The Blackthorns of Los Angeles

Drusilla

Dru felt Livvy die. Her knees buckled, her heart jammed itself into her throat, the pain and fear for her sister swamped by the feeling of utter nothingness inside her soul that had once held Livvy.
She screamed. She knew she screamed, but the sound was not audible to her own ears. Those around her, holding weapons that had kept her from her sister, those whose steel,  and adamas had kept her from defending her blood, her own soul's peice, fell back before her, their faces white and drawn with terror as they saw Drusilla's Blackthorn's face, and hears her scream as a Livia sized piece of her own soul ripped free from her.
And Dru lunged. She may be rounded, a woman more than girl, her body more mundane than Shadowhunter, but she was Blackthorn. And they had kept her from her sister.
Her short, wide sword took two of the Cohort apart at their knees, sending one leg skidding across the floor. She came up, not swinging now, no, she was remembering Livia, training her, saying, "Dru, the point, it does the damage, the most damage,  to the demons. Shove it through,  hard, and swing only  to get your blade high enough to jab again. Use your dagger for defensive blocks."
And her dagger was there, glowing hot-white in her palm, the hilt uncrossed, the blade scarlet with another Cohort member's blood, his sign incongruous with the spatter if his own blood over the drawing of a dead faerie.
She pressed on, her soul still screaming through her, the sound reverberating through the Hall of Accords, the blood of Shadowhunters hate slicking the floor as she spun, holding the dagger low, the longer seraph blade glowing crimson now, lifting high enough for another jab, another Cohort's death, another who had stood between Blackthorn and Blackthorn.  She swept through, her rage and terrible,  terrible grief still pouring from her in a wave of heart-rending sound.
She saw Ty fall, saw Kit fighting for him, and her raging grief grew stronger, her soul keening with it, the sound now causing the Shadowhunters further away to turn, to come to her. Julian had Livvy,  had her, and Emma was leaping for Annabel, but Dru would not allow her to do this alone. She cut again,  and again, her path now nearly made, the Shadowhunters of the Cohort falling back, cowards to a man. She grinned. It was a terrible, promising grin, as the sound of her soul's tearing loss still came through it. She fell upon them, felt the jar and yank of her blade tearing through, and felt no joy. She felt hate, a hate if such potency she knew would kill her, if she let it back inside, back into to fill Livvy's spot inside her. So she poured what she had of it onto the members of the Cohort that fell and scrambled away from her.
She saw Zara Dearborn. And saw the little bitch's father, the brains of the the organization she cut through like the avenging angel she was descendent of. She saw, with hot, pure satisfaction and more killing rage, the fear on their faces as she cut through their defending ranks like they were not there, and her terrible, terrible grin grew. As one, the Dearborns fled her, and now the keening cry became a laugh more awful than her scream had ever been. She felt Julian, his despair, felt Ty's unconsciousness, Tavvy's fear, Mark's unbelieved sorrow, Helen's loss.
She felt all but Ty and Julian focus on her.  And felt her blood begin to sing with the power of her loss, her rage, and her glee at these cowards,  these who spoke of hate, but had no clue, no inkling of what true hatred was, had no idea of what ran through her blood now, and would kill them all, however she chose it too, and would make it sweet.
The Dearborns heard her laugh, and they ran faster, forgetting all but the frantic desire to save themselves from her.