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straddled him in front of his wings. I sat—tiger backs are not comfy—and wrapped my arms around his sinewy, feathered neck. He cantered along the shore, beating his wings. As his muscles flexed his great strength was remarkable, and suddenly we were rising in the white air.
    We burst through the fog, and now, flying above it, I was glad for the clear air . . . until a flash in the distance drew my attention to the clouds. Ahead of us was a massive cloud formation. The edge could have been a snapshot of stormy seas, freezing the frothy water in motion. The “crashing waves” ascended in asymmetrical jumbles, puffy and beautiful. Atop that, layers of smooth-edged clouds jutted out as if a layer cake with thick icing had been placed atop that curling wave.
    “That’s the mother of all storm clouds,” Thunderbird said.
    Again, lightning flickered within the depths of the formation, a reminder that such beauty was often dangerous and wrathful. “We have to fly inside it, don’t we?”
    “To confront the most powerful air we do.”
    “You won’t be able to see inside it, will you?”
    “Don’t need to. I just need to feel the current and ride it without you falling off.”
    This test couldn’t be just about the ability to hang on, but my fingers burrowed under his feathers for a better grip anyway.
    “Wind shears spiral around, up from the ground, then back toward it. Young griffons play in them often, but that involves much twisting and would increase the risk for you, so I’m going to skim the top.”
    Sounded like surfing. “Do the young griffons ever carry extra weight when they play in wind shears?”
    “No.”
    “Do you think it will make a difference?”
    He craned his neck regally. “I am strong enough, Persephone. Are you?”
    Considering the previous tests, this one was stirring up significant unease. “I have to be.”
    Leaping from a plane without a parachute might prove easier than what I was going to have to do.
    Thunderbird pumped his wings faster, gaining speed. Griffons could be incredibly swift if they wanted to be. Beneath us, miles of ground elapsed at amazing speed.
    Thunderbird’s path had us pass in front of the formation. Clouds, I learned, were deceptive. They gave the appearance of being close even when they weren’t. As he angled back to approach from the southwest, we were dwarfed by the storm.
    He caught the wind shear on the western side. It pulled us across the top toward the north, but before it threw us over the downward eastern side, his wings arched and his whole body tensed as he fought to ride the top of the shear. Doing this propelled him— us —even faster.
    For me, a pair of goggles would have been nice.
    We were rising again. “Updraft,” he shouted. “Hold on!”
    Thunderbird let the spiral sustain us, twisting his body to keep me as vertical as possible as we rose up into the cloud. The temperature was dropping rapidly, and it was hard to breathe. Swallowing to release the pressure in my ears, I wondered how high we had flown. With the way he could cover distance, I was sure our altitude would have petrified me if I could have seen the ground.
    The frigid ascent lasted for long minutes, including brief bouts of rain and hail—during which I buried my nose in his feathers. Finally we seemed to peak, to break over the updraft’s edge and spiral downward, again detecting the precipitation in the air. The temperature was warming and my ears popped again, but the wind was tugging at me as if it were cognizant and seeking to snatch me from Thunderbird’s back. I squeezed as much with my legs as I did with my arms.
    Then the lightning flashed again and a rumble filled the air around us. In seconds, the sound had escalated, roaring like a jet engine just inches from my skull. Caught in a rushing wind, we were tossed outside the cloud as a funnel formed beside us, and I saw the tornado’s tip lunge toward the ground so very, very far below.
    My stomach heaved like