Secret Histories feats (From Hell With Love)

Some more explanation of what an aboriginal pointing bone is capable of in the right hands:

Another soldier stepped up, and stabbed an Aboriginal pointing bone at me. Now those are pretty serious magic; a shaman who knows what he’s doing can kill you with a bad thought, throw your soul into the Dreaming, even rewrite reality itself on a small scale. Fortunately, most of that kind of magic has been lost, or forgotten. And this guy really hadn’t done his homework. The bone’s spell hit my armour, rebounded, and blasted the guy right out of existence. -From Hell With Love

A description of the Lampton Wyrm, and some of what it's capable of:

“Oh bloody hell,” I said. “Luther, do you See what I See, up on the roof? Is that what I think it is? It is, isn’t it? They’ve only got a bloody dragon up there!”

“And not just any old dragon,” said Luther, craning his head right back. “Not one of those stupid and extremely ugly beasts the elves ride around on. That . . . is one of the Great Old Beasts of England. That is the Lampton Wyrm.”

“You have got to be kidding,” I said. “Really? Who’d be crazy enough to dig that old horror up, and let it loose in the world? Is it tied down? Tell me it’s tied down! Tell you what, I’ll start running and you try and keep up.”

“Look at the rear left leg,” said Luther, entirely unperturbed. “See the nice glowing chain? That’s an elf binding. It’ll hold, for the duration of the auction. After that, well, they must have some plan in mind.”

“It’s times like these when I wish I’d paid more attention in class,” I said. “I know we covered Old Beasts, but I’m pretty sure there was a girls’ volleyball match going on outside the window that afternoon . . . The Lampton Wyrm was the one where if you cut it up, the pieces just joined back together again, right? How did they kill it, in the end?”

“They drowned it. Dug a great pit, filled it full of water, dragged the Wyrm into the pit and held it under till it drowned. Of course it didn’t stay dead, but they covered the pit over with a really heavy-duty seal, and locked it in place with really powerful magics. So the Wyrm just kept on waking up and drowning again, over and over, for centuries. Not that I feel in any way sorry for it; the Lampton Wyrm killed thousands of people before it was stopped.” -From Hell With Love

Nothing in human science can stop the Lampton Wyrm, including a nuke:

I really would have liked to turn and run, but that option wasn’t open to me. If the Lampton Wyrm broke free of the Magnificat and went on a rampage in Los Angeles, they’d be cleaning up the dead bodies for weeks. The Wyrm was one of the Great Old Beasts, a living god or devil, and though it was much reduced by time and age, there was still nothing in human science that could stop it. You could drop a nuke on it, and the Wyrm would just laugh at you from the depths of the atomic fires, as the mushroom cloud formed overhead. -From Hell With Love

Eddie and Luther Drood do their best to beat the crap out of it, but it's regeneration is simply too fast for them to do any lasting damage:

We hit the Lampton Wyrm from both sides at once, moving as fast as our armour could power us. I hit the dragon hard in its hideous head, my golden fist plunging deep through flesh and bone and into the brain beneath. I grabbed a handful of brains, yanked them out through the hole I’d made, and threw them on the floor. The massive head wound had already healed by the time I turned back. I grabbed great handfuls of dragon flesh, tearing them away by brute force, digging deep wounds in its sides, but they all healed in seconds.

Luther jumped on its back and punched viciously into the dragon’s spine, to no better effect. And all the time the dragon was heaving and thrashing around, trying to reach us with its claws. The head swept back and forth on its long neck, snapping viciously again and again, while I used all my armour’s speed to dodge it.
I ducked in under one carelessly wide swing, grabbed one of the dull green arms, and ripped it right out of its socket. The dragon screamed so loudly it hurt my ears, even inside the armour. The arm convulsed in my grip, still trying to get at me with its claws, and then suddenly it withered, and collapsed into dust. The dragon had grown itself a new arm. It lashed out at me. The claws skittered across my golden chest, raising a great shower of sparks. The claws couldn’t penetrate the armour, but the sheer impact blasted me off my feet, sending me flying halfway across the room.

