The witch herself was still just alive, and her mouth chanel bags outlet online moved shudderingly, saying, "Something coming, something else… coming…"
     It made no sense. The President was already stepping over her body to reach the larger cage. His daemon was running up and down the sides of the other, her little claws making the silver mesh ring, her voice crying for pity.
     The golden monkey leapt for Father MacPhail, but not to attack: he scrambled up and over the man's shoulders to cheap louis vuitton bags reach the complex heart of the wires and the pipe work, the resonating chamber. The President tried to grab him, but Mrs. Coulter seized the man's arm and tried to pull him back. She couldn't see: the rain was driving into her eyes, and there was still gas in the air.
     And all around there was gunfire. What was happening?
     The floodlights swung in the wind, so that nothing seemed chanel bags outlet online steady, not even the black rocks of the mountainside. The President and Mrs. Coulter fought hand to hand, scratching, punching, tearing, pulling, biting, and she was tired and he was strong; but she was desperate, too, and she might have pulled him away, but part of her was watching her daemon as he manipulated the handles, his fierce black paws snapping the mechanism this way, that way, pulling, cheap louis vuitton bags twisting, reaching in...
     Then came a blow to her temple. She fell stunned, and the President broke free and hauled himself bleeding into the cage, dragging the door shut after him.
     And the monkey had the chamber open, a glass door on heavy hinges, and he was reaching inside, and there was the lock of hair: held between rubber pads in a metal clasp! Still more to undo; and Mrs. cheap chanel bags Coulter was hauling herself up with shaking hands. She shook the silvery mesh with all her might, looking up at the blade, the sparking terminals, the man inside. The monkey was unscrewing the clasp, and the President, his face a mask of grim exultation, was twisting wires together.
     There was a flash of intense white, a lashing crack, and the monkey's form was flung high in the air. With cheap louis vuitton handbags him came a little cloud of gold: was it Lyra's hair? Was it his own fur? Whatever it was, it blew away at once in the dark. Mrs. Coulter's right hand had convulsed so tightly that it clung to the mesh, leaving her half-lying, half-hanging, while her head rang and her heart pounded.