I stumble to a stop just in time to see Violet knee Vin in the groin and grab a fistful of his hair. She speaks to him, too softly for me to hear, and I watch in rapt fascination as she then shouts to the gathering onlookers, “Does anyone have a removable arm I can use to beat the shit out of him?” One of Frankenstein’s creations—a large green monster with thread woven into his face—removes his arm and hands it to her like an offering. She takes it with an easy, slightly sardonic and sociopathic grin, before turning back towards Vin. And proceeds to hit him with the arm.