I hit hard, and stayed on my hands and knees for a moment, getting my breath back. Luther was still riding the dragon’s back, hanging on grimly as it bucked and twisted. And then the Wyrm rolled suddenly over onto its side, pinning Luther to the floor with its great weight. With no leverage, he couldn’t use his armour’s strength to escape. I forced myself up onto my feet, charged forward and punched the dragon in the head again. My fist plunged into and through its right eye, and the dragon screamed like a soul newly damned to Hell. But when I pulled my fist out again, dripping with gore and pus and eyeball fluid, a new eye filled the bloody socket immediately. The Lampton Wyrm: the Beast that couldn’t die. -From Hell With Love

Our first proper description of the Apocalypse Door:

“Ah,” said the Waking Beauty. “I always knew that would come back to bite the Droods on the arse. Droods killing Droods . . . secrets within secrets, lies within lies to hide a terrible truth . . . But first, you need to know about the Apocalypse Door.”

Isabella and I looked at each other.

“We do?” I said.

“Unfortunately, yes, you do. Follow the trail, oh my sisters, from the Door to Doctor Delirium to the Immortals. And if you’re still alive at the end of it, you’ll get your answers. Quite possibly more answers than you can comfortably deal with. The Apocalypse Door is one of the thirteen true entries to Hell in the material world. Open this Door, and you can let loose all the inhabitants of Hell, to run loose on the Earth. Set the damned free, to do as they will, to trample the cities of men and slaughter their inhabitants. Hell on Earth, forever and ever, and the Triumph of Evil.”

“Has anyone . . . ever tried to open this Door?” said Isabella, leaning forward, fascinated.

“Usually, the owner of the Door only has to threaten to open it, and the world will give them whatever they want,” said the Waking Beauty. “They want to be persuaded, to be paid off. But there have always been a few, who for their own various reasons wanted to unleash Hell on Mankind. Famous names like Faustus, and a certain Doctor Ware, back in the 1960s . . . These people always come to bad ends. You can’t play with Hell and not get your fingers burned. The Droods, or someone else in the same line of work, always turns up just in time to stop these people, and stamp on their heads.” The Waking Beauty stopped, and frowned thoughtfully. “Theoretically, or theologically, speaking . . . should the Door be opened, and the contents of Hell let loose on an unsuspecting populace; then the forces of Heaven would be obliged to turn out to stop them. Though the conflict would almost certainly lay waste to the Earth and everything on it. So Apocalypse would seem to be the appropriate name, for this particular Door.” -From Hell With Love

Carys Galloway describes what she knows about the Immortals:

“You’ve got what you wanted,” said Isabella. “Now tell me about the Immortals.”

“I’m the only one who can tell you about them, because I was there before them,” said Carys Galloway. “I am the only living human being older than both the Droods and the Immortals. I was already centuries old when the other-dimensional entity known as the Heart crash-landed in ancient Britain. When the Heart materialised, its emanations affected the genetic material of every living thing for miles around. Most died, some mutated, and a few survived by making deals with the Heart. The Druid ancestors of the Droods were granted the armour they requested, so they could be shamans for the human tribe.

“But one man got to the Heart before them, and he asked to be made immortal. Him, and his wife and children. Apparently this amused the Heart, and it agreed. The first Immortal went back to his family, and passed his blessing on to them, and so were born the Immortals. They can be killed, if you try really hard, but otherwise they just go on, and on and on and on. Fortunately they breed only rarely, and never with each other. Their children are half-breeds, incredibly long-lived but not immortal. They serve the Elders in the family. Down the centuries, the Immortals have learned the art of flesh dancing, of shape-changing. They can take on the appearance of anyone, be anyone, infiltrate any organisation, or family, so that they can shape the world as they wish, for their benefit. They are always on both sides of every conflict, whipping up the flames, growing rich and powerful on the proceeds of war. We’re just mayflies, to them. We don’t matter. Only family matters, to the Immortals. Remind you of anyone?

