“Fucking do it!”
But I couldn’t then, and I can’t now. My body betrays me once again. The fire in my chest spreads outward, consuming everything.
My lungs give up waiting. They try to breathe.
Just like that day with Marco, water rushes in like liquid fire. My throat convulses, trying to expel it and draw air at the same time. The choking fits tear through my chest, each spasm weaker than the last. The world starts to fade. My muscles go slack. My thrashing becomes barely a twitch.
Then I hear it.
Through the water, through the roar of blood in my ears, a sound cuts through everything. Harsh. Electronic. An alarm.
Not the horn that started the match. Something different. Something the last scraps of my hazy consciousness recognize from last week.
Marco’s voice in my head.“You survived this before. You can do it again.”Not the words he actually said, but what he meant. What he was preparing me for.
I reach deep for some last thread of fight.
It’s still there.
The first wave hits us like a battering ram.
The world explodes. It slams into us from behind—sound and pressure and chaos. The grip on my head vanishes as the impact tears Elijah away from me, sends us both tumbling across the sand. Water pours from mynose and mouth. I’m still choking, still can’t breathe properly, but my head is above water. I inhale a single, ragged, violent gasp. Then I roll helplessly, still coughing up water, as the artificial tide drags us in opposite directions.
The commentator’s voice booms across the arena, but the words blur together. Something about a sponsor. Something about—
Another wave crashes down. Then another.
Not just any waves.
Tidal waves. They must be coming from some sort of machine.
They’ve activated Poseidon’s Wrath.
My new sponsor activated Poseidon’s Wrath.
I’m slammed against the base of the cliff, my shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. The costume tears. Water floods my mouth again. But this time I’m ready for it. This time I can spit it out, can fight back.
Through the chaos, through the roar of artificial surf, I catch fragments of the commentator’s voice.
“—hold on to your seats, ladies and gentlemen—”
Another massive wave builds at the far end of the arena. Taller than the others. Taller than anything nature would create in a space this small.
I press my body to the cliff, clinging tightly for dear life to what I can grip.
The wave crashes down with the force of a landslide. White water everywhere. The roar drowns out the crowd, drowns out my own gasping breaths.
When it finally recedes, I’m alone on the sand.
No sign of Elijah.
I can’t waste a second looking for him.
The crowd’s roar is deafening, but underneath it I catch the loud mechanical groaning of the clam shell preparing to open. How long do I have this time? A minute? Two?
My hands find the cliff face again. The wet rock cuts into my already torn palms, but I climb. Every muscle in my body screams in protest. Thefall, the near-drowning, the waves—my strength is nearly gone. But I climb anyway.
One handhold. Then another. My legs shake with exhaustion. The painted glitter has washed away, leaving only skin and determination. My shoulders scream with each reach.
