Valkyrie’s hands started to tingle. She unzipped her jacket, pulled it halfway down her arm. The tattoo was pulsing. Not long now. She could almost feel her invulnerability about to slip away. It didn’t matter. Darquesse was done. Defeated. All they needed was another few seconds and then those shadows would split her apart, and it’d all be over. Darquesse clasped her hands before her. Vile and Melancholia didn’t notice. Darquesse’s arms started to tremble. Silver light spilled from between her fingers.
Very, very bright light.
Valkyrie ran forward. “Stop her!” she screamed. “Don’t let her—”
But it was too late.
Darquesse opened her hands.
[…]
She was cold. She’d lost her jacket. The shockwave had yanked it away from her. Was she hurt? She wriggled her toes. Wriggled her fingers. No broken bones. Was she bleeding? She didn’t think so. She was OK. She was unhurt. Invulnerable? No, not any more. The tattoo had dulled. It had probably used up the last of its strength keeping her alive during the … what? What was that? That was more than an explosion. It had been like a small nuclear bomb going off.
Groaning, Valkyrie sat up.
Roarhaven was in ruins.
The eastern quarter had been obliterated. It was a flat, smoking landscape of rubble and wreckage. Fires raged in the southern districts. Some of the northern section still stood, from what she could see. Car alarms travelled to her on the wind. They sounded like people dying.