“And like the Droods, the Immortals take the long view. They deal in small, subtle changes, designed to bear useful fruit in three or even four generations time. No wonder no one ever detects the truth, of their slow and remorseless influence; not even the shadowy agencies who like to think they guard the world. The Immortals have been shaping and manipulating history for fifteen hundred years, right under the Droods’ noses.

“Anyone can be an Immortal. Even a Drood. They’ve all had many names and identities, down the years. Some of them you’d know. Some of them Eddie would recognise. How can you fight an enemy who can be anyone?” -From Hell With Love

Isabella Metcalf (Molly's sister) ignores all of the defenses in the Drood Hall and teleports in without issue, blasting several Droods with her magic soon after:

Thunder roared and lightning blasted, and everything stopped. Golden masks turned, uncertainly, as Isabella Metcalf appeared in the corridor out of nowhere. Her face held a cold, cold fury. She raised one hand, and vivid energies seized the Droods and pulled them away from Molly. They went flying down the corridor, flailing helplessly. Isabella didn’t even look at them. All her attention was on Molly, sliding slowly down the wall to the bloody floor. The rest of the mob were frozen in place, stunned.

Outsiders couldn’t teleport into the Hall. It just didn’t happen. Drood Hall has defences that would keep out gods and demons. The sheer amount of power she must have used was staggering . . . Whispers began, in the fragile silence.

It’s her. It’s Isabella . . .

She looked just like the photo in her file. A tall, muscular woman in crimson biker leathers, with black short-cropped hair and a sharp intense face. She walked over to her sister Molly, and I swear the floor shook with every step. The Droods just watched her. They weren’t a mob anymore. Many of them were already armouring down. Their faces were dazed, confused, as though awakening from a nightmare. -From Hell With Love

More implications regarding the Merlin Glass:

“Why didn’t the Glass set off the alarms when it brought us here?”

“Because I’ve programmed the Armoury to ignore that. Just hadn’t got round to telling it to ignore the Glass’ presence. It really is a very dangerous item.” He looked at the Merlin Glass thoughtfully. “In fact, the more I discover about it, the more disturbed I become. The Librarian sent me a book he found in the Old Library the other day. It had a lot to say about the Merlin Glass, mostly operating instructions, all the practical stuff; but not a lot about why it was created in the first place. Officially, it was a gift to the Droods, from Merlin himself, for services rendered. Back then, that could cover a whole lot of ground. Hardly anything in the book about the Glass’ history, who used to own it, and what happened to them. Though I did come across a rather interesting footnote, suggesting that there might be Someone or Something imprisoned inside the Glass. Apparently you can sometimes catch glimpses of it in the Glass’ reflection. It ˚ might be what powers the Glass.”

“As long as it doesn’t turn out to be a small Victorian girl with long blond hair,” I said solemnly.

“Never liked those books,” said the Armourer. “Creeped the hell out of me when I was a boy. Entirely unsuitable for children, I’ve always said.” -From Hell With Love

Some more elaboration on what kind of defenses the Ball normally has in place:

The Armourer moved quickly among them, peering over shoulders and asking pertinent questions, like why had the robot machine guns and the automatic energy weapons been the only systems to kick in? I’d been wondering that myself. There should have been force shields, shaped curses, floating invisible incendiaries, nerve gas clusters and teleport mines . . . The Armourer kept reeling them off, and the answer was always the same. Someone had shut them all down, in advance, inside the Hall. Someone inside the family. No one else had the codes, or access to the security computers. The automatic weaponry had remained on line only because they were controlled by the Armourer’s personal computer. -From Hell With Love

An Immortal's physiology can metabolize drugs and chemicals. This particular Immortal does so with a truth serum:

He smiled at the Armourer, in a silly sort of way. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. You slipped me a dose of your truth drug, didn’t you?”

“Right into the main feed tube,” said the Armourer. “You were so busy boasting you never even noticed.”

“Bastard.”

“Keep talking,” I said. “What happens to the Immortals, after the Elders pass on?” -From Hell With Love

...

“You’re everything we exist to fight,” said the Armourer. “Heartless, soulless, all the evil in the world in one place.”

