Sinner's Heart

Chapter 15

Rows of dispassionate faces stared down, ageless, untouchable. The faces would never age, know want or fear. They did not care that a great evil was massing, or that soon, very soon, that same wickedness would lay waste to everything.

Bram looked at the portrait of himself in the Red Drawing Room, hung between the rows of past men to wear the title Lord Rothwell. Gazing at his painted image, he felt neither disgust nor anger, but a dim kind of pity. The poor bastard in the painting had no idea what awaited him, the horrors he would see, and yet for all the agony he would endure, ultimately he emerged, if not better, then stronger. Everything brought him to this place, this moment: leading a counsel of war, his friendships in the process of being repaired, and an extraordinary woman by his side.

His dreams of the future had been facile. Honor. Glory. Unformed concepts that hadn’t been tested. Not once did he envision himself as he was now.

As it must be. The process of maturation took us far from all preconceptions. One could either bemoan the fact, curling in on oneself in a misery of stasis, or move forward.

Forward, then.

“John leading an army of demons?” This from Leo, arms crossed as he stood behind his seated wife. “A militia of books, perhaps, or an infantry of Parliamentary bills—but demons? I can’t see it.”

“He’s a scholar not a soldier.” Whit stood by the mantel, his arms also crossed.

Bram glanced down to see that he, too, had folded his arms across his chest. He smiled wryly to himself. Men were much the same when it came to preparing for combat, from the Colonies to a London mansion.

“His old identities have gone up in flames.” Livia sat in a throne-like Tudor chair. Her words were abstracted as she continued to maintain the web of magic over the city. “The Dark One has worked his alchemy on him. Nothing of his old self remains.”

“Nothing?” Zora stood next to Whit, hands on her hips.

“Not an inch of his skin is without the Devil’s mark,” Bram said.

Anne shuddered, and Leo and Whit swore.

“There’s no hope for him,” Whit said.

“None.” Bram gazed at his friends. “No redemption, no clemency. I need to know that when the time comes, I can rely on all of you to do what must be done.”

“Kill him.” Leo’s expression hardened. “Edmund died in the street like an animal. I’ll gladly wipe John from the face of the earth.”

Rather than rebuke her husband for his bloodthirstiness, Anne nodded in agreement.

“A fight it must be.” Bram glanced at Zora and Anne. “This shall be hard warfare. Harder than any battles you’ve yet fought. Are you equipped for the challenge?”

Whit and Leo chuckled, while Zora and Anne exchanged speaking glances. Zora stepped back from the mantel, as did Whit. Suddenly, her hand was gloved in flame. The flames stretched, becoming longer, until she held what looked like a whip made of fire. She snapped the whip. The burning logs inside the fireplace shattered. She smiled as she turned back to Bram, the flames around her hand shrinking until they went out.

Anne rose from her chair. She, too, faced the fireplace, then lifted her hands. A biting gust of air seemed to spring from her palms, knocking over a small table in her path. The wind scoured the hearth, dousing the flames just as all the candles in the room were extinguished.

Darkness filled the drawing room.

Livia snapped her fingers, and the fire and candles all relit. Both Zora and Anne gazed at Bram, wearing matching expressions of challenge.

“You’ll make for excellent artillery,” said Bram.

“Better than any cannon or firearm.” Whit curved an arm around Zora’s shoulders.

“More accurate, too,” added Leo, taking his wife’s hand.

“The women are our most powerful weapons.” Livia raised a brow. “The men may prove the greater liability, for they’ve no magic.”

“True.” Whit rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Yet Zora can turn this ordinary saber into a weapon of exceptional power.”

“She might do the same for you,” Livia said to Leo.

His mouth twisted. “Swords are forbidden to commoners. I’d say hang the rules, but I never learned the art of swordplay. But I’m a damned good shot, and can fight with my fists.”

“You can persuade the demons to turn back,” Whit said to Bram, “or fight amongst themselves.”

Bram hadn’t made use of his Devil-given gift in a long while. It could prove useful in the coming fight. He turned to Leo. “Let me kiss your wife.”

Whit and Zora exclaimed, Anne gasped, and Leo snarled, “Like hell.”

From her position near the fire, Livia remained still, her expression opaque.

“I’m going to kiss your wife,” Bram said, “and you are going to permit me.” He focused his will on Leo, exerting pressure through thought. You’ll allow me to do as I want.

