Author: Shannon Messenger

“Is it dangerous?”

“It’s not supposed to be.” Not totally a lie. Audra keeps telling me we’ll be fine. And if I ignore the worry in her eyes when she says it, I might believe her.

“You’re making this really hard, Vane.”

“I know.” I take her hand, something I used to do all the time as a kid. Makes me wish I could go back to being ten, knowing my mom can fix whatever problem I’m having.

But she can’t fix this.

“I promise, I’ll tell you more when I can. For now, just know that I’m not involved with anything featured on one of those special news reports you love to watch.” She’s softening—I can tell. So I go for the gold. “Have I ever given you reason not to trust me?”

“No,” she admits after a beat.

“Then can you please just believe me when I say I’m okay—and that if I need your help, I’ll come to you?”

I can tell by the frown lines around her mouth that she doesn’t want to agree. So I play my final card.

“I’m seventeen, Mom. You have to start letting me handle things on my own.”

She shakes her head, and I expect her to argue. But instead she whispers, “Don’t make me regret this.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

She stands and takes my plate. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” I stretch my legs under the covers. They throb like I’ve just run ten thousand miles at top speed—but they’re working. “Just tired.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing you don’t have anywhere to be.”

My dad had tried to force me to get a summer job, but my mom talked him out of it. She knows how sick I get in the heat. But I know she’s really telling me she doesn’t want me going anywhere. She doesn’t trust me.

I hate that.

I can’t do anything about it, though, except force a smile and reach for the remote. “Yep. I’ll be resting up all day.”

Tonight will be another story—but she doesn’t need to know that. I just have to keep the act up for seven more days. Then everything will go back to normal.

Or . . . I’ll be a prisoner of an evil warlord. Or prisoner of a sylph army. Or dead.

Not a lot of good options in that mix. And not a lot I can do about it. Except train as hard as possible, and trust Audra.

Assuming I can trust Audra.

When my mom leaves, I close my eyes and try to force myself to sleep, hoping to trigger more flashbacks. I want my memories. Need them. And now that I know they’re within my reach, I’ll do whatever it takes to get them back.

Audra has her secrets. Now I have mine.

CHAPTER 26

AUDRA

Vane looks pale when I come to collect him for training, and the circles under his eyes are the color of storm clouds. Like he lost a fight with gloom.

“You okay?” I ask as I move closer to him.

He shrugs and focuses on tying his shoes. “Just tired.”

He isn’t the worst liar I’ve ever seen—but he’s close. I sink on the bed next to him, careful to keep a wall of space between us. “Did you rest?”

“I tried to.”

“But?” I prompt.

He shrugs again.

Does he think that counts as an answer?

Apparently. He says nothing further.

I don’t have the energy for this.

“We can do this two ways,” I tell him. “You can keep ignoring my questions, and I can keep pestering you with them until you finally come clean and tell me what’s wrong. Or you can tell me now and save us a ton of time and frustration. I leave it up to you.”

He lets out a long, slow sigh, slumps off the bed, and walks to the window, keeping his back to me. “Fine. I had a hard time sleeping after my mom called me out about the shin splints. She didn’t buy our story.”

“What did you say?” I keep my voice casual, despite the fact that my mind is racing in a million directions.

He wouldn’t tell his family the truth—would he?

What will I do if he did? What will I tell the Gales?

Vane shrugs—so help me, if he shrugs one more time I’m going to shake him so hard his teeth will rattle—and turns to face me, not quite meeting my eyes. I hold my breath, bracing for the worst possible answer.

“I told her the truth. That I couldn’t tell her what was going on, and that I needed her to trust me.”

“Did she agree?”

“For now. But I know she’s worrying—and I hate it. I can’t keep this up forever, Audra.”

I know I should sympathize with his struggle—but it’s hard to feel sorry for him. Poor Vane has a mother who cares. I barely remember what that’s like.

“You only have to keep it up for a few more days,” I tell him, trying to keep the resentment out of my tone.

“Right—’cause after that I’ll either be Raiden’s prisoner or the Gale Force’s new slave.”

The venom in his voice slices into my brain. Instant headache.

I can’t have this argument again. “Are you feeling well enough to train? We should probably get started.”

“Do I even have a choice?”

“Not if you want me to live through this.”

I don’t realize I said that out loud until I see Vane’s face. He looks like the scared little boy watching his broken mother float away.

“Vane, I . . .” I’m not sure I have the words to fix what I just did.

He shakes his head and turns his back on me.

Neither of us speaks as we sneak through his window and run to the darkest corner of the lawn. When we’re safely in the shadows, I call the nearby Easterlies and wrap them around us.

“We’re not training in the grove?” Vane asks as the winds coil tighter.

“It’s time for you to practice the power of three. You’ll need more space.”

