"Erra's gaze swept the crowd, taking in the archers, the Biohazard, the vans, the equipment, the audience up in the ruins nearby . . . She raised her arms to the sides. The cape slipped off her. Glossy red fabric hugged her body. It clung to her like a second skin of pure scarlet. My aunt apparently had developed a fetish for spandex. Who knew? Gale thrust his hand through his cloak. His fist gripped a large axe. The orange light of the flames shimmered along the ten-inch blade attached to a four-foot handle. The axe probably pushed six pounds in weight. A normal swordsman would be slower than molasses, but with her strength, it wouldn't matter. She could swing it all day and then arm-wrestle a bear. Gale turned on his heel, walked five steps to Erra, and knelt before her, offering the axe on the raised palms of his hands. "We should clap or something," Curran said. "She's trying so hard."