Fire leapt upward with a roar, streaming off the bonfire and swirling around the old woman like a glowing ribbon. An instant after, Marcus heard the crack of a rifle, and saw something hit the burning, twisting flames with a shower of sparks. The old woman didn’t even flinch, merely raised one hand, and bolts of fire slashed upward at the roof of the Silver Eagle.

“Oh, fuck,” someone said.

“Saints and martyrs.”

“It’s a demon. A demon!”

Several of the Leatherbacks were frantically making the sign of the double circle. Give them any longer, and they’ll run for it. He couldn’t blame them—fighting Patriots was one thing, and demons were quite another. We can’t give them time to think.

“Go!” he roared. “Now! Grenadiers, hit that woman with everything you have!”

Walnut, musket looking toylike in his enormous hands, swung the butt of the weapon into the glass of a window. It shattered, and he aimed through the gap and pulled the trigger, smoke boiling out of the lock and around the other Leatherbacks. To Marcus’ surprise, one of the Patriot Guards toppled.

That was enough to get the rest of them moving. A man old enough to be Marcus’ father pushed the double doors open and charged with a yell, waving a sword that looked older than he was. A girl younger than Andy followed, a butcher knife in each hand. More glass shattered, and an irregular volley of musketry veiled the face of the Silver Eagle building in smoke. Balls found a few more of the startled Patriots, while sparks flew from the whirling fire defending the Penitent Damned woman.

Walnut tossed his musket aside and hefted a long iron-banded staff, following the main group out through the double doors. Marcus, falling in beside him, drew his sword and added his voice to the others. It was pointless to try and exercise command of a crowd like this once battle had been joined—they would fight, or they would run, and there was very little he could do in either event. Besides, what orders are left to give?

The Patriot Guards took a moment to recover from their surprise, and another few moments to shoulder their muskets, in which time the attackers had covered much of the distance. When they fired, they were at close range, though still evidently rattled. Leatherbacks in the front line pitched over or crashed to the ground as though they’d tripped, moaning or screaming or lying still and silent. Marcus saw the rest were moving too quickly to falter, though, and clearly the Patriots agreed. As one man, they turned to run, but only those farthest from the Silver Eagle building got the chance. Leatherbacks and Dockwomen swarmed over the rest, clubbing and stabbing.