“Not much when I'm linked to the rift,” is the grimly honest answer and, probably, the particular reason for their taking cover. They won't be able to wholly rely on it, but it isn't as if the demons targeting them are able to intrinsically zero in on that connection, or at least, she hasn't seen them do it that way— if they're out of sight, and the enemy occupied (Mourn Watch and their raised dead, those of Riftwatch not burdened with the closure itself), every moment they aren't noticed is precious time to force the thing.

Even still. Beyond that:

“My anchor-shard is stronger than most, has abilities beyond only the closing of the rift,” she says, crouching low, glancing at Wanda's reddened hands but not starting. Rifters practise strange magic; that one true eye of hers has seen a great deal of it, nearly ten years of her adult life spent entangled with them. “The focus,” the gauntlet she's wearing, and if it reminds her of some kind of steampunk Stark tech then it should because he built the thing, “allows me some measure more of control over them. Blasts of force or a protective barrier around us. Beyond that,”

her shrug is elegant for a woman wearing an armored corset,

“I've got a lot of knives and the bow.”

The bow glitters strangely on her back, trailing ice magic, and appears to have no string within it.

“If I can get somewhere high up, it's better, but if I'm high and locked to the rift—”

it's just further to fall if a despair demon catches her off-guard.