He grunts, off-balance, and Jay follows with an elbow to the jaw that snaps his head sideways. He’s not even using his natural Were weapons or strength as he drives the man back.
They trade blows in tight, brutal proximity. The bigger man seems to be immune to Jay’s strength, rallying with seemingly magical recovery, when the human would normally be unconscious on the asphalt.
Jay’s movements are economical. A slice to the henchman’s forehead causes blood to gush into his eyes. Every subsequent strike lands where it will do the most damage. He doesn’t show off. He fights the way Gideon taught him—to end the threat and to win, even when the prize is only to determine who tops.
He twists the henchman’s wrist until it snaps, the enigma’s strength more than the bigger man can bear. There’s a shrill shout as Jay yanks his shoulder out of its socket.
Across the lot, Grayson’s vision tunnels as the woman’s grip of Air tightens, black spots forming in front of Grayson’s eyes. Pain blooms as his ribs crack.
“Gray!” Leo shouts from behind him.
Extra strength pours through his bond with Nix.
And a memory surfaces, clear as glass.
You don’t need your hands to call on your magic, Grayson. It just focuses your flow, but you are The Plain.They’re the words Knox had wanted him to remember this morning in class.You’ll remember what I said, right?
“Gray!” Leo bellows again as he lays on the horn in a long blare right behind him.
Grayson closes his eyes. He stops trying to move.
Heopenshis soul andpulls, and Nix shouts.
The Plain surges through him in a great wave, not as something he wields, but as something they are together. Every color of the rainbow, on every frequency, fills his every cell.
The wind around him compresses, spirals inward, then explodes outward in a shrieking burst that tears the woman’s weave apart. The invisible bands snap, forcing her to stagger back with a choked cry.
Grayson inhales, and the pain is piercing. Pushing it away, he calls a fireball, sending it across the parking lot without looking or raising a hand. It goes wide, and the woman approaches, her face contorted in a rictus of rage.
Healing blue and steady green set to work healing the worst of his ribs, mending the minor puncture in his right lung. Golden orange stops the worst of the pain, not permanently, but enough that he can focus on the woman barreling toward him.
Now that he’s not distracted by the suffocating pressure or the pain, it’s easy to recall the weaves that he’d used to build his ice staff. He pulls on The Plain again, trying to pull moisture from his environment, but the Nashville day is hot, and the Air flows have made the surrounding air so dry it’s impossible.
She’s almost on him, a gun in her hand. It’s shaking, as if it’s not her usual weapon, but it’s the zealous fervor burning in her pale blue eyes that sends a frisson of fear straight down his spine.
The car door slams behind him, and seconds later, the hose to the cistern erupts to life, water arcing across the pavement in a roaring rush.
Thank the Goddess for Leo.
Grayson’s laugh is wild.
Ice blooms in his grip, the staff forming in a single seamless motion, veined with ice-cold light where heat and cold meet. He steps forward, wind at his back, staff cutting through the air in a gleaming arc.
He twirls the weapon like a baton, icy air sending tendrils of eerie blue steam in every direction, fractals of prismatic light arcing in the sun. The spinning action forces the woman around, her back pressed to the front of Leo’s car.
At the same time, Jay slams the henchman into the SUV hard enough to make metal scream. There’s a subsequent thud of a large body hitting the ground in an unconscious, bloody heap.
Grayson’s staff hums in his grip. In moments, he has the woman pinned, the sharpened edge of ice tucked under her chin where her pulse is hammering like a trapped bird.
“Drop it,” Grayson says, and the rage in his own voice surprises him.
Her gaze flicks past him, fast, calculating. The heavy pressure in the back of his head returns, but a yellow burst of light from The Plain smothers the attempt.
“Now, now. That’s not nice,” Grayson growls. “Try that again and—” He widens his eyes and lets his words trail away, the threat clear.
Grayson doesn’t have to turn around. Jay is a furnace at his back. Controlled now, but not calm.
He catches a glimpse of his soulmate out of the corner of his eye—glowing with white light—standing on the hood of the SUV. He’s dragged the other magic user across the hood, his yellow Converse pressed to the man’s neck as he squirms.
