fear from a mere human. She made toward Antoinette. Before she could try anything, she was lifted off her feet and thrown backward, almost off the bridge. I started. Spirit. A breacher. I reached for the æther, trying to identify it. It was something like a guardian angel, a very old and powerful one.

Archangel. An angel that remained with one family for generations, even after the person it saved had died. They were notoriously difficult to exorcise. The threnody wouldn’t banish it for long.

Situla regained her footing. “Hold still.” She took another step. “Let us find out what you are.”

She reached for a passing spirit—then another, and another, until she had a trembling spool. Antoinette kept her hand outstretched, but her face contorted when Situla began to feed on her. Her eyes turned a terrible vermilion, almost red. For a moment, I thought Antoinette would fall. A bead of blood slipped from her left eye. Then she cut her arm toward Situla, and the archangel shot toward her. The spool surged together to meet it. As the æther burst open, I ran.

Most Gillies were sighted. They’d be distracted by the collision between the spirits. They wouldn’t see me. They couldn’t. I had to get back to Dials. I sprinted toward Station I-1A.

Beneath my boots, the bridge shuddered with energy. I didn’t stop. I could see the sign above the station on the other side of the street. I shed my jacket and my body armor. It would make me faster, and once I got this damned mask off, I wouldn’t look like a red-jacket. Just a girl in a red shirt. I scanned the buildings, searching for footholds. If I couldn’t get into the station, I’d have to climb my way out of this. If I could just get onto the rooftops, I’d be safe.

Then I was aware of something else.

Pain.

I didn’t stop, but it was suddenly harder to run. It couldn’t be a bad injury. The archangel hadn’t come anywhere near me. Its concern was with Situla, the threat. I must have pulled a muscle.

Then a sticky warmth bloomed below my ribs. When I looked down, my red shirt was turning a different shade of red, and there was a small, round hole above my hip.

They’d shot me. Shot me like they’d shot the Irish students.