Author: Shannon Messenger

Vane would never want me if he knew I’m the reason his parents are dead. I’m a selfish, callous creature who ruined everything because I chose to save Gavin’s life—a bird Vane hates. Then I lied to him about his memories being permanently lost, because I can’t bear the thought of him knowing I’m to blame.

And how would I have explained to the Gales if I bonded to Vane? Stole their king? With Vane’s potential for power, they want to make sure he’s bound to the royal line, so our people will have confidence in our world once again. Come out of hiding. Trust the Gales.

Plus, Solana’s a Southerly, and her bond will be a softening influence—should the power of four go to his head.

If I interfered with that, I’d be banished for such treason. Permanently branded a traitor.

No, it has to be this way. Even if my treacherous heart still scalds the inside of my chest.

I’ve burned so many different ways for Vane.

Guilt.

Desire.

But this is the worst.

The scorching heat of loss.

I dive into the pain, let the fire consume me. It’ll make me tougher. Stronger.

Water may have weakened my body—but it didn’t weaken my resolve.

It’s time to prove how strong I am.

I pull myself upright, squeezing my pendant with one hand. My other hand rubs my temples, easing the headache caused by my braid.

It took me months to master weaving the intricate style. The hair is divided into five equal sections, and the four outer strands are twisted and folded around the central strand, to represent the way our lives are inseparably bound to the four winds. Even the men wear a variation of the braid. It’s a physical display to show that we live not for ourselves, but for the service of the winds. The service of the guardians.

I’m a guardian.

My plans have been turned inside out and ripped to shreds, but my purpose holds true. And I will honor that purpose. With everything I have.

But I have to figure out what to do about Vane. We still have to train together, and judging by how hurt and angry he looked as he left, that’s going to be a challenge.

Spots flicker behind my eyes just thinking about being close to him again. Flying together. Holding on to each other . . .

I scrape together the last of my willpower and push those feelings away.

I can do this.

I just need to get used to it. And Vane clearly needs the night off. So tonight we’ll take our space. Give ourselves time to come to terms with everything. No harm can come from that.

Unless . . .

Panic closes off my lungs.

Vane has a rebellious side. I’ve seen it flare against even my smallest attempts at control during our training—and this is much, much bigger. Who knows what he might do in response?

I can think of one thing that would be very bad.

Irreversible.

I curse my stupidity as I take off through the grove, leaping over fallen branches and pushing my legs harder than I’ve ever pushed them. But when I reach the main road, his car is long gone.

Quick and catlike, I scale the nearest palm, standing on the wobbly branches at the top. I don’t care if anyone sees me. I have to feel as much air as I can.

Hands shaking from nerves and adrenaline and anger at myself for allowing yet another disaster, I undo the buttons of my jacket, slipping it off my shoulders and dropping it to the ground, exposing as much skin as possible. I close my eyes and concentrate on the air around me, feeling for Vane’s trace with each cell of my skin.

Every sylph leaves their mark on the wind. A change in the draft’s tune, as though the wind ran into a friend and added new notes to its song to carry away the memory of the meeting. We can brand the wind by commanding it too loudly—like I did when I called the Northerly I attacked Vane with—and have it carry our trace permanently. But even silent contact leaves a faint trail. The draft only carries it until it finds something else to chant about and drops the tune. Before that, anyone listening can pick up the trace and follow it to the source.

I read traces better on the winds of my heritage, so I focus on the Easterlies in the grove. Most carry no sign of having seen either of us. But when I listen near Vane’s house, I find a soft breeze singing of the jarring blur of motion caused by someone on the run.

That has to be Vane.

I call the draft to me and inhale the trace.

A tingling rush knocks me back, and I lose my footing in the branches, toppling to the ground. A nearby Southerly saves me from a painful fall, but when I’m safely on my feet, I can’t calm my tremors.

It’s like I’ve taken in a small part of him, a fractured piece he left behind.

Almost like a loss.

I have no idea if that’s possible—or what it means if it is—but I’ll worry about it later. For now, all that matters is finding Vane. I have to track him down before he does something he’ll regret. Something we’ll both regret.

Already running, I call the nearest Northerly and spin the wind around me so fast I’ll be nothing more than a blur in the sky.

“High,” I whisper, catching my breath as the gust sweeps me away.

In seconds I’m over the main roadway, the setting sun making me squint as I concentrate on the air. The warm tingles of Vane’s trace tell me which way to turn. An inner compass guiding me straight to him.

I just hope I reach him in time.

CHAPTER 33

VANE

I didn’t plan to meet up with Isaac after I sped down my driveway. I just needed to put as much distance between myself and that crazy life Audra was trying to cage me in, before it was too late to escape. And I was too mad/hurt/disgusted to look at her anymore.

But then my phone vibrated and I realized the first step to taking back my life was right there, in my hands. Well, in my butt pocket—but still.

Which is how I ended up back at the River, this time at the noisy, crowded Cheesecake Factory. They really need to build some decent places to hang out in this crappy valley. I’m crammed into a booth next to Hannah, and Isaac and Shelby are across the table, watching us with the smug grins all long-term couples wear when they watch their friends on a double date.

