Between the roads. An idea popped into Sloan's head. She tilted the gun barrel downward, not at Cicero but at the ground directly in the path of her horse. The light tore into the gravel, churned and spat up rocks and clumps of black ash. Long lines carved deep through the roads, twisting and weaving as Cicero's horse scampered left and right to keep on undemolished surfaces.

It was working. Cicero did not stop, did not even stumble, but she did slow. The distance between her horse and the scooter quit shrinking, even began to widen as they entered a long decline into a portion of the city darker, lower, sparser, unencumbered by mindless humans to clog the passages of transport, walled in by sardine tenements. The Homura Akemi district. Sloan fired her magic wildly along the length of the narrowing streets, wrecking whole swaths of terrain, cleaving smaller and smaller pieces of stability for Cicero to use. Close now. Maybe a few more minutes. Then Chicago is done and Sloan finally gets the chance to meet Satan herself.

(Chapter 37)