“You have to protect ,” Ferromancer blurted, pressing herself to the console by the pillar and looking between her forr allies with wide eyes. “I can stop Venus. I’m not—”
“Shut up,” Striga said coldly. “Get to work.”
Ferromancer swallowed and nodded. She turned around, opened her briefcase to extract so tools, and started tinkering with the machine.
Howl whirled on the heroine. “Are you really going to trust her? Was that whole insane exchange not proof that she’s betrayed us?”
“She has. She still might be useful. I don’t think Mordacity was lying about wanting Venus dead. I hate that she’s backed into this corner, but she has; we have to trust that Archon and Agatha will do their part topside.”
“Company,” Harlequin suddenly announced, and half a second later it was true.
Three mahou appeared in front of the group: Bombshell, Green Thumb, and Riddlemaster. All three of them had glazed, bloodshot eyes, with pinpricks of gold in their pupils. Brainwashed. Puppets of Venus.
As if that would slow her down. “Hold nothing back,” Striga ordered. She dove into battle, spear aid at the throat of the nearest enemy—only to be enveloped in the warm sands of Riddlemaster’s projected world.
Striga sighed. She’d faced this one before, many tis, in the grand theater of Coterie-Vanguard violence. The witch was, in essence, a useful idiot; picked by the Jovians to be annoying, desirable only as a disposable pawn. What disappointnt would be presented to Striga this ti?
A stone sphinx towered over her, eyes flashing white. In Riddlemaster’s voice, it intoned the question, “There is one father and twelve children; of these each—”
“Year, months, days, nights,” Striga answered irritatedly. “That one’s famous, co on.”
The dunes of the sphinx’s domain dissolved back into the cold steel of the heart chamber. At a glance, Howl and Harlequin had sprung into action against their opponents, already trading blows and calling forth familiars. Striga stepped toward Riddlemaster—
The dunes returned. The sphinx towered. Striga paused. That had never happened before. Since when was the witch even capable of a repeat effort?
The sphinx said, “Alive without breath, as cold as—”
“Fish. From The Hobbit. Seriously?”
Steel. A step. Sand. A question.
“What is greater than god, more evil than the devil—”
“Nothing.”
Steel. Forward. Sand. Riddle.
“A cowboy rides into town on Wednesday—”
“The horse’s na is Wednesday. Next.”
Each ti she solved the riddle, she inched closer to the witch. Riddlemaster was bleeding from the eyes, ears, and nose, her body and mind straining under the task she had been put to. The endless repetition should have been impossible for her, but she wasn’t the one calling the shots; Venus willed it, so Riddlemaster would push herself until she died.
“What can you put in a bucket that will make it lighter?”
“A hole. Like the hole I’m going to put in your goddamn gut.”
“What herb cures all ills?”
“Thy, which is really more of a pun, and doesn’t even work unless you consider dying of old age to be a ‘cure’ for things, but I know that’s the right answer so let out, damn you.”
“When is a door not a door?”
“When it’s ajar. I know you’re brainwashed right now, but I’m still going to enjoy killing you for that one.”
And then, at last, the distance was closed and Striga’s spear flashed forward, right through the heart—and one last ti, the dunes rolled in, the hot sun blazed, and a crumbling sphinx looked down on the heroine.
She could see the real Riddlemaster overlaid, her face drenched in her own blood, hands clutching at the wound in her chest, about to die. Her lips, cracked and raw and wet, quavered before speaking her final riddle.
Riddlemaster asked, “What… is my favorite color?”
Striga stared. Striga blinked. Striga kicked at the sand and scread, “That’s not a fucking riddle! Do you get it? That’s! Not! A! Riddle! There’s no clever wordplay, it’s not creative, it’s just a subjective fucking question that I have no way of knowing the answer to! Why would I know that? Why would anyone know that? You could at least have the decency of phrasing it like ‘what is a sphinx’s favorite color,’ but even that would still be lowbrow, you jackanape! You’ve never had an original thought in your life! I hate you!”
Breathing heavily, teeth clenched, Striga stood in the sand and glared at the sphinx, which asked, “Is that your final answer?”
Striga threw up her hands. “Gold! I’m going to say gold is your favorite color, and I don’t care if you try to tell I’m wrong, because your power is stupid and that was a stupid question and I believe, right now, that you’re so shallow and crude as to have that as the answer.”
