Author: Shannon Messenger

I don’t need food or family.

I don’t need anything. Except to stay focused.

I concentrate on a nearby Easterly’s song, listening for any sign of the Stormers’ approach. The lyrics hold no clue to their presence. It should be a relief. But the song carries no note of anything out of the ordinary. Not even my mother’s trace.

I know she’ll be careful, hide any glimmer of her trail. Still, I wish I had some sign that she’s really out there stalling them. Keeping us safe.

If she isn’t, the Stormers could arrive any second. And even if she is, can I really push Vane to be ready for the fight? I almost lost him today.

But if I don’t . . .

My hand clutches the pendant resting against my chest, and I can’t help wondering how much longer my cord will stay turquoise blue, vibrant with the energy I breathed into it before the Gales clasped it around my neck. When I stop breathing, it will turn black like my father’s.

I can’t imagine him wanting me to leave this earth the way he did. He didn’t even want me to become a guardian. I still remember the look on his face when I told him.

He’d brought me to a meadow for my first lesson in windwalking, and when I’d finally lifted my feet off the ground—even though it was only for a second—I’d been so proud. I told him I was on my way to being just like him. My first step to becoming a Gale.

The crinkles around his eyes sank into ravines and his dimple vanished. Then he wrapped his arms around me and ran his fingers through my hair, untangling the knots caused by the afternoon breezes. And he said, “I want you to always be free.”

He didn’t want me to be bound by oath or duty. At least not then.

But something changed. Why else would he send me his gift and beg me to take care of Vane? He knew what that meant. And he knew how that journey would end for him.

Was it because what happened was my fault? Did he shove me toward a life of sacrifice as penance? Or did he choose me because he thought I could do what he couldn’t? Protect Vane and live to breathe another day?

I want to believe I’m strong enough—and that Vane will have the fourth breakthrough and be powerful enough to protect himself. But we only have seven days until the Stormers arrive, and I can’t force the final breakthrough. I don’t know the language, so I can’t call the Westerlies to him or send them into his mind. He’ll have to reach them on his own—and if he doesn’t . . . I only have seven days left to live.

I smear my tears away, pressing hard enough to hurt. I loathe the physical proof of my body’s weakness almost as much as I loathe myself for giving in to self-pity.

I made this choice. And it isn’t about protecting Vane or fulfilling my promise to my father. This is my one chance for redemption. My one chance to make up for the horrible mistake I’ve made.

I will do what needs to be done—and I will do it willingly.

No more pathetic weakness.

I need to be strong. And for that, I need pure, powerful wind.

I dust myself off as I rise and reach for my jacket, shoving my arms through the coarse sleeves. The heavy fabric makes me sweat, but I ignore the discomfort and fasten the buttons across my chest. Then I call every nearby draft—twice as many as I normally use—twisting them around me into a knot of wind. The extra gusts and the muted tones of twilight obscure my form in the sky.

I fly almost entirely on instinct, relying on my father’s gift as I creep through the scattered clouds at more of a walk than a race. The drafts sing their scattered melodies, some promising life, others promising rest, and I drink in their words, even if I know they aren’t meant for me.

When my feet touch down, I collapse in a heap. But I’m on San Gorgonio Peak—the highest in the range—and I already feel the fresh mountain air reviving me. The faster, stronger, richer winds skim across my face, cooling me to the core as they share their strength and energy.

I curl up and close my eyes, focusing on the gusts as I clear my mind. Surrendering my consciousness. Drifting with the wind. It’s somewhat like sleep, but a deeper kind of rest. One that washes through every cell, leaving a clean slate.

I’m not sure how long I stay that way, but when I open my eyes the stars are out. Tiny pricks of light, warring with the darkness. They remind me of the few highs in my mostly black existence. Glints of happiness and good—that can’t erase the bad and gloom, no matter how much I want them to. But they hold their place anyway.

Soon I will add another star to my constellation of highs. I’ll get Vane through this, no matter what it takes. And with my death, I will finally give my life meaning.

In that, I find peace.

But I can’t stop trying, either. Our world needs Vane Weston to have the fourth breakthrough as much as I do. There has to be a way.

If only his parents had taught him something of his heritage. One tiny word.

But they’d refused. They’d refused to teach anyone. Even my father, when he asked.

I spent many nights crouching in the shadows, watching my parents argue about that very thing. My mother’s anger was a storm, her accusations like flurries slicing the air. She’d scream that the Westons didn’t deserve our help if they wouldn’t share their language. We could’ve used their power to protect them. Defeat Raiden. Save everyone. Return to our lives, our home, our native winds—winds that were gentler for her, because she belonged with them.

Why should we make sacrifices for people who would never do the same for us?

Why should we help them, if they selfishly refuse to share their knowledge and help us?

But my father would wrap his arms around her and shield her from the raging winds that always seemed to surge with her tempers. When she’d calmed, he’d whisper that the Westons had the right to protect their heritage however they wanted. If they didn’t trust him with the responsibility, it was their choice.

