How we think the fight will go

“You’re no beauty, yourself.” Jean couldn’t believe the filthy things coming from this…being. He had always thought angels were supposed to be, well, angelic. This thing was far from it. Sure, it had the wings. But that was pretty much where the comparisons ended. Hell, even the wings were a bit of a stretch, as these were filthy and lice-ridden. A pigeon might be disgusted by the sight of those wings. But it was more than that—the scars that crisscrossed the angel’s body were terrifying…and Jean had seen enough gruesome murders (he had commited enough of them) to not usually be disturbed. The fact that she was still alive after what looked like being put through a wheat thresher—a few times—was something of a miracle. That the angel was a she was also debatable, but the voice—for all the venom—was definitely that of a woman. And Jean wasn’t quite sure he could fight a woman, even one snarling insults. When she launched herself at him, though, all the instincts of the streets kicked in. Deepgate might be a hellhole—literally—but it didn’t have shit on Camorr. Jean braced himself as Carnival crashed into him, and the impact startled him. There weren’t too many who could even shift his sixteen stone girth, but not only did she move him, she knocked him off his feet. It was only by using her own momentum against her that Jean was able to throw Carnival off, continuing his roll when his back hit the ground to toss Carnival over his head. Scrambling to his feet—his speed shocking to one whose only noticed his gut—he whipped out a pair of hatchets. “Let me introduce you to a pair of true ladies,” he said. The Wicked Sisters were a blur in front of him, as he didn’t so much brandish them as dance with them. “You silly, stupid boy.” It was the last words Jean heard her speak. In a blur she was at him again, and even as the Sisters tore swaths of flesh and feathers from her body, she was quickly inside his defenses. Quickly in his face, her own face an affront to whatever god had created her. Quickly at his throat. Quickly tearing into his skin. Quickly drinking in his soul, even as the razor-sharp hatchets continued to dig into her back—continued to add to the scars that had frightened so many for so long. Jean fell to the ground, wondering if Locke could have figured a way out of this one. He doubted it.

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Predicted Winner: Carnival