“Evil is such a subjective term,” said Rafe, yawning widely. “So . . . situational. Immortals see the long game. Compared to us, all Humanity, and yes that includes you Droods as well, are just . . . mayflies. Come and gone in a moment. You’re just there to be used, because after all, you’re not around long enough to make any real difference in the world.” He stretched slowly, within the chair’s restraints. “I’ve had enough of this. My superior flesh has metabolised your stupid drug. I don’t need to justify myself, to the likes of you.” -From Hell With Love

The Immortals' base of operations (which is the original Castle Frankenstein, apparently) has magical protections powerful enough to defy the Merlin Glass:

“All right,” I said. “Let’s see what the Glass can do.”

I summoned it into my hand, and had it show me a view of Castle Frankenstein. But all the mirror could manage was an aerial view, from fairly high up. I winced.

“Forget it,” I said. “I am not falling for that again.”

The Armourer’s ears pricked up. “Again?” he said innocently.

“Don’t ask,” I said. “No, I mean it. Don’t ask. Glass, zoom in and give me the closest image you can.”

The image in the hand mirror loomed swiftly up before me, and then slammed to a halt still some way out. The image flickered back and forth between the real Castle Frankenstein and the Immortals’ illusion, and then the Merlin Glass abruptly shut itself down, and I was left with just a mirror in my hand, showing me my own confused reflection. I shook the mirror hard a few times, and tried half a dozen different command words, but faced with the Immortals’ levels of protection the Merlin Glass had given up, and was now clearly sulking. I sent it back to its subspace pocket to think things over.

“Okay,” I said to the Armourer. “Defences strong enough to defy the Merlin Glass? I am seriously impressed.”

“Well, don’t forget, the Immortals are older than Merlin,” said the Armourer. -From Hell With Love

An Immortal withstands immense punishment from several of Frankenstein's living-dead creations before sending many of them flying with his bare hands:

The crowd fell upon the Immortal like a pack of savage beasts, hammering him with oversized fists, slicing at him with clawed hands, and hacking at him with all kinds of blades. The Immortal took a terrible punishment, that would have killed an ordinary man, but he just soaked it all up and stubbornly refused to fall. His features settled into yet another face, proud and disdainful, and he struck out at those creatures nearest him with more than human strength. Bodies flew threw the air, slammed into walls and furniture, and took their time about rising again. The Immortal raged through the crowd, striking them down with cold purpose, but still the living dead pressed forward, determined to get their hands on him, driven by more than one lifetime’s rage. -From Hell With Love, Chapter 9: Here Comes the Bride

Immortals can use "flesh-dancing" techniques to grow armour and claws made of solid bone, the former strong enough to no-sell attacks from undead superhumans:

The Immortal lashed about him with both fists, beating his attackers down with contemptuous ease. But the Spawn were learning, cutting at him with their claws and blades and then darting back out of reach. He was losing a lot of blood, and the strength in his blows wasn’t what it was. So he pulled his next trick.
His whole body shuddered, and bone plates rose up out of his flesh to cover his chest, arms and skull. Pale, gleaming bone, the plates turned aside blades and claws and took no damage. Spikes and spurs of bone rose up from his hands, and his fingertips lengthened and hardened into vicious claws of his own. Flesh dancing, Rafe had called it. I was impressed; the Immortals had developed their own armour. -From Hell With Love, Chapter 9: Here Comes the Bride

A no-holds-barred fistfight between one of the Immortals and the Bride of Frankenstein ends with the Immortal coming out on top:

And then the Bride came forward to stand before the Immortal. She towered over him, and showed him the spiked silver knuckle-dusters on both her hands. She smiled a cold and deadly smile, and even the Immortal could see the power in her.

“Let’s dance,” said the Bride.

“Let’s,” said the Immortal.

They slammed together like crashing cars, all strength and fury. Clawed hands versus spiked silver knuckle-dusters. The strength of the flesh-dancing Immortal, set against the inhuman vitality of the living dead woman. There was no skill or strategy in what they did; they just stood their ground and hammered at each other, both refusing to give an inch. They each took terrible punishment, but neither of them cried out. But in the end, the Immortal had flesh that healed itself, and an energy that simply wouldn’t give out, and he just wore her down. He beat her to her knees, and then grabbed her by the throat with one heavy hand, and squeezed. The Bride clawed at his face with her long arms, even as her breath was cut off. Death had no fear for her. She’d already been there. The Immortal throttled the life out of the Bride, and looked around him disdainfully.