Probably waiting to see how I’ll blow it this time.

Shoot, knowing Isaac, they probably placed bets on it.

But I’m not screwing up tonight. I left Audra and her chaperone-from-hell skills in the dust at my house.

Which is good because I have big plans for me and Hannah, number one of which is kissing her and proving that (a) I don’t need Audra, (b) I make my own decisions regarding my life, and (c) a kiss is just a kiss. I don’t buy that bonding crap. And I’m determined to prove it.

The thought makes my palms sweat and my heart race and my stomach twist like I swallowed something alive. I tell myself those are nerves.

But I know it’s mostly guilt.

I feel guilty for using Hannah. It’s not that I don’t like her—she’s really nice. Cute, too. Especially tonight, in her tight pink halter top. More than a few guys have checked her out. But when she bumps my leg under the table or grazes my arm, I don’t feel any warmth. If anything, I feel colder. Like my body’s telling me I’m sitting next to the wrong girl.

And there’s the other type of guilt too.

Guilt for betraying Audra. Cheating on her by simply being here with Hannah.

It’s insane. She made it very clear that she doesn’t want me—at least, not as much as she wants to please the losers in her army.

This is her choice. Not mine.

Hannah launches into some story about hockey—she’s so Canadian it’s hilarious—and I take the opportunity to study Isaac and Shelby. He has his arm draped across her shoulders and his fingers are playing with the soft red curls that frame her face. She’s pressed up against his side like she doesn’t want a millimeter of space between them. The grin on Isaac’s face says he doesn’t mind that at all.

Everything about them screams “couple.” And I have to hand it to them. They look happy. I mean, I know why Isaac’s happy. Shels is way out of his league. He isn’t bad-looking, or he wouldn’t be if he shaved the ugly mustache he insists on sporting, which is surprisingly thin and scraggly considering he’s full-blooded Mexican. All the other guys in his family—including his fourteen-year-old brother—have beards.

Shelby’s hot, though. Long legs, despite being what girls would call petite, and enough curve to make the buttons pop on almost every shirt she wears—not that I look. Well, not now that she’s with Isaac.

But Shelby looks even happier than Isaac. Like she belongs in the crook of his arm. And she’s spent so many months in that exact spot I almost can’t picture him without her there. Makes it kind of annoying when I want a night with my friend without his girlfriend joined at the hip. Right now, though, it makes the careful gap Hannah and I are keeping between us feel like the Grand Canyon.

Maybe I need to try harder. Hannah has her right hand resting on the table, and before I can change my mind I grab it.

Hannah flinches and I relax my grip, realizing my big move came across more like an attack than a romantic gesture.

Isaac and Shelby share a look.

Strike one for Vane.

But I’m not out yet. Hannah doesn’t pull away, and she turns her hand over, twining our fingers together.

I smirk at Isaac. How you like me now?

This is good. I’m doing this. I’m on a normal date with normal friends on a perfectly normal night. No crazy winds. No talk of evil warriors or languages of the wind or arranged marriages. Just random chitchat about movies or music or school or whatever—exactly the way a date should be.

So what if everything about this moment screams, This is wrong?

The waitress delivers our food, and I smile when I see the giant bowl of pasta she sets in front of Hannah. A girl who eats when she’s hungry. Score one for Hannah.

There’s an awkward moment when I stare at our clasped hands and try to decide what to do—strike two. Then I let go of Hannah so I can dive into my gigantic sandwich and mountain of fries. I eat way past the point of fullness, like it’s another form of protest.

Take that, you crazy sylphs with your not eating and controlling people’s lives!

I scoot closer to Hannah, letting our legs touch—skin on skin, since we’re both wearing shorts. Another point for Hannah: She’s dressed appropriately for summer in the desert. Not buttoned up to her neck in some ridiculous uniform.

I still feel nothing when we touch, but her closeness brings a different kind of thrill. The thrill of success.

Hannah takes my hand again, lacing our fingers tight.

“Vane?” someone calls over the noisy restaurant.

My sandwich and fries threaten to come back up.

Isaac, Shelby, and Hannah turn to see who’s calling me. I stare at my plate, wondering if I can stab myself to death with my butter knife.

“Vane,” Audra says again, her voice louder now. Breathless.

A shadow falls over the table, but I don’t look up. My plan is to pretend she’s not there. It needs work, but it’s all I have.

Isaac and Shelby are silent. Probably sitting back to watch the show.

Hannah shifts in her seat. “Vane, what’s she doing here?” The edge to her voice tells me she’s less than happy to see Audra again.

“I’m here,” Audra answers for me, “because I’m his girlfriend. So I’d appreciate it if you’d take your hands off of him.”

“Dude,” Isaac half-laughs, half-mumbles.

He grunts, like Shelby elbowed him.

I say nothing. I’m in a crapload of trouble, but, God help me, all I can think is how good it sounds when Audra says “his girlfriend.”

I risk a glance at her—and, oh man, she’s hot. Lots of hair has escaped her braid, falling around her flushed face, and her jacket’s gone, her black tank even tighter and tinier than I remember. I’m not sure “hot” is a strong enough word. “Smokin’ hot” might be more accurate.