But the fourth man’s cosh got through. An upward backhand which Bernard only half blocked with his free arm. The weapon glanced off his brow. Bernard saw the sky swim and was suddenly down on one knee. The thug with the cosh moved to stand over him, planted himself just above him. With a grunt of effort, the thug lifted the blackjack high in the air, ready to slam it down with all his might into Bernard’s exposed skull.

Still kneeling, still dazed, Bernard drove his open hand up between the man’s legs and made a fist.

“Oof,” said the man.

He curled up like burning paper and went down to the pavement.

Bernard swayed unsteadily up Harper’s back. Regained his feet, leaning against her. Frankenstein and the thug with the splattered nose were already up as well, weaving around in front of him, but not quite ready to attack again. The other two were rolling in the street, clutching wrist and crotch, groaning.

The man with the scarred lip made a move in anger. Harper jabbed—hoisted him onto his tiptoes at the point of her blade.

“You know, I’m just crotchety enough to kill you,” she said.

“You stupid old slag,” the scarred man spat back. Pinned high at the end of her sword, he let his pink eyes flame down at her. “You know who you’re mucking with. He’s being good to you, isn’t he? For old time’s sake. You think he can’t finish this whenever he likes? Whenever he likes? No fear, bitch.”

Terror and fury and excitement all went through Harper in a bolt and she cut him. Jerked him off the point of her sword with a flick that nicked his chin.

The scarred man cried out, staggered backwards, grabbed at the wound with both hands. He looked down at the blood on his fingers. Cursed and stared black death at her.

“Since I am a bitch,” she said, “beware my fangs.” She had a weakness for paraphrase too.

The scarred man was speechless. Bleeding. All he could do was point at her. Point a threatening finger at her once, twice, three times—but all the while, withdrawing, fading away from her down the street, into the night. The others, seeing him go, were also starting to pull back. The two on the ground, clambering up shakily, joined the retreat. All sent dark warning glances at Bernard where he crouched, panting, with his hands up weakly before him.

And so the circle of men dissolved backwards into the shadows. They grew dimmer and dimmer, the scarred man still pointing his finger at Harper, pointing again and again.