You have an idea. You hurl your iron knife, forcing a swift parry that earns your foe a slash from Verve. You lunge, chopping with the machete, and bury it in the half-oni's wrist. You know it'll hurt him less than iron, but honestly, that's not what you need it for.
When it sticks in his bone, you /wrench/, topping the creature sideways as his joint torques.
"IDIOT HERO!" the half-oni bellows, already shifting shape to get away from your blade.
In answer, you press your prosthetic against his chest, making him howl in pain - and slip the amulet over his neck.
The results are immediate. The outraged sounds of pain coming from the part-demon's throat become terror and agony. He claws at his neck with one hand, fingers too feeble even now to rip the amulet from his throat. You see him wither, shrinking in on himself, screaming in terror. His flesh shrinks and blows away as dust, and soon even the bones are gone, leaving only the amulet sitting on a lonely pile of what was once a living creature.
He only stopped screaming when he no longer had a throat.
Stunned silence fills the room, until Amy cuts the throat of the dog she's fighting while it's distracted.
It's like someone gave you a cue. You throw up.
* * * * * *
You are Brianna la Croix, and it's been a long day. A long, trying day.
You can still hear the Diviner's accusations ringing in your head, chasing Trust's offer around in your mind. You remember the smoke of your grandmother's incense, the night you killed your first man.
The fear in River's eyes when you taught her to make a shadow.
At least Emily and Hatchet are safe, for the moment. Not that it matters, you're out fucking cold. You'll wake up when you wake up.
Lora silently passes you a cigar and sits next to you.
"Need to talk?" the angel asks.
> No
> I'd like to talk to my grandmother
> Yes. Gods, yes.