“Don’t think you’re anything special. You’re just an ugly bunch of failed experiments. My family throw away better things than you in our laboratories every day. How many of you do I have to kill, before you get the message? Know your place.” -From Hell With Love, Chapter 9: Here Comes the Bride

Springheel Jack comes in and effortlessly kicks the ass of the same Immortal who had been beating back Frankenstein 's undead creations some moments prior:

The newcomer advanced slowly on the Immortal, with a calm, elegant bearing. He was wrapped in a long black cloak that swept about him like batwings, and wore an old-fashioned top hat. From his pale face, he was barely my age, but his eyes were very old and very cold, and he was smiling a most unpleasant smile.

“Get away from my Bride,” he said, in a cool and really quite disturbing voice. “Or you’ll be resting in pieces before you know it.”

The Immortal looked at him incredulously. “Who the hell are you?”

“Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it? Sometimes I think one thing, sometimes I think another. But unfortunately for you, right now I’m Springheel Jack.”

The Immortal lashed out at him with a bone-spurred hand, and Springheel Jack jumped lightly into the air, high enough to trail his fingertips across the ceiling. The Immortal lurched forward and almost fell on his face, as his blow whipped through the air where Jack had been only a moment before. He stepped quickly back, and Jack dropped lightly to the floor again. But now he had two brightly shining straight razors, one in each hand. He smiled mockingly at the Immortal, and then jumped right over him. He somersaulted over his enemy’s head, landed elegantly behind him, his legs absorbing the impact as though it was nothing, and then he spun round and hamstrung both the Immortal’s legs at once. Blood spurted thickly, and the Immortal cried out in agony; and then he collapsed to the floor as his legs failed him, both leg muscles sliced completely through. Springheel Jack looked down at him, thrashing helplessly on the bloody floor, and then stepped elegantly forward to stand before his Bride.

“You all right, love?”

She caressed her throat briefly, but her smiled never wavered. “All the better for seeing you, my sweet.”

“I know you,” the Immortal said harshly, from the floor. “We all know you. We keep killing you, and you keep coming back!”

“It’s a gift,” said Springheel Jack. He grabbed the Immortal’s head and jerked it back to expose the throat. A straight razor pressed against the taut skin, and a thin runnel of blood trickled down, as the steel edge nicked the skin.

“Say good night, Gracie,” said Jack.

“No!” said the Bride. Springheel Jack looked at her.

“No?” he said, politely.

“I’m not in a mood to be merciful,” said the Bride.
Springheel Jack considered this, and then nodded. He hit the Immortal a vicious blow on the top of the head with his elbow, and the Immortal slumped unconscious to the floor. -From Hell With Love, Chapter 9: Here Comes the Bride

Remember in an earlier book when Molly said she keeps her heart separate from the rest of her body? Well, because of that, Molly is still alive after being wounded and impaled earlier in Book 4:

“How?” I said finally. “How did you survive, Molly? I saw the blades . . . and the blood . . .”

She put her fingertips on my mouth to stop me talking. “I did tell you once, but you clearly weren’t paying attention. I’m a witch, Eddie. We all keep our hearts separate from our bodies, safely stored and hidden in a protected place. As long as they don’t actually cut my head off, I can survive anything. I always come back. Isabella got me out of the Hall, and then watched over me while I slowly healed myself.” From Hell With Love, Chapter 10: Assault On Castle Frankenstein

Molly states that she can see through illusions:

“How were you able to look like one of the Immortals?” she said abruptly. “That wasn’t an illusion; I would have Seen through that.” -From Hell With Love, Chapter 10: Assault On Castle Frankenstein

I don't even know what to say about this one:

Molly grabbed a man by the chin and ripped his face right off. And while he was screaming through the crimson mess, she blasted a fireball down his throat. Molly always did fight dirty. -From Hell With Love, Chapter 10: Assault On Castle Frankenstein

