“Six spot, Go!”
Five minutes into the game and things are a muddled mess. Ami has made five strikes. Luckily, she has scored only once. If she connects twice more, our strategy might not work.
I focus on the weakest Jag handler. “Everyone on number 22.” It’s risky to let the other five Jaguars roam unhindered, but I’m hoping Yetic and the others will recognize the weak link and take her out before Ami can score again. The increased blocker attention works as number 22 topples out of formation and misses an easy pass.
Cera is closest and responds immediately by taking a knee and projecting an EM storm at the floundering Jag handler. Partially shielded, 22 manages to rise to her knees. In a bold move, Tenoch sprints through the wash and drives a close range pulse directly into the Jag’s shoulder. She dances for a short second before dropping to the stone court. Her number blanks.
Two down.
This time Yetic keeps an eye on Ami. As she fires another strike, he deflects it enough to send it screaming out of bounds. The Jags rotate in a replacement at the expense of another blocker.
“Seven spot on deck,” I direct traffic in the dugout, keep an eye on the clock, and project as much disrupting EM energy as I can. So far, so good, but we won’t be able to hold this pattern much longer. Ami has no doubt identified our strategy. The next time she explodes, she won’t be looking to score. She’ll be looking to stun as many Serpents as possible.
“Seven spot, Go!” After the seven spot hits the court, I turn toward my remaining blockers. “I’m going in as a handler in the eight spot. Then I want Tlatl in the nine as striker. Then Jeshm, Nena, Flek in the ten, eleven and twelve. Twack, make sure I’m the first rotation out at thirteen. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” they respond in unison without taking their eyes off the court.
“Good. This is where things get interesting.” I turn around in time to see Ami’s skin begin to creep with flame for the second time during the game. I chew the inside of my lip, hoping the decision to wait until the eight spot wasn’t the wrong one. Since the Jags still haven’t sent out a guardian, we both have six handlers on the court. Our only advantage is that we’ve got two additional blockers.
Aglow with dark red EM energy, Ami flashes a series of hand signals to the Jaguar dugout.
I don’t like it and decide to alter strategy again. “All blockers on the pelota. Stay with it until I hit the striker. Then give Ami everything you’ve got.” I check the clock—7:52. “Eight spot on deck.” I shift into position while keeping my disruptive EM focused on the pelota.
Through the corner of my eye, I glimpse Ami charging center court. A storm blossoms directly above it, catching Yetic in mid-flight. 7:55. If I touch the court a second early, I’ll be penalized and ejected from the period. “Shield Yetic!”
The dazzling red storm erupts, criss-crossing center court in an EM spider web. Plowing through the middle of it and surrounded by whorls of color, Yetic spasms. His shoulders dip. His head flops loosely on his neck as he plummets toward the court.
The clock reads 7:59. “Eight spot, go,” I command myself as I drive my bare foot into the dugout step and reach for the next. The game clock strikes 8:00, and I launch from the top step.
By the time I stretch out my hand, the skin on my forearm is already veined with an angry green glow. Focusing everything I have on Yetic, I blast center court clean of EM energy and stabilize him the moment before he strikes stone.
Vaguely, I sense the atmosphere of the stadium shift as the air is sucked out by thousands of simultaneous gasps. Rather than seeing the counter attack, I feel it before it happens.
Ami flares. Planting my left foot, I launch myself skyward. Ami’s pulse streaks beneath me.
Undeterred, I blur through center court. Driving a pulse before me, I chart a path directly for the Jag handler en route to our hoop with the pelota. As the handler releases the pelota, I release the pulse.
He is only meters away, and the flare is instant. Unconscious before he hits the ground, the Jag skitters limply across the court and into the base of the western slope.
By the time I plant both feet, our hoop is lit, indicating the Jags have increased their lead. I’m just getting started. My feet dance with energy. It takes a second for me to gain control of my twitching eyelids and focus my vision.
Yetic is still moving, his number still lit. But he’s helpless against further attack, and Ami is already focused on him. The last time we faced off, she had seemed to think I needed my brother to defeat her. We’ll see about that.
I sprint toward Yetic while flashing hand signals to the other five Serpent handlers. They catch my intent and pair off with their nearest Jag counterparts—man to man.
Ami fires a pulse. Rather than waste energy shielding Yetic, I telekinetically push him clear. I shift my focus onto my true target, the striker. I launch a timid pulse. Ami blocks it easily, disdain etched on her face.
She doesn’t know my initial volley has been a signal to the dugout. On cue, the remaining three dozen Serpent blockers drill down on the Jag striker. She staggers, then flares red-hot.
From meters away, I vault myself upward while blasting Ami with a narrow-focus pulse. Flames curl around her face and neck. They crawl along the length of her braid. She unravels the braid from her neck and slashes it through the air. She’s absorbing it all—growing stronger.
Before she can unleash a counter attack, I’ve reached her. Driving a fist into her chest, I close my eyes and open the gates. I surrender to the rage.
The torrent swallows me. A blinding rush tears reality apart, dispelling it as myth. My existence shatters with it. Picked up by the stream, the pieces of me course their way to the end and back again. Suddenly reassembled, I open my eyes.
Time has stood still. Having just landed the blow to Ami’s chest, I follow through to full extension. Her creeping red flames ripple outward from the blow and extinguish into the blackest of night.
I flick my eyes up to meet her own. Even in fear, their anger cannot be hidden. She blinks and time catches up. A storm erupts. Ami is the epicenter.
I slam my fists into the stone court and grab ahold of the splintered rock to ride out the wash while images from the past flicker across the blackened screen of my mind. The final image remains in my consciousness, and it’s not even mine. My thoughts choose to anchor on the memory Citlali implanted in me along with my new braid.
As if he were my own, I cradle the queen’s fading lover during his final seconds before surrendering to the twitch. Citlali’s words echo in my thoughts as the picture fades. “I pray you succeed where I could not.”
I promise, I will. As I rise to my feet, the roar of the crowd pierces the veil. I open my eyes to discover myself standing in a pile of shattered stone. Ami lies on her back several meters away. The number on what remains of her tattered jersey has blanked.
A pulse streaks toward me from my three o’clock. I block it and return the favor. Before the Jag handler can block, I shatter his defenses and root his feet to the ground. The pulse slams directly into him. He’s still standing when his number blanks.
I release him, and he flops to the court. I don’t even feel tired. Quite the opposite. I feel alive—more alive than I’ve felt in years, maybe ever.
A Jag flyer makes a play for the pelota as the replacement striker dashes onto the court. With hardly a thought, I drill a path into the striker’s chest and bury a pulse inside it. He stumbles headlong. His number blanks before he hits the ground.
I’m sorry, Calli, but I can’t watch this anymore, Olin invades my thoughts.
I flinch, hesitating a split second before launching a pulse at the Jag handler with the pelota. I respond to my brother as the handler falls from the sky. Too easy for you?
Don’t be angry at me, Olin says.
I stop the onslaught to address my brother. Angry at you for what? Opening the door last night? This is hardly the time to apologize.
I only hope Turon can get through to you this time.
Turon? What did he—”
Against my will, the rough-hewn wooden door in my mind—the one holding the torrent at bay—flies open. The relentless current is more terrible than I’ve ever experienced. Gurgling with evil voices, it drags me under.
Pounded and held down by its suffocating weight, I struggle for a fleeting second before surrender becomes my only thought. Into the absence of dark and light I disappear.
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