Her birds of paradise, meanwhile, waged the warfare. Here they formed, movable walls that shifted across the mezzanine, organized immaculately by the weapons they wielded. Barriers of every possible sort emerged. Cook's liquid cyclones crashed against them, shattered ten or twenty, but ultimately dispersed against the sheer volume stacked against her. Undaunted she gallivanted across the air, light as air, above and below the projectile volley. Her skin glistened, even in this darkness, and tendrils formed out of the moisture to skewer anything she could not evade. A graceful tango one way, the other, while further watery worms sprouted and bashed, crashed and roared, sizzled and cracked. Steam rose in some areas and others froze into glacial lumps. Left, right, center, downward, direction lost meaning.
(Chicago, chapter 38)