Wind slap

They struck the ground a split second apart, she on hands and feet like a cat. She rolled, and his claws cratered the spot she’d left behind. They were beside the riverbank and he was the size of a house now. Before he’d settled, she twirled and chopped off his barbed tail, the stump spurting blood.
“You smell like her,” he snarled. “I didn’t take you for a collector of pets. I wonder how long she’ll live when I swallow her alive.” He leapt for the air, wings flaring.
“No,” Ryn roared. “These skies are not yours!” She reached out to the forest on both sides of her, eyes shut and spirit touching the air, feeling it tremble in anticipation—it was wind too long untapped by gods, too long abandoned to natural forces and allowed to twirl and rage inside a glass bottle. Ryn uncorked the bottle, lifted both hands, and poured it on Saxby.
The trees swayed and groaned, and then bowed. In the maddening whirl, Saxby’s wings folded in an awkward direction and he sank to the other side of the river with a dull thud.
Already, he’d regrown his severed tail. Glaring across the river, his reflection was distorted when the water rippled into streaky waves from the gales. “No matter. To save your girl, you still have to get past me. Ghorm twisted that mortal boy so tight he’s a killing spring. The boy told me he wanted to kill your pet with a machete. I told him: splendid. He’s doing it now. This very moment.”


Chapter 22, page 334-335