Bram took a step toward Anne. She immediately brought her hands up, a swirl of cold air churning around her. Yet before she could push Bram back with her magic, Leo planted his fist solidly in Bram’s jaw. Bram stumbled back, his head ringing, but he kept his feet.

“You don’t bloody touch my wife,” Leo said with a rumble.

“We just proved two hypotheses,” said Bram.

“That you’re the same damned libertine you’ve always been?”

“That my gift of persuasion no longer exists. I’d never attempted to use it on you before, so it ought to work. Clearly, it didn’t.”

“And the other theory?” Anne asked, slowly lowering her hands. The icy wind abated, so the only sounds came from the fire and Leo’s enraged growls.

Bram lightly touched his jaw and winced. By morning, he’d have a large bruise adorning his face. “Master Bailey does indeed throw a very powerful left hook.”

“You could have tried to persuade him to do something else,” Whit objected.

“Such as?” asked Bram.

“Punch you.”

Though it hurt like a bastard, Bram grinned. “He’d want to do that anyway, magic or no.”

By minute degrees, the strain in the chamber eased, yet it did not entirely dissolve. They were not the same band of friends they had been months earlier, affable and reckless, unconcerned with anything but their own pleasure. A metamorphosis had transpired. Bram saw it in Whit and Leo’s gazes, in the set of their shoulders and the way they both stood as though ready to brawl. Nothing was certain, no outcome was a given. If they had once been confident that the world would bend to their desires with nary a consequence, that confidence had been replaced by a hard-edged understanding—they must fight for what they wanted.

Bram did not regret the difference.

“You’re like us, then,” Leo said. “No magic.”

Livia rose and moved to stand in front of him. She was older than the other two women in the room, and she wore her experience like an empress wore her ermine. He had always preferred his lovers to be worldly—it made for a more stimulating time in bed, and it also ensured that there would be no misunderstandings as to the transitory nature of their relationship.

But all those were fatuous reasons. Gazing at Livia, at the hard-won wisdom in her eyes, he understood that there were facets of her he would never entirely grasp, and that he could spend the rest of his days searching them out with only the promise of knowing her fully.

How many days he had left . . . that was a duration no one knew, least of all himself.

“There’s magic still within him,” she said quietly. She placed her palm against his chest.

He covered her hand with his own and closed his eyes. Following the means she had taught him, he delved into himself, down through the shadowed labyrinth of his consciousness. Something shone in that darkness, still. The golden key shimmering in the gloom. It hadn’t the same bright edge as when she had been a spirit, but even diminished, the power continued.

Opening his eyes, he smiled at her, and she smiled back. They were part of each other. Now and for eternity.

Feeling the Hellraisers’ gazes upon him, he returned their stares. If there had been any doubt that he and Livia were lovers, that doubt now vanished. Yet they were more than lovers, and Bram let the Hellraisers know this with a meaningful look. In silent communication and solidarity, Leo glanced at Anne as Whit gazed at Zora, then both men looked back to Bram. Men needed few words to converse, and so they did now.

These are our women, and we are theirs.

Only months prior he, Whit and Leo shared in everything, bound together by friendship more powerful than any female could ever provide. They might not have unburdened their deepest selves to one another, but each man had been stalwart in his loyalty to the others.

That had changed. Three women had altered the terrain, reshaping whole continents. Livia, Zora, and Anne were the keepers of their hearts now. And though the Hellraisers might repair the fractures between them, they were no longer everything to one another.

“Your hand,” Whit said.

Everyone’s gaze fell on Bram’s hand resting atop Livia’s. The Devil’s mark curled over his skin, flames dancing up to his knuckles.

“Wafodu guero still has your soul,” said Zora.

Bram remained silent.

“If that’s so,” Leo said, “then if anything happened to you during the battle—”

“I’ll be trapped. In Hell.” He did not miss Livia’s flinch. “Already been considered.”

“Perhaps you ought to remain safely behind,” Anne said.

“I realize that you do not know me, Mrs. Bailey,” said Bram, “but you’ve only to look at me to realize that I’d rather suffer eternal torment than sit out this battle.”

“No matter the cost?” Anne pressed.

His gaze solely on Livia, Bram said, “I do this because of all I have to lose.”

