Eighteen – 05

[This post is from J.T.’s point of view.]

Another curse dropped from J.T.’s lips. He twisted toward Paul, his eyes narrowing. What the hell is going sideways now?

“Talk to me, Paul.”

“That is a shit-ton of lightning,” Paul said. J.T. nearly swore again.

That isn’t helpful, Paul. “Dammit, Paul.”

“J.T., I don’t know what’s going on out there, okay?” Paul snapped. “I don’t know anything more than you do. I can just tell you what I see and right now it’s a fuck-ton of lightning.”

J.T. glanced down at Thom, still unconscious, showing no signs of waking. He pressed his hand against his friend’s forehead, finding it hot—hotter than it should be.

When it rains, it pours.

A crack of thunder that shook the watchtower punctuated the thought and a chill shot down J.T.’s spine. “What happened before the lightning?”

“I didn’t see. I was tracking a camazotzi.”

“Are they pulling back?”

Paul’s brows knit. “Hard to tell. There’s still a lot of them in the air and on the ground but the light-show’s taking them out and so are the archers.”

Seamus was still ordering the archers to maintain fire; J.T. could hear him, though it was growing harder and harder as the storm began to strengthen, the rain coming harder. The air had turned cold with the storm, far colder than it should have been on a summer day. J.T. knew it wasn’t a good sign, but he had to trust that they were in control—and if they weren’t, that they’d still find a way to squeak out of this alive anyway.

Marin shouted something over the sound of the thunder and rain, but the words were lost as the wind picked up, starting to howl. Phelan shouted back. J.T.’s stomach dropped. Even if he didn’t hear the words, he heard the tone.

We’re screwed.

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