9,456 FEET

I had reached the heart of the storm. Updrafts flipped and spun me, slowing my descent slightly, as rain and quarter-sized hail pelted me from every direction.

I pushed the ring onto my left index finger.

Then I howled, competing against the howling wind, wondering if it mattered if the demon king could hear me, “I do conjure thee, O thou Spirit Paimon, by all the most glorious and—” And then I went blank, like I knew the whole time I would. I yanked the page containing the Words of Constraint from my pocket, because any rational person will tell you how easy it is to read as you plummet through a thunderstorm, your body pummeled by hurricane-force winds, the utter darkness punctuated by blinding flashes of lightning. It didn’t matter anyway because the wind and hail shredded the paper in seconds, before I could even unfold it completely and bring it close enough to my face to read.

I was screwed. I would hit the ground at five hundred miles per hour and my body would disintegrate on impact, like a watermelon dropped from a skyscraper, and they would be finding pieces of me from Maine to Idaho. Paimon would get the ring and the war would be over. Everything would be consumed, all because I let my hatred of Mike Arnold get the best of me.

I crossed my arms over my chest and rolled so now I was falling facedown. I spread my arms and legs, knees slightly bent, the way I’d seen skydivers do, figuring this might slow me down. I had no idea if it did because I had no idea why skydivers fell this way; it might have nothing to do with their rate of descent. Maybe they just enjoyed the thrill of seeing the ground rushing up to meet them at 250 feet per second.

Saint Michael. Saint Michael, protect.

Wide shafts of light stabbed through the swirling rain and hail. I could hear demons above, screaming toward me at speeds faster than thought, and when they caught me, they would tear me to pieces.