I tried to agree with him then—and most of the time I still do.

Sometimes it’s hard, though.

They couldn’t have known for sure that they’d die for their language—that their son would be left alone and defenseless without it.

That doesn’t change the fact that they condemned us with their decision.

If they’d taught my father Westerly, he’d still be alive.

If they’d taught Vane Westerly, I wouldn’t have to sacrifice myself.

But . . . if I hadn’t saved Gavin, none of this would have happened.

If.

If.

If.

Infinite possibilities. And none of them matter.

What matters is here and now.

The Stormers are coming.

Seven days left.

CHAPTER 25

VANE

I expect to sleep deeply, pretty dead to the world, after everything I’ve been through. But the wind did something to my head.

I went to the beach as a kid, and after hours of getting tossed by the waves, my body absorbed the rhythm of the ocean. That night I’d felt like I was still in the water, letting the tide toss me around.

The winds cause the same effect—but it’s way more surreal. I float and fall through a world of shadow and light. Shapes blur together. Sounds overlap, and I can barely make them out over the roar of the wind as I swirl and spin and hover.

And as my mind flips with the gusts, something shakes loose.

Shattered bits of scenes flash through my mind. Shards of reality that don’t fit, smash-cut together, like a montage in a movie.

CLOSE-UP: AN UPROOTED TREE

Its gnarled branches flail as it shoots through the sky, pulled by the wind. Then the drafts shift and the tree spins, revealing the jagged edge where a thick bough has been ripped away. The sharp splinters at the break are bright red. Like they’ve been painted.

Or coated with blood.

CUT TO: RIPPLES ON A GLASSY LAKE

Rocks skip across the surface, blurring the reflection of the mountains and puffy white clouds. It should be a peaceful scene, but I don’t feel peaceful. More rocks break the water, splashing as waves of anger wash through me.

CUT TO: A YOUNG GIRL

Long, dark hair whips her face. Her bony legs and arms thrash. I squint through the storm and realize she’s tangled in the drafts. Her scream rings in my ears as the winds pull her higher and higher. Then they let her go, flinging her in a death drop to the rocky ground. Our eyes meet as she falls. . . .

I jerk awake and kick off my sheets even though I’m shivering. Sweat glues my hair to my forehead.

The girl in the sky. The girl about to die. It was Audra.

But I have no memory of that moment, not unless . . .

I sit up, gripping the edge of my bed.

“Unless the memory came back.” I say the words out loud, hoping it’ll make them true.

Audra told me they were gone—permanently. But there was something in her eyes when she said it.

Fear.

I want to shake the thought away, refuse to let it rattle my trust in Audra. But she is hiding something from me. I already know that.

Could it have to do with my memories?

What could I have possibly seen or known when I was seven years old that would be important now?

“Vane, are you awake?” my mom asks, knocking on my door.

I lie back down, trying to look normal. “Yep.”

She peeks her head through the doorway. “I thought I heard you moving around. I brought you some breakfast. The protein will help your muscles.”

She holds out a plate filled with the biggest torpedo she’s ever made. The growl my stomach makes echoes off the walls.

She sits on the edge of my bed, watching me eat. I do my best to ignore her, concentrating on the spicy, cheesy goodness, but I know she’s hanging out for a reason.

“So, about yesterday,” she finally says.

Aaaaaaaaaand, there it is.

I shoot her my best I really don’t want to talk about this look. She doesn’t take the hint.

“You ready to tell me the truth?” she asks.

I keep my eyes glued to my plate. Playing dumb doesn’t usually work, but maybe this time I’ll get lucky. “The truth?”

“What really happened with you and Audra? I know what shin splints look like, honey—and those weren’t it. You couldn’t even support your own weight. And I’ve never seen you so pale.”

I try to shrug it off, but she shakes her head.

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of Audra. But now I want to know. Why couldn’t you walk? And don’t tell me it was some sort of training injury.”

“It was.”

“You’re really going to lie to me?”

“I’m not lying.” It did happen during training. Not the kind of training she’s thinking of, but still—training.

“You’re not telling me everything, either—which is exactly the same.”

I really hate when she makes a good point.

I concentrate on tearing remains of my torpedo into shreds.

“Are you in some sort of fight club?” she whispers.

I snort. “Seriously, that’s your theory?”

My mom flushes. “I don’t know. You looked pretty beat up yesterday—and Audra looked like a fairly tough girl, dressed all in black with her military-style boots. I just thought . . .”

“I’m not in a fight club. And neither is Audra.”

She nods, relieved, and I hope we’re done.

No such luck.

“Then what is it?”

I sigh.

I hate lying to my mom. So I toss her a bread crumb and hope it’ll be enough. “Audra’s kind of training me for something.”

“Mind telling me what for?”

I can’t tell her—but I won’t lie, either.

I hold her gaze, knowing I need to look confident to pull this off. “How about I tell you once I know how it goes?”

She considers my offer. “Is it illegal?”

“No.” I’m pretty sure there aren’t any specific laws against battling sylph warriors.