Livia studied the assembled company, ringed close around the fire, everyone wearing matching expressions of grim determination. An odd gathering, this. Noblemen and commoners, well-bred ladies and windblown wanderers. Soldiers and sorceresses.

Had she planned to assemble an army, one capable of defeating the Dark One, this would not be it. She needed a whole battalion of warriors, trained not only in martial combat but the use of magic. These mortals had only recently walked the paths of magic, imperfectly learning its ways. Of all of them, she alone knew all of magic’s depths, its uses and dangers. And of all of them, she alone knew how great their enemy truly was, how the odds against them were so steep as to be impossible.

She looked at them now, these Hellraisers and their women, understanding that they might all be marching to their deaths. Commanders of armies did the same. They would review their troops and issue orders, knowing full well that within hours or minutes, the living men would be reduced to inanimate collections of cold muscle and blood.

She had seen Bram’s memories, learned the contours of his mind. He had looked into men’s eyes, understanding that, on his orders, the men would die.

Once, not very long ago, Livia had been comfortable with her role as general, rallying her patchwork battalion and prepared to sacrifice anyone and everyone to vanquish the Dark One. That had been before. Before Bram. With his touch and his words, his gaze and his will, he had altered the landscape of her heart. He’d died to bring her back to the realm of the living.

Which was precisely why she could not allow thoughts of failure to poison her resolve. This was the time of determination, confidence. If she did not genuinely feel these things, she must believe her own lie, else everything was lost.

“Waiting for John to act first will only see us scrambling to defend ourselves,” she said to the others.

“Aggression is the position of power,” said Bram with a nod.

“His is to be an army of demons.” Whit planted his hands on his hips. “We’ve no scouts to tell us where they are massing, which means we’ve no way to stop their advance.”

“The Rom always have their ears to the ground,” Zora said. “We trade information even more than we trade horses. I could try to contact my band, see if they’ve heard anything.”

“There isn’t time,” Bram said. “I saw the madness in John’s eyes, the flames on his skin. He tried to kill Lord Walcote in order to gain more dark power. The moon turns the color of blood—a sign, Livia tells me, of the gate opening between Hell and this world. He’ll act, and soon.”

“This very night.” Livia moved to the window and stared out at the moon she and Bram had seen earlier. The web she’d spun shook as if in a wind, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint a specific origin. She turned her thoughts over and over in her mind, gnawing on them like a wolf with a bone.

“Hell.” Leo growled. “They could appear right in the middle of Covent Garden, but we wouldn’t know until it’s too late.”

“If we went out in pairs,” Anne suggested, “we might comb the city and report back should we find anything.”

Bram shook his head. “We’d still lag behind. Livia’s right—we need an aggressive approach. Find him before he brings out his army.”

Turning away from the group, Whit picked up the fire iron. He jabbed it moodily into the logs burning in the hearth. “He’s got the Devil on his side. If John doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be.”

Livia straightened. “The Dark One hasn’t much power of his own. He’s a manipulator. When he wants something accomplished, he influences others to do his deeds.”

“Including give the Hellraisers magic,” noted Leo.

“A puller of strings,” Livia said. “With John as his puppet.”

“Where the Devil is,” Bram said, his feet braced wide, his hands on his hips, “that’s where we find John.”

A sound of frustration from Zora. “Wafodu guero isn’t forthcoming with his whereabouts. Tracking him will be just as difficult as finding that murderous gorgio.”

“He has something in his possession,” Livia said. “Something too valuable to risk to another vault, thus he keeps on his person.” She turned to Bram. “Your soul.”

His expression was sharp and fierce. “You’re capable of this.”

She nodded. “We’ll need silence, and seclusion, but it can be done.”

“What can be done?” Leo demanded.

“We must find John,” she said. “To do that, we have to track the Dark One. To do that, we must hunt him down—”

“With my soul as a beacon,” Bram finished.

Leo’s brows rose. “Damn—it’s possible to do that?”

“I’ve seen his soul a handful of times, and it guided us from the darkness of the other realm,” Livia said. “I know it as well as I know my own.” She felt Bram’s heated gaze on her, and she returned the look.

“Find Bram’s soul, find the Devil.” Whit gave the fire another jab, sparks rising up, then tossed the iron to the ground. “If it’s seclusion you need, we’ll give it.” He herded everyone toward the door. They swiftly moved out of the chamber, until she and Bram were alone.

