Author: Shannon Messenger

“Duck,” I shout as another wind spike blasts a windmill directly in front of him, spraying him with metal debris.

The heavy pillar cracks and wobbles, tipping toward Vane.

I scream as he scrambles away seconds before the steel pole crushes the ground. Another windmill explodes next to him, and he dives to the sand and misses most of the shrapnel.

I order my Southerly to drop me near Vane, but another wind spike whooshes toward me and I barely manage to duck. The force spins me into a windmill and stars flash in front of my eyes as my head cracks against the metal. The pain breaks my concentration, and the wind holding me streaks away.

There are no healthy winds to call. My breath is knocked out of me as I crash to the sand.

“Audra!” Vane screams. He sounds far away, and I can’t tell if it’s because the winds are so loud or because he’s been pulled away. Or maybe I’ve been pulled away. It’s hard to think through the pain.

I stumble to my feet, wiping the wetness dripping down my cheek. My hand turns red with blood, but I dry it on my pants and press forward. I feel for a draft—any draft—to call, but find only broken, useless winds.

The Stormers crippled the air.

Crippled me.

I unsheathe my windslicer, shredding the eerie winds. But every draft I destroy makes the air thicker, like a fog. It clings to me, stinging like needles as it weighs me down and clouds my path. I press forward anyway. I have to help Vane.

Dozens of wind spikes explode around me, burying me in rubble. I shove myself free of the dirt, rocks, metal, and who knows what else in time to hear Vane scream.

I race toward the sound, wiping blood and dirt from my eyes and slashing the fog with the windslicer. For one second the wall of windy muck parts, and I see two figures dressed in gray drop from the sky. One on each side of Vane.

“No!” I yell, charging forward as they bind him with a thick gray coil of drafts.

A wall of arctic wind slams into me.

I slash at the draft, but it’s like stabbing a waterfall. The force overpowers me. I tumble along the rocky ground, barely managing to hold on to my weapon as I drown in the vicious, broken draft.

Vane shouts my name.

I jump to my feet, only to get tossed backward by another icy blast. It pins me to a windmill, tearing my face like the draft’s grown chilly thorns.

I hold the windslicer to the airstream and the winds part wide enough to show me Vane. Our eyes lock and he shouts something I can’t hear—but it looks like “Don’t do it.”

Then the Stormers form a pipeline and shoot him out of the storm.

Gone.

A primal sob rocks me as another draft cracks against my chest like a frozen whip. I barely notice the pain.

I won’t let them take him.

Everything I’ve worked for—sworn to—comes down to this.

My sacrifice.

The thought should shake me, but it actually fills me with calm. I wonder if my father felt the same way.

I’m ready.

I shout at the winds, begging all of them to surround me so I can surrender myself to them.

The shattered, ruined drafts won’t answer my call.

There’s nothing I can do. I can’t surrender myself if the winds won’t take me.

Tears stream down my face. I want to scream. Crumble. Collapse.

But over the roar of the storm I hear another sound.

Laughter.

I open my eyes and find a Stormer a few feet in front of me. He smooths back his dark hair and grins like a lion stalking his prey. “Now, now, we can’t have you sacrificing yourself. That would ruin everything.”

He slams me with a cold, ruined Northerly. Another frozen whip, this time cracking against my face.

He laughs as I wipe blood off my cheek. “We’ve been chasing your windsong all over the desert, worrying we were up against some all-powerful ghost of a Gale. But you’re just a scrawny little girl with the same boring trick up her sleeve as her father. Too bad for you we were ready for that play this time.”

He whips me again, pummeling my chest, knocking the wind out of me. He laughs as I hack and wheeze. “Don’t worry. If you want to die, that can easily be arranged.”

I scream as a burst of strength fills me.

I never wanted to die.

I wanted to save Vane.

I will save Vane.

My grip tightens on my windslicer.

They can break the winds. But they won’t break me.

Time to show these Stormers what kind of guardian they’re dealing with.

CHAPTER 51

VANE

I expected to scream, cry—maybe even soil myself—if the Stormers ever caught me. Bravery isn’t my thing.

But as the Stormer launches me away from the ground, away from Audra, away from my life, my world, I don’t feel afraid.

I feel rage.

This is what they did to my parents. To countless Westerlies.

They won’t do it to me.

I’m the last freaking Westerly—I can break some stupid wind bonds.

The streams of cold, semisolid air rush across my wrists and ankles, keeping me tied up and hovering in the gray-blue sky. I strain against them and they tighten. I strain harder and they tighten more. Not my most brilliant moment, but I’m desperate here.

My head’s getting fuzzy, my muscles mushy. It feels like the wind bonds are wearing me down, sapping my strength. I don’t know if that’s possible, but I’m not about to sit around and find out.

An Easterly streaks by and I order it to slam into my bonds. It bounces off like rubber. At least it responds. I must be high enough above those creepy busted winds down in the storm. My skin still remembers the way they scraped against it, like they’d turned rough. Hard.

I guess I should’ve grabbed a knife before I left. I can move my arms a little—I could’ve stabbed the Stormer when he gets close.

Metal slicing through flesh. Blood splashing on my skin.