Molly turns an Immortal into a toad:

Molly sheltered behind my armoured form until the shooting stopped abruptly, as the Immortal ran out of bullets. And then she just peeked past me briefly, snapped her fingers, and where the Immortal had been there was now a rather surprised-looking toad. It’s a neat trick, and not one Molly can do often, as it takes a lot out of her; but the psychological effect on the enemy is always outstanding. The Immortals at the front turned and fought those behind them, refusing to be pushed forward to a fate worse than death. -From Hell With Love, Chapter 10: Assault On Castle Frankenstein

Okay, so apparently the Immortals' protections surrounding Castle Frankenstein AREN'T too much for the Merlin Glass:

There were still a lot of Immortals down here in the hall, between me and that door. And more spilling out of adjoining rooms, and plunging down the main stairs. I had only a few moments before battle would be joined again. From all sides, now. But . . . I could feel something. There was a sense of . . . pressure, of something pressing hard against the Castle’s shields with growing, resolute strength, fighting its way towards me. The power of the Immortals might be ancient and forbidding, but what was coming had been made by Merlin Satanspawn himself, and it would not be denied. I called to it, and the whole Castle seemed to cry out, as something primordial and inviolate suddenly shattered, broken by something greater than itself. And just like that I held the Merlin Glass in my golden hand.

Not all my luck is bad. -From Hell With Love, Chapter 10: Assault On Castle Frankenstein

Also, apparently that one particular Immortal from before was just really stubborn and strong for some reason, because when the Bride of Frankenstein shows up later on, she starts tossing Immortals like gourmet salads:

The Bride threw herself at the nearest Immortals like a wrecking ball, sending bodies flying this way and that with the unnatural strength of her long slender arms. She just strode right into them, lashing about her with casual grace, her spiked silver knuckle-dusters ripping off faces and smashing in skulls. She towered above them, her black beehive hair clearly visible at all times, her face stark and cold with years of fury. The Immortals fought back as best they could, and could not hurt her dead flesh. The Bride threw them all back, with contemptuous indifference. -From Hell With Love, Chapter 10: Assault On Castle Frankenstein

Springheel Jack has no problem fodderizing multiple Immortals the way he did the first one he fought:

Springheel Jack was at her side and at her back, hopping and leaping, and sometimes jumping right over the heads of his enemies, somersaulting in midair. His razor-filled hands struck out with inhuman speed, never missing a target, and blood spurted everywhere. Immortals fell to the ground, clutching at new crimson mouths in their throats, or pawing feebly at where their eyes had been. Springheel Jack danced among them with deadly grace, spinning and pirouetting, his glowing razors shining with supernatural brilliance. The Immortals were the enemy of his Bride, so he was their enemy too. -From Hell With Love, Chapter 10: Assault On Castle Frankenstein

The Drood family shows up during the battle at Castle Frankenstein, bringing some especially nasty weapons along with them:

The first Droods had already shot past the pair defending the door, hammered into the waiting Immortals, and were doing terrible things to them. They had guns that melted people, or froze them from the inside out, and made their blood run out through their pores. The Armourer had his Kirlian gun again, and people exploded wherever he pointed the ghastly thing. And they all wore the armour of the Droods, against which the Immortals could not stand. The ancient teenagers fell back, scattering, running and screaming and shouting confusedly. They had never thought this could happen; to be invaded and attacked in their most private redoubt, by those who had most reason to hate them. -From Hell With Love, Chapter 10: Assault On Castle Frankenstein

The Merlin Glass can be used to bypass forcefields:
I pulled out the Merlin Glass. It nestled comfortably into my armoured hand, still showing a snowy scene very different from the one before me, and still subtly urging me on. I weighed the Glass in my hand, and then stepped forward and slapped it hard against the force shield. The Glass hung in midair, shaking and shuddering, and then it grew suddenly in size to a doorway, breaking through the shield by making itself part of the shield. I took Molly by the hand and led her through, and then the doorway slammed shut behind us and the Merlin Glass shot back into my hand, like an obedient dog. I put it away, and set off again, with Molly just a few steps behind me.
“You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself one of these days,” she said finally.
“I’m sure you’d have thought of it,” I said generously. “Eventually.” -From Hell With Love, Chapter 11: Knock, Knock, Knocking On Heaven's Door

