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The archon spat another volley of seeds at her. Sloan threw the gun in front of her and bounced across it like a platform, calling it back to her side as she soared through the air and somersaulted onto the spine of another root, the seeds whizzing past and striking nothing but air. She winced away the pain from her wounds and ignored the blood drizzling down her jacket as she sprinted down the root and peeled her eyes for Winnipeg. She tried to sharpen her eyesight but the spores in her irises nullified her efforts. She wondered about the pollen she had sucked into her lungs and hoped no wonky mindfucks would screw her over. The whole world around her seemed an incomprehensible cluster of nonsense, from the roots to the smoke to the monolithic proportions to the gaudy colors to Clair Ibsen's face attached to an avian neck but she was pretty sure that was all stuff that was actually happening. At least, she hoped so.

(Chapter 11)