windpipe is taking every ounce of energy and focus I have. Grabbing on to the platinum string takes concentration and precision, and I’ve got neither going on right now.
Suddenly, the ball flies out of the portal, too, smacking Cole in the side of the face. He doesn’t so much as flinch. To be honest, I’m not even sure he knows it hit him—once again reinforcing the idea that this Trial doesn’t mean shit to him.
Get up now! the Unkillable Beast orders me again.
I’m trying, I really am. But I can’t catch my breath, and I can barely think. Everything is going gray and cloudy inside my head.
There’s a part of me that knows Cam just ran by and scooped up the ball, so I have a fleeting thought that I’ve already lost this game.
And then another fleeting thought about how fucked-up everything is if that’s what I’m worried about right now, when death seems a much more imminent concern.
Desperate, I try to reach for Hudson’s power—pretty sure now’s the time to use it—but I can’t unlock it, can’t focus without oxygen to sift through the memories enough to find the one where he left—
“Grace!” Hudson’s shout echoes across the field. “Get up! Get away from him, now!”
I want to, I really want to, but I can’t. The darkness is coming over me, swallowing me whole, and I’m fading, fading, fad—
But before I do, I turn my head just a little to get a glimpse of Hudson, and that’s when I see them—Macy and Jaxon and Hudson on the sidelines of an arena gone silent with shaken spectators.
Macy is standing by the fence that separates the field from the stands, screaming at the Circle.
Jaxon still looks half dead, but he’s got murder in his eyes as he rests both hands on the magical wall. He’s sending quakes of energy to unseat Cole, but the witch’s magic is holding and he’s only shaking the spectators instead.
And Hudson… Hudson is laser focused on me. His eyes are pinned to my face with an intensity that makes it impossible not to feel him and imagine him still in my head.
“Get that bloody wanker off you, Grace!” he orders me.
I don’t know if it’s the Britishism or the intensity of his voice, but suddenly it feels like he’s inside my head again instead of all the way across the stadium. Snarking at me to stand on my own two feet, telling me I’m a badass, that I’m stronger than I think. Pushing me to try again, to reach inside me for my platinum string. And this time, even though I know it’s too far, that I don’t have the strength to grab it, I strain my fingers just enough to brush against its soft glow.
And with my last ounce of breath, I shift my knee into solid stone—and shove it straight into Cole’s balls.
He yelps like a kicked puppy, and I’m not going to lie, a part of me is disappointed he doesn’t disappear instantly from a mortal injury. I’ll just have to comfort myself with the image of him limping for a bit, and regardless, his hands are no longer around my throat as he falls over to cup his injured flesh, and I can finally, finally breathe.
I roll onto my hands and knees, coughing my head off as I suck air into my oxygen-deprived lungs. I tell myself I need to get up, I need to keep moving, but there’s a part of me that knows it’s already too late.
Cam picked up the ball what seems like a lifetime ago. He’s won.
116
Death By Ice Cube
Is No Way to
Start an Obituary
But as I look around, my gaze slowly coming into focus, I realize not only has Cam not run down the field to the goal—their entire team is standing still. And staring at me.
If I’d hazard a guess, I’d think they were enjoying watching Cole choke me to death. Bastards. But now they’re staring openmouthed as Cole writhes around on the ground holding his hopefully busted junk, not sure what to do next.
Luckily, I have no such issues.
With every ounce of energy I can muster, I jump forward and shift, flying straight at Cam, my stone foot swinging under my body to connect with his to knock the comet free. But I needn’t have bothered, because as my foot draws near, he drops the ball and covers his privates. I was aiming for his chin, but whatever.