Molly's magic is stated to have the power to crack open mountains:

Molly threw spitting fiery magics at the dark shapes, attacks so powerful they crackled and roiled on the freezing air, but none of it did any good. Magics powerful enough to crack open mountains passed through the shapes without affecting them in the least, as though they weren’t really present in our world. Except when they chose to be. Molly’s magics were keeping the things at bay, for the moment, but they were pressing in closer all the time. Snow exploded several feet beyond the shapes as the magics passed harmlessly through, blasting out deep craters and leaving them full of steaming water. -From Hell With Love, Chapter 11: Knock, Knock, Knocking On Heaven's Door

Whatever these dark shapes are, they're capable of hitting Eddie's armour harder than he's ever been hit thus far in the series:

This time I thought it through. I slowed to a fast walk as I approached the crowd of jostling shapes, and when one turned to face me I thrust out one arm, tantalisingly, and when the shape grabbed it I grinned inside my mask. Because that meant the shape had made itself solid. I punched it hard in the face with my other hand, and my golden fist sank deep into its head. I pulled my hand out, and it was like pulling back toffee, with streamers of dark stuff following my hand. The shape fell apart, slumping into a dark sticky mess at my feet.

The other shapes forgot about Molly, and turned on me. They hit me from all sides at once, their fists very real and very solid, hammering me with a terrible unnatural strength. I hit back, but they were never where my fists were. I staggered back and forth in the snow, lashing about me but never connecting, while they beat me viciously with a strength and ferocity I’d never encountered before. I spun round and round, keeping my shoulders hunched and my head well down, because I could feel every blow, inside my armour. I had no doubt it was still protecting me; those dark shapes would have beaten me to a pulp in a minute without it. But I’d never been hit so hard before, and there were so many of them . . . and there was nothing I could do to protect myself. I had to wonder if the strange matter of my armour had finally met its match, and if it might actually split and crack and break open under such a relentless assault, such never-ending punishment. -From Hell With Love, Chapter 11: Knock, Knock, Knocking On Heaven's Door

A little something Molly can do with trace DNA picked up from a given surface:

“When in doubt, cheat,” Molly said cheerfully. “Lend me that Chameleon Codex thing of yours, for a minute.”

I reached through my golden armour at the wrist, carefully undid one of my cuff links by touch, brought it out and handed it to Molly. I watched interestedly as she pressed the cuff link carefully against the various sensors, picking up the latent DNA traces left by whoever touched them last, preserved, hopefully, by the snow and the cold. She then held the cuff link up, muttered over it for a while, and suddenly a small cloud of dust motes was flying around her hand. They leapt up and coalesced into a vaguely human shape, becoming gradually clearer and more distinct as Molly shaped them with her muttered Words. She was putting together what we in the trade call a smoke ghost: a mindless, soulless re-creation of a human body, made from discarded DNA, skin flakes and other human remnants, mixed with whatever happened to be floating about in the air at the time. Not real, not even the memory of a person, just a flimsy spectre created from what men leave behind them. They don’t tend to last long, but you can do all kinds of interesting things with them.

Molly’s first few attempts at smoke ghost sculpting weren’t too successful—deformed and misshapen, bits missing or wildly out of proportion . . . but eventually she put together something that would pass. It crouched in the hole with us, bent over the steel door, made of shades of grey so fine it was hardly there. It had no sense of presence, of anyone actually being there with us, which was actually quite disturbing. I gestured sharply for Molly to get a move on, and the smoke ghost moved jerkily as Molly moved it with her mind. It presented its grey eye to the retina scanner, touched the fingerprint lock with a grey fingertip, and even managed a few words for the voice recognition circuits. And then it collapsed, returning to the dust from which it was made.

“Freaky,” I said.

“Lot you know,” said Molly. “I knew this guy who used to put together smoke ghosts just so he could have sex with them . . .”

