He sprayed it over his wound, the edges drew closed, and the bleeding stopped. It did leave a scar, and it certainly hurt a lot, but it repaired the damage.

The mind was powerful, so much so that the connection between demon and brother would bring about real-enough wounds if one or the other were injured. It was psychical, spiritual, so powerful that it crossed with ease into the natural. But Mr. Emmanuel fancied himself a god, and gods were eternal beings. He was in control of his own mind. Even if his demon died—the one for whom he played host—he would yet live. Besides, the Bloodstone was calling Nwaba onward now, and once they possessed it together, the rules could change. Possibly in my favor; but he dared not think such things out loud yet.

For now, the only change he needed was in regards to his shirt.

He slid the old one down the chute to the incinerator.

***

False Bay, South Africa—Present Day

I HEARD SHOUTING IN the wet dark, but it came and went and was distant. The waves were relentless and unpredictable, crashing in on us, entangling us in the lines of our chute, which, now that it had completed its job of grabbing air, was grabbing currents in the sea, threatening to pull us under.

I flailed. Though he was strapped to me, it was very difficult to keep Michael's head above water. The only way I could do it effectively was to lie on my back and thrust my belly up, but it was a herculean effort. Even with my superhuman abilities, I would not be able to continue like this for very long.

The shouting came closer, but I still couldn't make it out. Something about a propeller? Or something called shoo-daway? It didn't make sense. Besides, I had other things to worry about. Great. We're saved from certain death at the hands of Brotherhood traitors by an enormous plane crash, which thrusts us into certain death at the hands of gravity. And an airborne horde of demons. I went down the list, thinking that if I were a cat, I would almost be out of lives by now.

My top priority was fast becoming finding a way to release the chute from Michael and me. I thought it certainly had to be like the ripcord pull, only different enough to eliminate confusion. I tried to scramble for it with one hand, but every time I did, we sank under the waves. I was seriously worried about Michael. If his airway became restricted in his unconscious state, he would suffocate and drown. I didn't know how to release the pack straps; I searched in vain.

Now the shouting was near and very clear. It was Ellie. "...your chute away."

I figured she was telling me to cut the chute away. Like, duh. Trying that, genius.

"Airel, cut your chute away. Use the Sword."

The Sword. "Duh," I said, and focused as hard as I could on my grandfather's blade. It was obvious when it appeared—the sea lit up all around it, fizzing like crazy. I did my best to cut us loose, being careful not to injure Michael or me. But the cords of the chute were on all sides now, tangled with us. After the first few swipes of the Blade we were in better shape, which was good, because I didn't have both arms to keep us afloat. I kicked my feet as hard and as quick as I could to keep us up, but I was running out of energy fast.

I looked around for the largest remaining mass of cords and took one final swipe at them. The Sword made the sea boil around us; I could feel the warmth coming across us in alternations of cold and hot. But at last we were free; the parachute fell away and drifted off.

I had figured out by now how to put the sword away with a thought, and I did so. I basically just had to think of something I needed more desperately, and what I needed then most of all was to keep us afloat. The Sword returned to wherever it had come from and I treaded water furiously, hoping Michael hadn't gotten too much seawater in his mouth.

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