This Christmas was destined to be anything but peaceful for the citizens of New York City. Though they could not see those invisible things, the destruction caused by the Angels could affect the Material Plane. Two of the three fighter jets from the Platinum Star aerobatic team had been taken over by Angels. The panicked pilots, without exception, chose to activate their ejection seats, leaving the fighters to accelerate into dives toward Manhattan.
Bayonetta pinched at the gray fur with considerable distaste.
When she kicked away that fighter jet, she had used "just a little" too much force, and some black engine oil had inevitably splattered onto her pure white gown. This was the outfit she had prepared for the Christmas party—expensive, exquisite, and easily stained. She had originally been looking forward to having it violently torn apart that night. But then she recalled Salomon calling her performance in bed last night "a broken showerhead," which had enraged her enough to make her scratch and claw at him like a mother cat. The Witch still felt that was not enough. She ought to teach that little boy she had trained since childhood another lesson.
"Keep up," she told the Sisterhood. Catherine and her squad had wounded Angels in the shallow Aether with weapons from the Material Plane, which was already astonishing enough. Not to mention that Catherine's shout had somehow forcibly commanded the Angels to reveal themselves in the Material Plane. That should have been entirely impossible for Artificial Humans with virtually no spellcasting ability. But the Witches had no time to consider why. What mattered most now was dealing with those disgusting spiritual entities flying all over the sky.
"If we don't settle this, tonight's Christmas party won't happen, and you won't get to see your master either."
Salomon