So she marched further into the room and yanked a submachine gun from the shaking hands of a startled Black Brigade soldier. She broke the trembling man’s neck with a hard chop of her left hand and he fell dead to the floor. Then she got a proper grip on the gun, slipped a finger through the trigger guard, and aimed the weapon at the crazy women sitting at her table.

“I’ve enjoyed our visit, but I’m very busy, so I’ll be killing you now.”

Her finger squeezed the trigger. Fire erupted from the muzzle. The weapon chugged and spit shell casings as the barrel tilted toward the ceiling. Bullets slashed through a chandelier and a rain of glittering white shards spattered the table like crystalline rain. Giselle eased her finger off the trigger and stared at the weapon with an expression that made her look like a befuddled child. Her first instinct was to blame the weapon itself. Recoil. The gun had a strong kick and she was not used to handling firearms.

But then she saw Dream’s devilish grin.

Her eyes went wide and her breath caught in her throat. She felt a moment of fear. Then she shoved the fear down and a snarl transformed her face, animal fury twisting her natural prettiness and turning it into something almost ugly. She brought the weapon to bear again, aiming it straight at Dream’s face. She squeezed the trigger again and waited for the thing she ached to see more than anything else, Dream’s pretty face blowing apart beneath the onslaught of a hail of high-velocity steel.

The barrel tipped toward the ceiling again and the bullets etched a jittery pattern of holes in the wood. She kept her finger down on the trigger this time and struggled to bring the barrel down, the muscles in her arms and neck bulging with the strain. But her arms seemed frozen, as if held in place by the hands of some invisible puppet master. The gun’s magazine clicked empty and only then did Giselle become aware of the mad, continuous roar emerging from her open mouth. The force holding her hands in place retreated, and she threw the useless weapon across the room with a cry of helpless rage. The gun’s stock struck a long, wall-mounted mirror and shattered it.

Dream’s black friend-who seemed vaguely familiar-laughed. “Look at that. Seven years bad luck. You done fucked up, bitch.”

The one called Marcy laughed.

The drooling lobotomy case made that unsettling chuffing sound again.

And Dream just kept on smiling, utterly unfazed by all the gunfire and drama.

Giselle’s teeth were clenched and her hands were curled into tight fists at her side. From the corners of her eyes, she could see the faces of the soldiers. Here and there she was able to discern tell-tale hints of smugness. Of a grim satisfaction. There, they were thinking. Now the bitch knows why the hard men are afraid.

And they were right, damn them to hell.

She exerted a considerable effort of will and slowly composed herself. In a few moments she was able to regulate her breathing. The flush faded from her face. Her fists uncurled and her jaw relaxed.

She forced a smile. “Okay, Dream. I know that was your doing. I can feel it.” She moved a few slow, deliberate steps toward the seated women. “Why don’t you tell me how you did it?”

Dream chuckled. “Oh, you know. If you think about it hard enough, that is.”

Giselle moved another step closer. And another. Slow. Casual. As sublimely cool and confident as a stoned surfer riding the crest of an early morning wave. Her eyes were locked on Dream’s. The rest of the world faded. There was only the two of them now. There was a sweet tension in the air that was almost sexual. She was putting herself out in the open, making herself as vulnerable as she’d ever been, clearing the channels to allow only pure truth to flow between them. In those moments she learned all she needed to know about Dream, and Dream saw the extent of Giselle’s own formidable powers.

Yet another step closer.

“The Master. Of course.” Giselle’s smile was almost radiant now. He showed you some things, awakened a dormant power within you. A power that grew beyond your ability to control and direct.” She laughed. “You’re not really human. Not purely. Somewhere in the distant past one of his kind mated with one of your ancestors. This is why you have become so strong without schooling yourself in the dark arts.”

Dream’s smile became a smirk. “Interesting theory. Might even be the fuckin’ truth. Thing is, I don’t really give a fuck. Not anymore.”

Giselle was within six feet of them now. Close to striking distance. Certain muscles began to subtly coil. “Is that so?” She arched an eyebrow, a faintly mocking expression. “Or are you just too much of a drunken mess to wrap your stupid head around any idea more complex than a knock-knock joke?”

Dream’s face turned hard. “Stop right there.”

And Giselle felt that force rise up against her again. It was impressive, the sheer ease with which Dream wielded her ability. But Giselle had been expecting it this time. And she was not without ability of her own. She threw up a psychic shield that repelled Dream’s energy pulse and knocked the woman back in her own chair. Dream gaped at her. Shock radiated from her every pore.

NOW.

Giselle loosed a shriek of fury and dove across the surface of the table, her right hand extended, long, sharp nails seeking Dream’s sky-blue eyes. Dream’s friends tried to intercept her, but another blast of energy sent them tumbling to the floor. Giselle slid across the table at high speed, her body knocking aside the wine bottle and glasses. Then she was on Dream, her left hand closing on the woman’s slender throat as the fingers of her other hand shot toward those gaping, stupid eyes. And for a flashing instant, Giselle felt her own smug satisfaction, thinking, stupid cow.

Then Dream’s hand snapped up and seized Giselle’s outstretched wrist. Giselle’s momentum alone should have been enough to finish the job anyway, and the power flowing through her should have sealed the deal.

But Dream’s strength blunted her momentum. The woman’s hand moved backward perhaps half a centimeter. Then stopped. Giselle’s wrist was frozen in place, but the rest of her body kept moving. Dream leaped to her feet and moved with the direction of that energy. She shifted her grip on Giselle’s wrist and exerted some force of her own. Then Giselle was airborne and flying toward the wall with no way to stop the impending crash. The top of her head smacked the wall, and an instant later she hit the floor with a hard, undignified thud. The pain was immense. Before she could even begin to consider her next move, she was yanked to her feet and slammed against the wall.

Dream put a hand around her throat and slammed her against the wall again. “How’s that feel, bitch! How’s that fucking feel!” Dream’s eyes were wide and bulging, pulsing with insanity and unmitigated fury. “Does it fucking hurt! Does it fucking hurt!”

Giselle’s vision blurred and she realized with shame that she had tears in her eyes. She didn’t bother to answer the crazy woman’s question. Of course it hurt. But the pain wasn’t the worst of it. The thing that really got to her was how powerless she was to stop this abuse. And she almost felt like laughing, despite everything, because now she had the gift of clarity and could see how arrogant she had been. Had she really felt like a god? As if nothing or no one could ever hurt her again?

She bit her lip. Hard. Tasted her own blood.

And called out to the void.

Azaroth! Help me!

No answer from the void.

Just the sound of her head banging repeatedly off the wall as the world turned fuzzy. She wondered if she was about to die and felt a moment’s perplexion at how little she cared. As she neared unconsciousness, she thought of the essential ways in which the blood sacrifice of Eddie King had changed her. Maybe she’d really died back then, the real Giselle, and the thing she was now was just some magical construct, a joke played on her by a malicious god. Azaroth. The silent one. Her former coconspirator against the Master. Her restored hands. A body, whole again.