Before the barrier shattered.
"Kh — tch." Ethan pursed his lips, made a sound that was less a curse than a hiss, air dragged over teeth.
He staggered upright, one hand flat on cracked concrete, the other cradled against his ribs. The griffin's wings folded high on his back trembled with the effort of holding him steady.
'Grayson' wasn't playing weak anymore.
WHIP —
The tail came again, low and fast; Ethan's murky spiritual power flared over his skin on pure instinct. The dark, oily haze caught the tail's edge —
CRK-BOOM.
— and the impact still threw him backward, boots scraping, feathers scattering, hurling him a good ten meters farther than ever before.
Farther from ever reaching Neville.
Ethan skidded, caught himself, and looked down at his own hand.
There was a cut on it.
A clean but thin as a paper's edge.
When did it happen? Ethan thought. Was it the tail? Or the claw?
But that wasn't the important point. The point was that this cut was doing something.