I suck in huge gulps of air, trying to fight the sudden nausea and dizziness.

I’m not going to get out of this with rainbows and sunshine. If it takes violence, I will pull together the guts to use it.

Not that it matters. I wasn’t smart enough to grab a knife. All I grabbed was a stupid packet of pain pills.

Pills.

I twist and squirm, straining every muscle in my body trying to reach my pocket.

Dammit—why can’t I be more flexible?

I shove all the air out of my lungs and contort myself into arguably the most unnatural position ever—legs up, back arched, arms stretching down. My eyes water from the pain, but my fingers slide into my pocket and feel the edge of the packet of pills.

I pinch the corner between my fingers and pull like my life depends on it—because it does. But the packet doesn’t move. I wiggle my hips to loosen it, and it pulls a fraction of an inch, but not enough.

Oh God—this is going to hurt.

And I’m so tired. All I want to do is close my eyes, let my limbs relax . . .

I shake myself awake. Then I hold my breath and strain my back to bend that Last. Little. Bit. I feel something tear—and the scream that slips out of my mouth backs me up on that. But the packet comes free.

It takes more bending and straining—I swear I qualify for yoga master now—to get the packet to my teeth. I tear it open and dump the two smooth pills into my sweaty palm. My fingers close around them before the wind can sweep them away.

Now I just need a way to get the Stormers to swallow them.

I spit out the packet and try not to look as the winds toss it back and forth on its long way to the ground.

“I’m not going to fall,” I tell myself.

“Oh, we would never let that happen,” a deep, hard voice says behind me.

I hate myself for yelping.

Cold hands spin me around and I’m face to face with a Stormer. His wavy blond hair and blue eyes belong on a surfer—not on a heartless warrior in a sleek gray uniform. I never thought the Stormers would look so . . . human.

“If you’re plotting escape, you can stop now,” he mocks me. “There’s nothing you can throw at me that I haven’t anticipated.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Big words for someone caught in unbreakable bonds.”

He shouts something I can’t understand and the bonds spread, clamping around my chest. My fist grips my pills as I cough and fight for air.

“Let. Me. Go.” I know it’s a stupid thing to say, but I’m pretty sure every hostage has to scream it at some point.

“No, I don’t think I will.”

His bulging muscles and the way he hovers in the air so effortlessly prove he’s more powerful than I am. But I’m too angry to be afraid.

“I can’t wait to see what Audra does to you when she gets here.”

“Is that her name? Wispy thing? Acts all tough with a windslicer?” He leans close enough that his cold breath coats my face. “Not too worried about her. She’s bound in a drainer.”

Everything inside me drops like a stone. “A drainer?”

He grins. “Special funnel we make. The hostage can’t move. Can’t escape. And our hungry winds drain the life right out of them. Kind of like what your bonds are doing to you—but all over her body. She won’t last long that way.”

“You’re lying!”

“I’ll send her echo when it’s over. Let you feel the loss for yourself. And don’t go counting on the other one to rescue you either,” he adds as I suck in air to calm my rage. “She took off like a frightened bird the second we found where you guys were hiding. We’ll track her down later.”

He shoves me then, sending me tumbling through the sky like a useless piece of debris. I barely notice the nausea. My head’s already spinning way faster.

Audra’s been captured—in a drainer?

Arella abandoned us?

My body finally stops flipping and I breathe through my nose, refusing to let the vertigo overwhelm me. It’s all up to me now.

I squeeze the pills so hard they crumble.

Dammit!

Unless . . .

I pulverize what remains of the pills with one hand while my other hand searches the sky, feeling for an Easterly. I’ll only get one shot at this, so I have to get it right.

I fight exhaustion as I wait for the winds to surge and let the sound drown out my whispered call. The draft coils around my wrist, and I pray the Stormer won’t notice until it’s too late.

I don’t know the exact command for Shove this down his freaking throat, so I’ll have to improvise.

I study his breathing, searching for the pattern.

Three.

Two.

One.

I shout, “Rush,” and toss the crushed pills into the draft.

The white powder slams him in the face mid-inhale and he sucks it up. Not nearly as much as I’d hoped, but enough to make him gag.

He charges me, gripping my throat. His thick, meaty fingers dig into my skin, strangling me. Then his hands start to shake and I slip from his grasp.

“What did you do to me?” The anger in his voice fades to fear as he chokes. Hard.

Okay, choking is good. And he’s scratching at his skin, like he’s getting hives. But he’s definitely not passing out like I’d been counting on.

Time for Plan B.

I don’t know where the strength comes from, but I thrust my body in a half somersault, positioning my feet above my head. I call another Easterly and coil it around my legs.

“Rush!” I scream.

The draft launches me forward, and I strain my legs higher, lining up my aim.

The Stormer notices me a split second too early and tries to twist out of the way. But my legs are long enough to kick him in the head as hard as I can.

I try to ignore the crack-crunch sound of my shoe connecting with his skull, but the nausea still hits me.

Only shock saves me from hurling all over myself as the Stormer’s head lolls back, thin lines of red trailing down one side of his face. Then the drafts holding him whisk away, and he drops like dead weight.