I move toward him and he steps back, meeting my eyes. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he finally says, “You know I’m trying, right? I mean—I—”

“Vane.” I force myself to hold his gaze. “I don’t expect you—”

“But I’m going to,” he insists.

I don’t deserve that promise—especially from him. I take it anyway.

The winds brush my face, reminding me why we’re standing there. I clear my throat. “You remember how windwalking works?”

He nods, shifting his weight as I drape my arms around his shoulders. His hands wrap around my waist, and heat melts through me. He exhales right as I inhale and his breath is the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. I want to lean closer and drink it in. Instead, I let the winds launch us into the dark sky.

Maybe it’s the chilly air up high, or the long, lonely day I’ve spent worrying, but his touch doesn’t scald me with guilt this time. It feels safe. He feels safe. Strong. Warm.

“When do I get to fly alone?” Vane asks, his face flushed. Eyes bright with energy.

“Not for a long time. Windwalking is one of our most complicated skills. It requires an extremely fluent communication between you and the wind, and you barely know a few words.”

“That sucks.”

Something inside me sinks. “You don’t like flying with me?”

I want to yank the words back in the second they leave my mouth. Especially when Vane’s grin returns, carrying a decent helping of his trademark cockiness.

“Oh, I do.” His hands trail to my hips, and I hope I haven’t inspired him to make another move with my ridiculous behavior. But they freeze when they reach the windslicer belted to my side in its etched, silver scabbard.

“Seriously? You brought the sword?”

“Why?”

“Well, I mean, it’s a cool weapon and all—but you guys have seen the gun, right? Don’t you think it’s time to upgrade to something a little more effective?”

“Please. Even a breeze can redirect a bullet. I’d like to see a gun stop a cyclone with a single slash.”

His smile fades.

Good. He needs to understand the kind of danger we’ll face in a wind battle.

Hundreds of glowing red dots appear on the horizon, and I angle the winds toward them, dropping us low when the narrow, spiked windmills come into focus. I can’t help being impressed by the way Vane automatically pulls away from me. He remembers how to land.

We hit the ground running, screeching to a stop at the edge of one of the lower foothills.

Vane laughs. “The wind farm? You’re joking, right?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“I guess I assumed we’d practice the power of three—or whatever you call it—in the middle of nowhere, so I couldn’t do any damage to, oh, I don’t know, huge wind turbines that probably cost more than my life.” He waves his arms at the rows of windmills all around us. “Not to mention, they look like they’ll slice me to Vane-bits if I get too close.”

I can’t help smiling. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure nothing gets out of hand. But you need the windmills. They’ll help you separate the different winds, since your senses aren’t fine-tuned enough to determine that on their own. See how each windmill is turned differently? They’re angled to pick up winds from every direction.”

“Is that why there’s always like, one or two random windmills spinning, even though none of the others around it are moving?”

“Exactly. So when we practice tonight, and I tell you to find an Easterly, you would reach from there.” I point to four windmills at the base of the lowest hill, lined up like soldiers, their pointed blades blurring in unison. “Watch for their speed. Easterlies are the stealthy winds. They also tend to cluster, so you want to look for a group. Let’s see if you can spot a Northerly.”

He squints through the darkness, examining the spinning blades.

“There.” He points to a pair of windmills in the middle of our level.

I repress a sigh. I can’t expect him to know these things—they’re not something he’d learn in groundling schools. But it’s still disappointing when he gets them wrong.

“Those are Southerlies. See how it looks like they don’t have enough force to keep moving, but somehow still do? Southerlies are the steady, sluggish winds. Easterlies are the swift, tricky winds. And Northerlies”—I point to the edge of a hill, where the freeway carves its brightly lit path in the night. A line of windmills stands taller than the others, their enormous blades whirling at top speed—“are the strong, forceful winds.”

“What about Westerlies?”

I swallow the lump that rises in my throat every time I think of Westerlies. They stand behind every pain, every sacrifice I’ve endured in my seventeen years in this world. “They’re the soft, peaceful winds.”

Vane snorts. “That’s ironic.”

Indeed, it is. The greatest war our world has faced is being waged over the language of peace. Makes me want to scream. Or punch something really, really hard.

Instead, my eyes search the rows of turbines, seeking out the one spinning to a rhythm all its own. I find it at the lower point of the highest hill, silhouetted against the starry sky. “There’s a Westerly.”

Vane hesitates before looking where I point.

“It’s the only draft here I can’t feel. I can see it, and if I were in its path I would feel it against my skin. But I can’t feel it prickle my senses. Can’t call it. And if I tried to listen to its song, all I would hear is a hiss of rushing air. Its language is completely lost to me.”

I don’t tell him to feel for it, but Vane closes his eyes, stretching his hands toward the lone Westerly powering the windmill. Reaching for his heritage.