Again, she heard the sound. This time, it struck a wall, carved it away like it was butter.

The wall fell away, and Cradle advanced, head low, passing between the four segments of Tattletale.

“Cradle—” the most intact part of Tattletale said. “You have a mole. Someone who tipped you off.”

“Learn your own lessons. Mercenaries follow the highest bidder,” Cradle said.

Darlene pushed out, connecting herself to Tattletale—to someone who had been carved into quarters and felt it. Then to Cradle. To stop him, to stall.

But that was all she could do. She watched as he found his bearings, straightened, and ended further discussion with a stomp of his boot vicious enough to mute out Darlene’s connection to Tattletale.

The whip flared as he cracked it, turning toward her.

Blinding 11.9

The armored van cut its way through the thin sheet of ice that crusted the road. I could hear the sound because the windows were all open, even the panels on the side, thick glass popped out and away. Our driver was a mercenary in black, Korean, with sparse facial hair at the upper lip and chin, one gloved hand on the wheel, the other hand holding a cigarette up near his face. It was cold as shit, and the comedown of the immediate danger meant my resistances were down, and I felt that cold twice as much as I normally might.

The open windows were partially for the cigarette, but the windows were mostly open for the smell. Being smothered by Nursery’s power meant being smeared and soaked with juices, and those juices smelled like a fine blend of blood, urine, apple juice, and ham juices that had gone slightly off. It was heavy enough on the air that I could breathe in through my nose and taste it in my mouth, back of the tongue to the tip.

The people in the back were enduring. Foil had Parian’s head in her lap, Aroa at the end of the bench with her head turned so her nose was by the air that rushed through the window. A very red, cold nose, but cold seemed preferable to smell. On the other bench, Rain sat beside Chastity, who had Candy beside her.

I could imagine having a conversation with my twelve-year-old self, seeing her starry-eyed at the prospect of being a superheroine, and that conversation stopping before it even started because she’d gotten a whiff.

My phone rang. I turned it over to see the screen, then raised it to my ear.

“Hi big V.”

“Little V.”

“Shit, are you sick? You sound sick, and that’d be miserable, on top of everything.”

“Not sick,” I said, clearing my throat. “A little froggy from pulling four pounds of unborn baby out of my throat.”