“Far too much information,” I said. -From Hell With Love, Chapter 11: Knock, Knock, Knocking On Heaven's Door

That trick the Merlin Glass can do that makes doorways in forcefields? It can also be done with virtual images, in order to make a doorway leading to whatever location the image is showing:

And when Molly and I turned to look at him, he was gone. And so was the Apocalypse Door in its teleport ring. Molly pointed abruptly at the virtual view on the wall, and there he was, standing in the snow and ice, one hand resting possessively on the Door.

“Oh shit,” said Molly.

“Can’t take your eyes off the bastard for a second,” I said. “Quick, Molly, teleport us after him before he can open the Door.”

“How?” said Molly. “I’ve no idea where that is! It’s just a view from a hidden camera; what we’re looking at could be just outside the base, or somewhere miles from here! I can’t jump blind!”

“Oh shit,” I said.

“The Glass!” Molly said quickly. “Remember how it got us through the invisible force shield?”

I grinned. “I always said you were the smart one.”

I called up the Merlin Glass and slapped it flat against the virtual view. The hand mirror clattered fiercely against the image, and then grew suddenly in size to make a doorway. The Glass was apparently a great believer in lateral thinking. Which I would have found worrying if I’d had the time, but I didn’t. -From Hell With Love, Chapter 11: Knock, Knock, Knocking On Heaven's Door

Upon the right words being spoken, a Hand of Glory made from the hand of a dead angel is apparently capable of moving in more than three dimensions:

Methuselah stood before the Door, holding up the awful Hand of Glory he’d made from the severed hand of an angel. The dead white skin glowed fiercely, brighter than the sun itself, and as the Immortal chanted something in a tongue so old I didn’t even recognise it, the candles made from the Hand’s fingers ignited one by one. Somehow I found the time to wonder whether that was the language the Immortal had originally spoken, when he bargained with the Heart for eternal life.

“Where the hell did the Hand come from?” said Molly. “He didn’t have it before. I would have noticed.”

“He must have a subspace pocket, like me,” I said.

“Oh, I want one of those . . .”

Methuselah let go of the Hand and backed away, and the brightly shining Hand hung on the air before the Door. Its fingers moved slowly, flexing through a series of mystical gestures, significant and compelling. It hurt just to watch them, as though they were moving through more than three dimensions. -From Hell With Love, Chapter 11: Knock, Knock, Knocking On Heaven's Door

Molly breaks an Immortal's arm with her bare hands:

It took me a moment to turn around in the heavy snow, and when I did, it was just in time to see Methuselah run Molly through with the glowing blade. It slammed in under her sternum, and punched out her back. Blood shot out of her contorted mouth. And then she grabbed the Immortal’s extended arm with both her hands, and broke it in two. The sound of the bone breaking was sharp and crisp on the still air. Methuselah screamed, and fell backwards into the snow. Molly grabbed the glowing blade, pulled it carefully out of her, and threw it away. -From Hell With Love, Chapter 11: Knock, Knock, Knocking On Heaven's Door

The Apocalypse Door, now remade into a door to Heaven, opens up for the Immortal Methuselah, and the light of Heaven incinerates him where he stands:

“I’ve done it!” yelled Methuselah, dancing hysterically before the Door. “I’ve turned it, I’ve transformed its nature, it’s the Paradise Door now! I will take Heaven by storm, and know pleasures beyond bearing! Paradise is mine!”

The Door opened, just the slightest crack, and a brilliant light blasted out, so pure and blindingly brilliant that Molly and I both cried out, wanting to turn our gaze away but held where we were. The light incinerated Methuselah where he stood, reducing him to ashes in a moment. The Door closed, and all that was left of the Immortal was a few final ashes, spiralling slowly to the snow below. And then the Door just disappeared, turning in a direction my eyes could not follow—gone forever, leaving nothing behind but the crater of steaming water it had been standing in.
“Well,” I said finally. “The light of Heaven is not for mortals. And . . . somebody really doesn’t like gate-crashers.” -From Hell With Love, Chapter 11: Knock, Knock, Knocking On Heaven's Door