He stood his ground as she approached him, his eyes fevered blue beneath his lowered lids. The other Hellraisers were prime specimens of masculinity. She recognized this, but from a distance. It was him, Bram, who ensnared her, whose presence she felt at all times. She sensed him, awake or asleep, alive or dead, and as she closed the distance between them now, she felt anew the twist in her heart.

“Convenient,” he murmured, his voice low. “That tracking my soul demands privacy.”

“It doesn’t.” She slid her hands up his chest. “Yet I don’t want an audience when I do this.” Raising up on her toes, she pressed her lips to his.

He growled into her mouth, and drank of her deeply. And briefly. A groan resounded in his chest as he pulled back. “I want nothing more than to kiss you for hours. But, damn it, we haven’t the time.”

“This is the spell.” She wove her fingers into his hair and pulled him down again.

He did not resist her. He brought his arms up to wrap around her, one hand pressed low on her back, the other curved against her throat.

She sank into the kiss, savoring him, feeling him. His heat and taste. His tongue stroked like velvet in her mouth, and she responded in kind with her own hunger.

Beyond the sensations, the sensual pull between them, she submerged herself in the essence of him. His unrelenting strength, and the core of darkness that would always be part of him. She had seen his memories, had felt his experiences, and though some of the threads connecting them had been severed, their silver echoes lingered, binding them together. From hellion child to Hellraiser man, she knew every part of who he once was and who he continued to be.

That essence of him never diminished, even when his actual soul had been torn from him. She felt its resonance within him, in the hot and demanding sensation of his mouth joined with hers.

Where are you? Where is your missing self?

And as they kissed, as desire rose up in her and the need for him, for all of him, words tumbled through her mind, summoning her power.

In her own language, long dead, she called out with her thoughts and with her innermost self. Let me find you, my heart, my love. From the shadows to the light, let me find you.

Here.

She jolted. The answer had come clear as a song.

Reaching out again, she searched.

Here.

She broke the kiss. Features drawn with desire, Bram gazed down at her. His hands were like hot iron as they held her close.

“I have found it.” She spoke in a husky murmur, her body alight with need. Need that could not be sated. Not now.

He did not look surprised that the spell had worked. Only nodded. Yet before he let her go, he tipped his forehead down to touch hers, and his breath was rough and labored over her skin.

“I wonder that I ever felt alive,” he said, voice a smoke-tinged rumble. “Until you.”

By slow degrees, he released her. With the fire blazing close, she still missed his heat, and fought the impulse to cling. She did not cling. She was whole and entire without him—yet so much better with him.

She went to the door to summon the other Hellraisers back into the chamber. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she saw that Bram had moved away from the fireplace, and now faced the windows, hands braced on the sill. His shoulders rose and fell, as if he still fought to regain his breath.

Whit, Zora, Leo, and Anne all drifted into the chamber. Each of them looked expectantly at her.

“The time to act is now,” she said without preamble. “The gate is open, the army of demons assembling.”

“Where?” Whit demanded.

“I know the place but not the name.”

“So long as you can lead us there,” Leo said, “names aren’t important.”

Bram at last turned away from the window, fully in command. “My armory is plentiful. We each equip ourselves—swords, guns, knives. Anything you can use to fight, take it.”

“Will they be enough?” Zora asked.

“No.” Livia gazed at her, and at each mortal in turn. “It’s not the weapons, but those who wield them.”

The city streets stood oddly empty, even for so late an hour. From her experience with Bram’s memories, she knew that no matter the time, London’s streets swarmed with life—exhausted chairmen waiting to take home a reveler, link boys carrying torches, whores, thieves, farmers, drunkards, beggars. That the avenues were nearly pitch black and treacherous with refuse served as no obstacle. At any hour, humanity abounded.

Tonight proved the exception.

Livia rode beside Bram, the head of their caravan of six. Zora and Whit each had their own horses—the Romani woman sat upon her steed as though she had been born in the saddle—and Leo rode with Anne sitting behind him, her arms around his waist. The five horses’ hooves clattered loudly in the stillness, the sound echoing off impassive façades.

A thick miasma clung to the cobblestones, and the sky formed an ash-colored canopy that the moon could not breach. And everywhere was heavy choking silence.

