Chapter Forty-Seven
Hold on!” Andrew shouted.
Isla barely managed to think how she could help as she grasped the side of the punt with white-knuckled hands when it suddenly surged forward, icy water splashing across her face.
Juliette squealed. A punt was meant to be a slow, leisurely glide along the river—an afternoon of romantic calm, not chaos.
They weren’t the Royal Navy, and this was certainly not a motor torpedo boat used to race across enemy waters.
The rival punt accelerated in answer to their challenge. An unnatural wave rose over the side of their own boat, towering as if they were suddenly in the middle of the Arctic Ocean instead of the calm waters of the River Ouse. It crashed down on them, icy spray stealing Isla’s breath.
She caught sight of Andrew dropping to his knees, palms still glowing, drawing the river water to propel their punt with astonishing speed.
“They have an Aqua Wielder!” Jimmy cried.
“Yes, I gathered that,” Edmund muttered, gripping the boat as it rocked precariously. He looked a little green right before he vomited over the side.
Andrew maneuvered them to avoid another wave.
Isla thrust her hands toward the riverbank, her palm green.
A tangle of weeds and water plants leapt into the air, twisting toward their pursuers like a boomerang.
The green mass wrapped around the man standing at the back of the rival punt, blindfolding him as the weeds wrapped securely around his head.
The boat veered sharply, tipping the blinded Wielder into the water, and the waves subsided. Isla saw eight men left in the punt.
Another pursuer summoned his own weeds to nudge their punt back on course. Isla’s eyes widened as he launched a vine like a lasso, attempting to ensnare Andrew—but missed.
Andrew’s breath grew ragged. “I can’t keep this speed up!”
Whereas before their fight had been an explosion, a surge of energy—like a cavalry charging at full gallop across a battlefield—now it demanded endurance and precision.
Each Aetherian had to focus on pacing themselves.
Even the strongest among them could falter if they pushed too far, risking collapse or a temporary loss of their abilities.
The battlefield had shifted from wild force to careful, calculated exchanges, a test of stamina as much as skill.
“Andrew, stop,” Juliette said. “One of us will swap with you.”
“I will,” George said. Their punt slowed, and George hobbled forward, trading places with Andrew and grabbing the quant so Andrew could catch his breath, but the exchange cost them precious time, and their pursuers closed the distance.
As they passed beneath a centuries-old bridge, Isla had an idea.
Shadows deepened for a heartbeat, the night air thick with tension, before they emerged into the silver glow of moonlight.
The vessel wobbled as she shifted, making Edmund groan.
Placing a palm on Andrew’s leg and another on Edmund’s shoulder, she let her palms glow, channeling a steady flow of energy.
A faint warmth pulsed through them, a careful infusion of her Terra power that, she imagined, worked like a surge of nutrients and oxygen to fatigued muscles while clearing mental haze—something science might describe as accelerating natural recovery—leaving both their bodies steadier and their minds sharper than a moment before.
Edmund nodded his thanks, looking less green as he thrust his palm forward, and a jagged bolt of lightning shot from his fingers, scorching the front of their pursuers’ punt.
He launched another, striking a man’s arm; the shout of pain cut through the night.
Edmund moved to summon a gust of wind, but a thick curl of smoke whipped toward his face.
Coughing and choking as it focused its attack on his nose and mouth, he tipped to the side, unable to breath, nearly toppling overboard—Andrew and Jimmy’s quick hands caught him just in time.
Isla’s eyes widened as she watched Edmund slowly suffocate.
She looked to her friend, but Juliette’s focus was on those chasing them.
She looked angry—not a very Juliette look.
Her pale blonde hair caught in the moonlight, a halo of warmth around her.
But her palms began to glow an unnatural black, deeper than the shadows of the river at midnight.
Smoke coiled from her hands, thick and writhing like living ink, and moved with an almost sentient purpose along the surface of the water, wrapping around their pursuers’ punt like a shadowy serpent.
When a rival tried to hurl a fireball, Jimmy lifted his palm and used a gust of wind to snuff it out just in time. Isla looked at him. “Just a Wielder,” he muttered with a shrug, his eyes still on the chasing punt.
