They ride pitchforks, not broomsticks, and their pointy black boots are toed with steel. Mobley watches seven of them skid to a stop, striking sparks from concrete.
Selene dismounts first, yew wand in her shoulder holster. “Thanks for coming,” Mobley says. “I didn’t know who to call–”
“Nobody ever does,” says Selene. “It manifested downstairs?”
“Through the kitchen,” says Mobley. Selene raises a fist, and her band makes ingress at a military trot.
“You’re not going to–hurt it, are you?” Mobley adds in apprehension.
“Do you know what the collective noun is,” she asks, “for witches?”