Stephanie, for her part, stared Marcelo down, in virtually total non-recognition of him. Her expression was one of cold wrath, one he'd never seen in her before.

"Your funeral." She spoke, lowly, in a voice that was not entirely hers, as she sprouted a blazing whip of pyroplasm that streaked towards Marcelo, warping the air around it with heat, cutting through a lamppost between them like it was made out of warm butter.