The domain faded, appeased, and Striga twisted her spear through Riddlemaster’s heart. With Minerva’s gift she reached for whatever Venus had left on the witch and tore it away, devouring so small trace of the other egregore’s power and feeding it to the Morrigan’s artificial seal through the connection they’d established.
The body of Riddlemaster slumped, spent, and the lights went out in her eyes. Striga controlled her frustration and resisted the urge to kick the corpse.
While she’d been stuck in her own personal hell, her allies had made short work of the pot-grower, Green Thumb. The plant-controlling magical girl lay dead on the ground, her body flowering. Was that really the best opposition that Venus could muster, or was it just an insult?
Bombshell was clearly the heavyweight of the trio. She’d already progressed to the second stage of her battle aura—when it turned purple—and had left a trail of Harlequin bodies splattered in her wake. Her simulacra chased after Howl, and by the look of Howl’s arm they’d already gotten one or two good hits in. The copies were a good counter, Striga noted, thanks to their talent for catching arrows and deftly evading the kinds of shots that couldn’t be caught. They’d forced Howl into lee, where she was adequate but not exceptional.
Taken from , this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Harlequin was good at taking hits; though each strike of Bombshell’s fists pulverized flesh and bone alike, the limit of her speed fell distantly below her opponent’s regeneration. The two witches were deadlocked. Harlequin’s proliferating clones held the line against Bombshell’s relentless assault, forming a wall of flesh to protect the machinist at the console. Ferromancer worked furiously, assisted by multiple drones, and flinched at one of Harlequin’s bodies skipping to a halt beside her before getting back up to rejoin the fray.
That impasse wouldn’t last; Bombshell grew stronger with each exchange, and once she hit her blue phase she would certainly have enough power in her limbs to blow through all of Harlequin’s bodies at once and reach Ferromancer.
Striga would not allow that to happen.
Her spear flashed and Bombshell turned, only narrowly avoiding the heroine’s first strike. Bombshell’s movents were precise, her power impressive. Striga was better. They danced, magical girl and witch, with blade and fist and keen instincts. The aggressive Bombshell was imdiately on the defensive, forced into her most strenuous moves just to evade a killing blow.
“I’ve been watching you for so ti,” Striga said coolly. “You left Visage for the sake of one day eting in battle, didn’t you? I took note. I studied your fights.”
And she knew the witch had done the sa; she heard by chain of whispers that Bombshell had gone to nearly everyone with the privilege of facing Strix Striga and living to tell the tale. The fights that didn’t matter, the fights for theater, but they still conveyed sothing of how Striga fought. Bombshell had gone in search of the other fights, the killing fights, to less success; those who witnessed such a thing were usually the kinds of allies that would not carelessly spill their comrade’s secrets.
Her learning showed, nevertheless, in the skill with which she kept up. She threw her weight around carefully, falling for no bluff and attempting none of her own. Against Athena, which could predict her movents perfectly, Bombshell stuck to moves that would carry no great cost if—when—they were countered.
“It’s a sha,” Striga continued, “that it’s happened while you’re in this sorry state. Can you enjoy our clash while that monster has her strings wrapped around your brain? Can you feel anything?”
The witch’s next punch was thrown with just a trace too much force, a single mote of anger. A crack in the blank, expressionless mask that was her face. So the control isn’t absolute. Interesting.
“Thank you,” Striga said aloud. “That was instructive.”
To her credit, Bombshell was a worthy opponent. In a proper duel, Striga would have been hard-pressed to defeat her quickly. Therefore, she cheated.
Striga drew on Minerva’s blessing, pouring borrowed power into her limbs and core. A second of movent was compressed into a tenth of a second, a hundredth, and she lashed forward in a blinding flash. Bombshell’s skin was tough as titanium, enhanced by magical durability, but still it yielded softly to the tip of Striga’s spear.
Her spear punched up through the witch’s throat, past her jaw, into her brain, and then withdrew just as quickly. Striga flicked blood and brain matter from the blade as Bombshell lurched, fell, and crumpled.
She breathed out. The burst of power left her, spent, but she didn’t have ti to stand around recovering. A quick scan of the battlefield confird that all three threats were neutralized and no new enemies had appeared. Doubtless, Venus would throw more at them the first chance she could; they had to hope that damned wizard was doing her part to distract.