“We’ve not been in London for weeks,” Whit said lowly. “Has it been thus the whole time?”

“This night sees a new malevolence,” Livia answered.

Bram murmured, “Even the criminals are in hiding.”

“There’s a greater evil out tonight,” said Livia.

Whit gave a soft snort. “Used to be that the Hellraisers kept people cowering at home.”

“Now Hell itself is the threat,” Bram replied. He frowned as the broad, black stretch of Hyde Park appeared ahead of them. Beneath the leaden sky, the Serpentine gleamed dully, and appeared as still as the frozen lake of Cocytus. There was no sign of the water demon they had beheld several days prior. The trees stood in mute sentry. What, during daylight hours, was a place of leisure, seemed at that moment a blighted wasteland.

“John’s coming here?” asked Anne.

Livia nodded toward the expanse of parkland. “Not here, but this is where we’ll find more strength for our fight.”

Though it was clear that the others in the company wanted more explanation, they remained silent as they followed.

Livia did not know this place well, yet she understood precisely where she needed to be. She urged her mount faster, heading toward the northeast corner of the park. As she neared, it became clear what drew her.

“Damn and hell,” Leo muttered.

The mist thickened here, swirling and clotting. It glowed with a terrible light. Then gathered—into human shapes. They were hollow-eyed, gaunt, and collected like flies over a corpse. The figures jostled one another, mouths open as if to speak, but no sound emerging.

“Demons?” Anne whispered.

“Our allies,” said Livia. “Perhaps.”

“Must be a thousand of them,” Zora whispered.

“More,” said Livia. “This has been a place of execution for centuries.”

“Oh, God.” Anne gulped. “Their necks.”

All of the apparitions bore dark bruises around their throats. Some had their necks twisted at unnatural angles.

“The fruit of Tyburn Tree,” Bram said, stone-faced.

As Livia and the others neared the throng, the specters turned to face them. The vastness of their numbers formed an icy stone in the pit of Livia’s stomach. She had seen heretics thrown to lions and enslaved gladiators battle unto death, yet never had she witnessed the assembly of the dead, hundreds of years of executions gathered together as ruined testimonial to the demand for blood. All sanctioned under the auspices of the law.

Men, women. Even some children.

“I thought Romans enjoyed their executions,” Livia said.

“Beer, beef, and hangings,” answered Bram. “It’s the English way. The cost of freedom.” The grimness of his expression belied his flippancy.

“The Dark One’s presence rouses them.” Livia eyed the multitude as they drew closer.

“You said they’re our allies,” said Whit. “They can fight alongside us. Even our numbers.”

“Poor fools—they’ve no flesh. They can touch nothing, move nothing—as it was with me. But they aren’t without power.”

“The hell are you doing?” Bram demanded when she dismounted.

She leveled him a glance over the neck of her horse. “Attempting to level the odds.”

By the time she had turned around to face the throng of chalk-faced specters, Bram stood beside her. “Whatever you mean to try,” he growled, “you aren’t doing it alone.”

She drew yet more strength, knowing he was with her, and stepped closer to the horde of ghosts. Four reached out—three men and one woman—their hands open and searching. Bram tensed, poised to strike back, but Livia held him back. The spirits’ hands all moved through Livia’s body, just as insubstantial as she had once been. They opened their mouths to speak, yet no sound emerged.

“I know your frustration,” she said. Indeed, a restive energy moved through the crowd, its discontent and anger palpable. “No mercy shown to you. Your lives stolen. And to what end? To satisfy a feeble sense of justice? To deter others from repeating your folly? Those were the platitudes mouthed at you, but we all know they meant nothing.”

As she spoke, her words carrying across the field and through the mob of ghosts, they grew more restless and agitated.

Behind her, Whit, Zora, Leo, and Anne made sounds of concern, and their horses snorted in anxiety, tugging on their bridles and hooves pawing at the ground.

“Riling them is injudicious,” Bram muttered.

“We need them angry,” she answered under her breath.

At the least, he didn’t ask her why. He said, louder, “I’ve seen a hanging. ’Tis a holiday for the crowd. They don’t care if justice is being served. They don’t concern themselves with right or wrong, or the law. All they want is a good death. No blubbering. No begging for mercy. The people of London wouldn’t know mercy if it had its hands wrapped around their necks.”

