Bobby, making use of that moment of distraction, had grabbed the giant’s ankle. Her hands barely closed around it, but she squeezed hard, with all the supernatural power of Feor’s magic in her grip. Something broke with a snap, and the giant wobbled. He brought his great fist down between Bobby’s shoulder blades with another bone-breaking sound, but Bobby hung on grimly, grinding broken chunks of his ankle between her fingers.

Barley, though skilled with her knives, was no Sothe. Her furious assault had driven the Penitent Damned back, but the old man had more agility than he’d let on. He blocked a cut aimed at his head and let his nails trace paths along her forearm, scoring bloody trails through her skin. Barley screamed, dropping one of her knives, and the Penitent closed his hand around her wrist and swung her into the wall, her head cracking hard enough to leave a dent in the plaster. He raised his fingers to her face, then spun, warned by some movement in the air behind him.

Joanna was back on her feet, one arm sheathed in red, breathing heavily. The old priest feinted at her wounded side, other hand ready to slash when she dodged, but the big woman simply bulled through the attack. His nails cut deep into her slide, slicing through skin and muscle and grating against bone, but she kept coming, swinging a balled fist hard into his face. Blood sprayed from his nose as it broke, and he staggered back in time to get a roundhouse punch to the side of the head that sent him sprawling to the floor on top of one of the Patriot corpses.

Winter’s opponent, backward against the wall, spun away from Sothe and left himself open to her sword. She lunged, almost instinctively, and realized too late that the move was a feint. He was already sliding away, and her saber slid through the wallpaper and the plaster underneath to strike a wooden beam and stick hard. One of his knives was already coming up toward her wrist, and only by hurriedly releasing her sword did she manage to avoid losing a hand. She backed up, pawing for another weapon, as Sothe stepped in front of her.

A change had come over the black-clad assassin. Her fighting, which earlier had approached ragged desperation, had regained the icy calm with which she’d dispatched the Patriot Guard. Her moves were careful and precise, none of them close to striking home, but keeping the Penitent on the defensive and backing away. As the pair of them passed her, Winter was astonished to see the Sothe had her eyes closed, hands moving as if by pure instinct in the complex dance of blades.