And, speaking of that wizard…
Striga walked over to Ferromancer and placed a single hand on the artificer’s shoulder, clamping down in an iron grip. The witch tensed, though she kept her focus on her work. Her gaze flitted to Striga for only an instant before returning to the machine.
“I’m not afraid of you anymore,” she lied. Her hand snaked into her shirt and pulled out a vial on a chain. Inside was a liquid that, by context, must have been the poison that the Morrigan had put in stasis. “You can kill , once, but my new employer can teleport. You’ll never catch to finish the job. So don’t bother threatening .”
Striga let that sit for a mont. Then she asked, “What happens when you finish your work? What happens to the energy?”
Ferromancer’s lip curled. “God, you’re a machine. No question about motive? Don’t even wonder why I’d turn on you? Who cares about the human elent, yeah? All you care about is your precious data.”
“I care about the millions of lives that your employer claid were in danger if anything went wrong with this process,” Striga said coldly. “Besides, you’ve never been subtle about your nature. That’s why we kept the poison in you.”
Fists clenched. Mouth tightened. Anger. Frustration. Hate. “You kept it because you liked having a bomb collar in your pocket, because you’re a control freak that needs everyone dancing to your tune. That’s why I did it, Striga. You don’t trust anyone, so why should anyone trust you?”
It probably was accurate to say that Striga had control issues. In this case, though, Ferromancer was clearly projecting; the woman who’d backstabbed her partner for a shred more power really wasn’t one to talk about issues of trust and control. How long until you turn on the wizard, I wonder…
“What happens to the energy?” Striga repeated. “Maybe I can’t keep you in the ground, Erica, but I can certainly make you miserable. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life on the run, never able to settle down in one place and open shop for more than a few months before I send soone to drag you out?”
More anger. More hate. Temper loosened her tongue. “It goes to the wizard!” Ferromancer hissed. “I don’t know where she’s storing it and I don’t know what she’s going to do with it. You probably know better than what use she might have for that much power.”
Nothing good. Nothing specific, either. Again, Athena humd, processing everything it knew about Mordacity and Hastur. Could she allow this? Did she have a choice?
“Striga!” Howl called. “Second wind!”
Striga whirled. Golden energy was flowing around the three defeated mahou, stirring them from death. Sothing similar had happened to Archon in the fight with Delilah—her soul returned to form sooner than it should have, by the hand of a higher power.
Behind her, Ferromancer slamd the console. “Done. Too late to stop it now.”
The power in the air shuddered. The lights flickered. The pillar groaned.
A goddess scread.
A figure crashed through reality into the heart chamber, cratering against the cold tal floor. It was Archon, Venus following her down, materializing in a burst of golden light. The form of the goddess hunched over Archon, seeming almost feral with rage as she swept her gaze across the room and took note of the intruders.
“Vermin,” she hissed, and a wave of power knocked everyone back. “Filthy rats, chewing on my wires! First the wizard, then Echidna, and now you wretches. Enough of this!”
Striga surged forward, her gaze locked on the curled form of Archon. Her beloved was in pain, clearly, and seed half-insensate.
Six other mahou materialized in, summoned in gold, but that was distinctly less than the sum it should have been. What had happened up above?
With gritted teeth, Venus shoved forth her power again and conjured a barrier of gold between herself and the advancing heroine. The barrier was fragile, weaker than it should have been, but it bought her a mont.
“You are all so hideous! Persistent, horrible little pests! But fine, if we must do it the hard way, then so we shall!”
nto, Radiance, Dusk, Dawn, Kira Kira, and Sweet Tooth swept forward to et Howl, Harlequin, and Striga, keeping them at bay. Venus raised her hand, conjuring into it a beating heart—Rachel’s beating heart.
And then she dropped to her knees and shoved it inside Archon’s chest. Striga cried out.
“You want my title so badly? You can have it.”
The image of Venus warped and distorted and lted away, leaving behind the body of Pearl Princess, which fell to the side, limp and unresponsive. Golden light flowed into Archon, concentrated on her chest, and blossod out like shimring veins through her limbs and up into her head, burning out through her eyes.
Archon rose, floating into the air, wreathed in golden light, and she laughed in the egregore’s voice.
“I am Venus, and you will all be made to serve.”
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