What the hell am I supposed to do with that?
I’ve got no time—no time—but the only thing I’ve got going for me is he doesn’t have that much time, either. In fifteen seconds or so, he’s going to have to toss that ball to someone else—invisible or not.
But I don’t want to wait that long. Every second he runs is an extra several feet he gets toward the goal line. And that is not something I can let happen.
Glancing around, I’m desperate for an idea when one suddenly hits me. It’s nothing I’ve ever done before. But then again, I’ve never before done 95 percent of the things I’ve done in the last twenty-four hours.
Is it a long shot? Yeah. Does that matter? At this point, not even a little bit.
I want to land, but I know better than to put myself down where Cole might be able to get me. So I stay in the air and start looking for the ice Delphina’s been shooting since we got into this hell-arena. There are hundreds of chunks scattered around the field, and I’m going to use them all.
Or at least, that’s the plan.
Most of the books Amka laid out for me in the library really didn’t shed much light on what gargoyles can do, but there’s one thing they all mentioned… Gargoyles are naturally adept at channeling water—supposedly it’s why, for centuries, so many buildings used decorative sculptures of us as water spouts. I don’t know if any of that’s true or not—and neither did Jaxon or Hudson, since I’m the first gargoyle they’ve ever met—but I’m going to operate on the idea that it’s true.
And probably lose this game if it’s not.
But I’m not going to think about that right now. I’m not going to think about anything but getting that ice to work for me. And so I start to focus on pulling the water to me. Just like I channeled magic into Jaxon through the mating bond or Hudson’s magic to light candles, I let the energy build in me. Feel its purpose as it courses through my body, drawing it into my hand.
Once I can feel the ball of energy burning brightly in my palm, I clench my fist on it, draw it back in. And then I pull, pull, pull, pull the ice toward me, melting it into water even as it flies through the air. And it does fly. All of it. And no one is more amazed than I am.
It’s an amazing thing to see, these giant blocks of ice flying at me from all over the field and melting into funnels of water in midair. But the one thing I didn’t account for—the one thing that makes this even cooler and more terrifying—is the fact that there is a lot of water in the air.
And I am pulling it all toward me.
Suddenly my funnels become one giant wall of water moving down the field, and I’ve never seen anything like it. Judging from the way the audience is reacting—screaming and stomping their feet—neither have they.
I want to look for my people—for Hudson and Jaxon and Macy—and see what they think of what’s going on. But I’m terrified of breaking my concentration, of what will happen if I drop my focus for even half a second.
I also don’t have the time. I need to find Cam before it’s too late.
Not going to lie, I’m freaking out a little bit, but I figure it’s now or never. So I take a deep breath, gather all the water into my hold, and then throw it straight down the field at where I think Cam is.
Sure enough, as it falls, it falls around him, not through him, and that’s enough to show me where he is—only about forty yards from the goal line.
I take off after him, flying at absolutely top speed, and still I don’t know if I’ll get to him in time. So I pool the water back together and create a giant wave of water…and bring it crashing down on him, Violet, and Quinn—all of whom are on that part of the field. And as the wave starts to dissipate, I pull the water back and, with a spin of my wrist, turn it into a whirlpool to trap them all.
Cam turns visible again somewhere in the middle of my whole water attack, but he no longer has the ball. None of them does, and I strain my eyes, trying to find it before someone else can.
I finally spy it resting near the bottom of the whirlpool. I was planning on letting them go after a few seconds, but I can’t do that now. Not when they’re so close to the ball and the goal line.
A quick glance around shows me that Cole and Simone have spotted the ball and are racing for it—even as Delphina is diving to intercept me. Keeping the whirlpool going is taking a lot of my energy, and I’m running out of ideas.
I have no choice but to try to get to the ball first.
Luckily, I grab it right before Cole, which gives me the lovely side benefit of being able to kick him in the stomach as I launch myself back into the air.
I’ve got to say, for someone who’s always prided herself on being nonviolent, these last few punches and kicks have made me entirely too happy. Then again, payback’s a bitch, and I’ve had just about enough of being poor, weak little Grace.
It’s time everyone on this field—everyone in this paranormal world—figured out that I’m not fair game anymore. And that I don’t need to hide behind Jaxon, either.
My gaze narrows on the finish line as I race toward my goal. Excitement burns in my chest as I realize I’m going to make it. I’m flying with every last ounce of energy I can muster, and as my goal gets closer and closer, I can’t help the elation bubbling in my chest. I’m actually going to make it.
I’ve barely got anything left in me now, so I have to drop the whirlpool keeping Violet, Quinn, and Cam out of my hair.
But it doesn’t matter. I’m only twenty feet from my goal, and they’re all too far behind to catch me. As long as Cole hasn’t suddenly learned to fly, I’ve done it. I’ve actually done it.
I’ve mentally celebrated no more than five seconds, though, before I realize I’ve made a giant strategic error.
I lost track of Delphina.
And she’s a lot closer than I thought, blindsiding me just as I stretch out for my flight to the goal line.
She hits me full-on in the side with all her strength and velocity, and it knocks me out of the air. Even worse, I hear—and feel—the stone of my wing crack.
118
Stop Dragon my
Wings Around
I manage to hold on to the comet for no other reason than I’m in such agony, every muscle in my body is contracting in an effort to protect the rest of me from further pain.
And this time when I plummet to the ground, I can’t do anything about it but scream.
My right wing is obviously cracked—I haven’t seen it yet, but the trauma has me almost blacking out—and I can’t fly straight, no matter how hard I try. I can’t fly at all, to be honest, and my only hope of not shattering when I hit the ground is gliding my way down on air currents. Quickly.