The assembled specters grew yet more uneasy, their images flickering, expressions shifting from bafflement to anger.

Livia pressed, “How many of you died for a theft no greater than a loaf of bread? Or on the basis of hearsay or circumstance? Who amongst you were killed because it was easier for the law to end your lives than admit it was wrong?”

As she talked, and the horde of ghosts became more roused, the air above them began to shimmer. It crackled with hot red energy, bright and sharp. The rage of the dead taking shape.

“In life, you were denied vengeance,” she continued. “Those who wronged you, who profited or enjoyed your death—they never faced retribution. Their wickedness lived on. But this night,” she said, staring into a thousand faces, a thousand abbreviated lives, “we can take back what was stolen.”

She pointed toward the south. “A great evil masses. The greatest evil known. This is the wickedness in men’s hearts that robbed you of life. This is what denied you compassion, for the enemy I and my friends face tonight is the source of that darkness. And so I ask of you, will you aid in our fight?”

Though the crowd could not speak, the red light sizzling above the mob turned volatile, its glare blinding. She had her answer.

“Leo,” she threw over her shoulder. “Make haste. To my side, and take the leather bindings from my saddlebag.”

In a moment, Leo handed her the strips of leather as he stood on her other side. She cradled the material in her cupped hands. “I need you,” she said to Bram.

“Whatever you require.”

Quickly, she outlined her plan. Both Leo and Bram raised their eyebrows as she described what she intended to do, but neither argued. This was her realm, and she ruled it well. When she was certain that the two men knew their parts, she began to chant in the tongue of Egypt—her words shaping a spell of gathering. She envisioned it as a net, vast and inescapable, ancient language fashioning the web she cast out over the ghosts’ fury.

It taxed her, the creation of the spell, as she struggled to subdue the enraged energy. Twice, the red force threw off the net, but on the third attempt, she covered it with her sorcery.

At once, the energy fought back, trying to break free.

“Now,” she said through gritted teeth.

Bram stepped forward and took the straps from her hands. Muttering words in the long-dead tongue, he wrapped the straps around one edge of the net. He pulled hard on the straps, drawing the net toward him. As he hauled the energy nearer, he dug his feet into the ground and his body strained. The glare of red light covered him, casting a long shadow behind him so he appeared as a god of creation. Yet she kept her attention fixed on maintaining the net, continually repairing tears, re-knotting it when the strain threatened to rip it open.

By slow, painful degrees, she and Bram brought the energy closer, closer. And then, at last, with a groan, she pulled all of that seething force into the leather bindings held in Bram’s hands. The straps glowed with power.

Leo stepped forward. As he took the strips of leather, he hissed softly. He quickly wrapped the straps around his hands, binding them as a pugilist would wrap his hands in preparation for a fight. Clearly, he had ample experience doing precisely that. He flexed his hands experimentally, testing the straps to ensure their give. Bright red energy gleamed up from the leather, spreading up his arms.

He strode toward a nearby tree, then threw a punch right into the tree’s thick trunk. A splintering, shattering sound cracked through the silence. The tree shuddered and fell, its branches snapping, its roots torn up from the ground.

Leo stared down at his wrapped hands. When he glanced up at Livia and Bram, he wore a brutal smile.

“Fitting,” he said. “These spirits of Tyburn, they’re my people. We’re of the same low birth, the same status. And now the strength of their righteous anger is mine.”

“Nothing for me?” muttered Bram.

She slanted him a look. “You’ve power of your own. None needs to be borrowed.”

“Having more is always better.”

Turning back to the assembled ghosts, Livia said, “Be at peace now. Your fight is now ours.”

The spirits uttered soundless thanks. A moment later, they faded back into mist. The stillness that followed felt absolute, a thousand grasping hands had let go of their clinging hold, and the welcome oblivion that ensued.

Leo strode back toward the others, with a cautious Anne meeting him halfway. She lightly touched his wrapped hands, then stared at Livia.

“I think there is nothing you cannot do,” she breathed in wonder.

“You’re right,” Bram answered. He gazed at Livia with heat and pride.

Her heart expanded, growing to fill the vast, shadowed park, yet she dared not voice the truth—she could not guarantee them a victory. That lay beyond the compass of her power. All she could do was arm herself and her allies, and hope it would be enough.