Juliette’s fingers of smoke lashed out, strong and unyielding, gripping the rival punt with the force of a hundred hands.
The boat shuddered, twisted, and with a loud splash, flipped over, sending its occupants falling into the dark, icy river.
The black smoke lingered above the water like an unnatural fog, a silent warning.
Edmund choked out a ragged breath, coughing, and drew in a deep, steadying inhale. Juliette watched him with concern in her eyes.
Adrift and punt-less, the eight men struggled toward the shore.
Isla didn’t see the wave that rose with sudden force; she only felt the icy cold water as it lifted her from the punt and carried her toward land in a water bubble.
The sensation hit a nerve—a memory of her first swim in Cornwall, the current yanking her under, tossing her beyond reach, gasping and trembling when she surfaced.
The sea had earned her lasting respect that day.
Suspended in midair, submerged in water, she felt the same helplessness as she had in that wave, the water pressing relentlessly from all sides.
Her eyes were open; it felt like she watched a movie through a screen as she scanned the chaos—watching but not present.
The rest of her friends were still on the boat.
George summoned a sphere of earth, preparing to throw.
Andrew’s horrified gaze caught hers, panic flickering across his face, but he had to duck as an Ignis shot fire toward him.
Isla couldn’t breathe; she needed to breathe.
Then she dropped. Water splashed around her as her back hit the muddy ground, the wind knocked out of her.
Gasping for air, she turned and came face-to-face with a man covered in wet mud; he must have been struck by George’s earth projectile.
Fear surged through her at being so close to him.
Before he could attack, she summoned thick vines.
They shot up from the ground, wrapping around him like a spider ensnaring its prey.
She stood shivering, cold and soaked but determined to do her bit.
How had everything gone so pear shaped? On the bank, what looked like three men and a woman blocked her friends from reaching her while bright flashes lit the night sky as they fought.
From the water, four more figures emerged, dripping and relentless, advancing toward her.
She backed away, her breath ragged. She had no idea what powers these men possessed; she was still so new to the Aetheric Arts, and she was outnumbered. They surrounded her, each of their palms aglow. She heard Juliette cry out in pain from the punt; she was so close, but too far to help.
She faced the men and thrust her palm out, willing the trees to listen to her guidance.
Roots burst from the soil and coiled around the nearest man’s waist. For a moment, triumph flared in her chest as the man was lifted, hanging upside down, and started to rise—until a second man burned the roots to ash with a flick of his fire-wreathed hand and the floating man crashed to the ground.
Isla staggered back as smoke clawed at her throat, choking her.
She wouldn’t let these foul men hurt anyone else.
She summoned a burst of leaf growth around her, encouraging the foliage to flood the air with fresh, pure oxygen at an unnatural rate.
The fronds sucked at the black, gritty air, and for a blessed second the smoke thinned and allowed Isla to draw in a ragged breath.
It wasn’t perfect, but it brought her seconds, and the concentrated oxygen steadied her hands and cleared her head.
Heart hammering, she sent a whip of roots toward the Ignis.
The vines lashed out like a net and snaked for an arm—only for the man to swat them aside, sparks of his counter-magic singeing the tendrils.
Isla’s effort unraveled; the plants shrank back where they’d been burned.
She staggered, lungs raw, as the threat shrugged off her best shot.
Isla looked toward the river. Through the haze of smoke, she could make out their punt as it spun helplessly as though trapped in a whirlpool, the Aqua at the bank twisting her hands, no doubt creating a current with cruel precision.
On the shore, a Terra had raised crude, jagged banks of earth, turning the riverfront into a makeshift trench line.
From behind this cover came bursts of flame and slicing gusts—elemental shots traded across the water like wartime fire.
For a moment, the unsteady punt and the barrage together held her friends back, momentum swallowed by chaos.
Turning, she faced the group surrounding her. The man she had attacked was on his feet again, though his arm hung at an odd angle. Still, he stood with the other three, silent and unmoving, all of them watching her. Why weren’t they charging at her?
“You’ve been a challenge to kill, Professor Cole,” Davies said, his voice low and edged with irritation. “It could’ve been over quickly—if you’d just died when I tried to choke the life out of you. But no, you had to survive and drag all your friends into the mess.”