heals neck

“She wears Titanic bronze,” the Erlking said in a tone that suggested he had said it several times in the past couple of hours.
I held up a hand. “Question from the classroom floor. What is that, exactly?”
“A unique alloy of Olympian bronze and mordite,” Vadderung replied. “Kinetic weapons will be of very little use against her. Elemental energies will do little more. It will take a being of divine status to physically penetrate the armor.”
“Divine status,” I said. “Meaning what?”
“Your Knights, perhaps,” the Erlking mused. “Their power would seem to be of the proper origins.”
“Those angels you mentioned could do it,” Ebenezar said. “Mordite is condensed from the darkest, most evil stuff of the Outside. Once it’s alloyed, instead of devouring life it devours energy. Heat, force, lightning, what have you, all backed by the will of the being wearing it. Getting through that takes more than simple power.”
“It has to come from the proper source,” Vadderung agreed. “And be used for the proper reasons.”
Mab glided up to the table. “Sufficiently infernal power could manage the task as well,” she murmured. “I daresay Nicodemus Archleone might strike through Titanic bronze.”
“Assuming she just stands there and lets any of those beings attack her,” the Erlking pointed out. “In the first place, those assets are not under our command. In the second place, she won’t. She’ll do battle, and most likely kill them.”
Vadderung scowled up at the Erlking for a full five seconds before he said, “You’re gloomy.”
“Merely realistic,” the Erlking said.
“You’re saying that to get to her, we’d need a sponsor,” I said. “And that basically no one around here is strong enough or on the right frequency enough to sponsor that kind of thing.”

Battle Ground Chapter 6, Page 56-57


My body felt like a car that didn’t want to start, and my limbs filled with a bone-crushing weariness. The toll the night had put on me was becoming physically unsupportable. I slammed a hand to the ground to push myself up, or tried to. The actual movements my body performed seemed a lot feebler than I had intended. But I got back up, just as the Titan slithered across the rocks to Marcone.
Steel gleamed in the Baron’s hand. Maybe a four-inch blade, black composite handle, modern diver’s knife, very plain. Very much not epic or apocalyptic.
Marcone stabbed at her. A child would have done better against a professional wrestler.
Ethniu’s good arm blurred. She seized him by the throat, lifted him with no noticeable effort, gave her arm a little bob, a little twist, and broke his neck.
I watched Marcone jerk and go limp.
She rose to a knee, her good leg planted in the boiling water, and threw the corpse away like an empty beer can.
The Baron of Chicago landed on the rocks, boneless and broken.
A roar went up from the battlefield behind us.
The blue beam of light rising into the night like a vague, glowing moonbeam, above the embattled forces of the Winter Lady, flickered and dimmed.
Ethniu let out a bubbling, almost disbelieving laugh. Then she prowled like a beast down into the roiling water and slipped beneath it. I could see her reaching out a hand toward the light of the Eye.
I staggered over to Marcone’s body. Broken neck didn’t kill you right away.
Nobody ought to die alone.
And when I got there, he sat up.
I fell back with a manly high-pitched scream.
Marcone’s head was twisted way too far around to one side. He rolled his neck as if stretching out. There was series of hideous little pops in his neck and then he shook his head back and forth as if easing a cramp, and his neck just . . . unbroke.
Marcone gave me a bland look and held up his knife.
Its blade was covered in blood, too bright red to be real.
I blinked and stared at the knife. Then up at him.
“What the actual fuck?” I asked.
I felt my eyes widen.
Celestial power, they had said, to get through the Titanic bronze.
Or infernal.
Marcone’s eyes wrinkled at the corners in genuine amusement. “Honestly, Dresden. Did you think I’d stop with the title?”
And in the center of his forehead, his skin flushed and stirred and then began to glow in a lambent purple light in the shape of an angelic rune.
A pair of glowing violet eyes etched in light opened on his forehead, just above his own eyebrows.
And with a little ripple, black thorns that would have been at home on particularly wild roses began to emerge from his skin, in a pattern on his face and stirring beneath his shirt.
“I believe you needed this,” he said, offering me the handle of the knife. “And I believe time is short.”
I took the knife, staring.
Sir Gentleman Johnnie Marcone, Baron of Chicago, Knight of the Blackened Denarius, the bearer of the Master of Sorcery, Thorned Namshiel, calmly rose and divested himself of the pirate bandoliers. He reached up to undo his tie and tossed it to one side. Then he loosened his collar so that the thorns in his skin weren’t pressing on it, and unbuttoned the shirt, evidently to make himself more comfortable there, too.
The coin of Thorned Namshiel, one of a set of thirty, rested on an almost unbearably fine silver chain against Marcone’s chest.

Battle Ground Chapter 33, Page 328-330