“Mmm,” Riley said. Slowly, she pulled her hand back, still holding the scalpel. She held her hand off to the side, and let the scalpel fall. “I won’t know what I did wrong until you tell me. Some people can put those pieces together, but I can’t.”

“Pay more attention to what you’re doing to my body and why.”

“Ah. That.”

“I’m not your weapon,” Ashley said. She pulled the tube away.

“You’re a weapon. We all are.”

“I’m a weapon, but I belong to me. My triumphs are my own.”

“Wonderful,” Riley said. She paused. “More water?”

“Yes.”

The door opened.

Amy Dallon. The woman had her hair tied back, and she wore a sleeveless tee that showed the tattoos that ran down her arms. She studied the room, reached out for the wheeled cart and moved it back into position.

“You’re up, Ashley,” she said. “That’s not usual.”

“I wanted water,” Ashley said.

“Sit. Minimize activity or have Riley do more to control the bleeding if you’re going to be up.”

Ashley hopped back up onto the table.

Riley fished out the bowl. Amy watched her go to the sink, followed her, and took the bowl from her. She found a glass and set to washing it, her finger swishing in the water to help with the cleaning.

“Work on the hands and I’ll get the water. I’ll check your work in a second.”

☽

If this works, it’s a point for me. A win in the game of capes.

If I don’t do this, I won’t be able to take Boston. If I can’t take Boston, there’s no point.

It was only a question of timing. She had to use her power right.

Her power was unpredictable whenever she used it. Using the blasts was easy when she could push out, the power would rip out, and it would kink and twist through the air, a mix of overlapping effects that worked very well together when it came to destroying whatever they touched. They didn’t, however, work well with her.

There were ways to shape the effect, but that was less easy. Every movement of her fingers threatened to make her power erupt, and over time, she’d learned that many common movements would lead to an eruption of power, unless she was very careful. Using her hands was slow, with any number of movements or variations of pressure threatening to make her power spill out.

There had been a time, sitting in her apartment for days on end, that she had worked to try and figure out the patterns. Before she’d fabricated a costumed identity for herself, she had fancied the idea of being a dark sorceress. Through training, she would have control.

The image had stayed, but the idea… no. She could do the same thing twice, and the power wouldn’t express in the same way.