He was not distracted enough yet. He had expected the sounds of conflict; in fact, he was smiling a little. She realized in that moment that he did not care if one or more of his family fell, so long as there was at least one left. So long as she ended up in his hands. And the best person to take her was probably his mother. His mother was a witch, and he was probably counting on the fact that there was not a lot, magically, that even an Air Master could do against the knowledge and stolen powers of a witch. Witches were too unpredictable. There was no way of knowing what they had stolen, what they had learned from old books of spells, what they managed to get from pacts with Elementals or . . . other things.

It’s murder him, or he murders us. She tried to rationalize it, and . . . then she realized what she was doing. There was no way of escaping what she was about to do.

I cannot rationalize it. So be it. To save my friends, I will murder. With my powers. In cold blood. And I will accept whatever comes of that.

A great calm settled over her. Her hands steadied. Her breathing steadied. And that was when Rosa’s coach gun roared out over the valley.

That startled him. His head jerked in that direction. In that instant, she thrust the tube of air forward, touched it to his temple, and squeezed the trigger.

The rifle butt snapped into her shoulder. In the scope, a bright red spot blossomed at Johann’s temple. And he toppled forward, out of the chair, to lie motionless in the snow.

A scream rent the air from above, and Giselle threw back the sheet and looked up to see the Thunderbird plunging toward her. She watched it come, feeling . . . still calm. So be it—she thought.

And then its talons skimmed a good foot above her head, and she heard a screech behind her as it hit something, and there was thunder all around her as it beat its wings to gain the sky again.

Instantly she rolled over, to see the great Elemental thundering upward with something in its talons. Someone. Someone screaming.

Johann’s mother. The witch. The Thunderbird had caged her with its talons, holding her fast as the sickle and staff dropped from her hands to land in the snow.

The witch writhed and shrieked as the Thunderbird carried her higher and higher, until it was so high that her voice faded to nothing in the distance.

Then it let go.

The witch’s screaming didn’t end until she hit the snow with the same crack as a rifle bullet, but much louder.

Nothing could have survived that fall.