Let the Sky Fall
Authors: Shannon Messenger
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Fantasy & Magic, #Legends; Myths; Fables, #General, #Love & Romance, #Juvenile Nonfiction, #Activity Books
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Contents
For my husband, Miles
I never could have written a love story (or channeled my inner snarky boy) without you
CHAPTER 1
VANE
I
’m lucky to be alive.
At least, that’s what everybody keeps telling me.
The reporter from the local newspaper even had the nerve to call it a miracle. I was “Vane Weston: The Miracle Child.” Like the police finding me unconscious in a pile of rubble was part of some grand universal plan.
“Family Survives Tornado”—now,
that
would’ve been a miracle. But trust me, there’s nothing “miraculous” about being orphaned at seven years old.
It’s not that I’m not grateful to be alive. I am. I get that I shouldn’t have survived. But that’s the worst part about being “The Miracle Child.”
The question.
The same inescapable question, plaguing me for the last ten years of my life.
How?
How could I get sucked in by a category-five tornado—nature’s equivalent of a giant blender—get carried over four miles before the massive funnel spit me back out, and only have a few cuts and bruises to show for it? How was that possible, when my parents’ bodies were found almost unrecognizable?
The police don’t know.
Scientists don’t know.
So they all turn to me for the answer.
But I have no freaking idea.
I can’t remember it. That day. My past. Anything.
Well, I can’t remember anything useful.
I remember fear.
I remember wind.
And then . . . a giant, blank space. Like all my memories were knocked out of my head when I hit the ground.
Except one.
One isolated memory—and I’m not even sure if it
is
a memory, or if it’s some strange hallucination my traumatized brain cooked up.
A face, watching me through the chaos of the storm.
A girl. Dark hair. Darker eyes. A single tear streaks down her cheek. Then a chilly breeze whisks her away.
She’s haunted my dreams ever since.
CHAPTER 2
AUDRA
I
t was my fault.
I knew the rules.
I knew how dangerous it was to call the wind.
But I couldn’t let Gavin die.
Back then, guarding the Westons consumed every second of my family’s lives. Constant worry. Constant running. Constantly looking over our shoulders for the coming storm. We’d holed up in two tiny houses in the middle of nowhere. Waiting. Watching. Holding our breath. The fear hung over us thicker than the clouds.
I survived the hardest days by seeking shelter in the sprawling cottonwood trees at the edge of the property. Balanced high in their branches, with the breeze sliding across my skin, I could let the world fall away and open my mind to the whispers of the wind.
To my heritage.
I never spoke to the wind. Just listened and learned.
But the songs of the wind weren’t enough to fill the lonely days. So I turned to the birds.
Gavin’s nest was hidden in the thin limbs at the top of the tallest tree, tucked safely out of reach of predators. But I was a wispy thing, and my nimble legs had no problem scaling the fragile trunk to reach it. Inside were three balls of fluff. Goshawks—proud and noble, even with their downy gray feathers and open beaks, waiting for their mother to return.
I’d never fully connected with a bird on my own before. I always needed my mother’s guidance to make them understand me, respond to me, trust me. But she was too busy with the Westons. And Gavin was different.
He never screamed or flinched the way his siblings did when I came to inspect the nest. He just watched me with his wide, unblinking eyes, and I knew he was daring me to reach out and grab him. I visited him every day after that, as soon as his mother left to hunt.
I’d been counting down the days until his first flight, torn between excitement and dread. Longing to witness the moment he drank in the freedom of riding the wind, but crushed by the idea of losing my only company. My only friend.
Brave Gavin was the first to leap.
My heart stood still as he propelled himself out of the nest, his red-orange eyes staring at the horizon. Focused. Determined.
For one second his wings caught the draft, and he screeched in
triumph from the rush of flight. Then a gust of wind knocked him off balance and sent him crashing toward the ground.
I’d love to say that I didn’t think. That instinct took over, clouding out all reason. But I knew the risk.
Our eyes met as he fell, and I
chose
to save him.
I called the wind—the first time I’d ever done so—wrapping a swift gust around Gavin’s tiny body and floating him to my waiting hands. He nuzzled against my fingers, like he knew. He knew I’d saved him.
I brought him home and showed my father, never telling him how Gavin came to be mine. I had plenty of chances. My mother asked lots of questions. All I had to do was tell the truth.
If I had, my father would still be alive.
Instead, I kept quiet—until one of Raiden’s Stormers found us the next evening and swirled the three most powerful winds into an unstoppable funnel.
Then it was too late.
CHAPTER 3
VANE
F
or three months during winter it doesn’t totally suck to live in the Coachella Valley. Then the heat comes and half the population hops into their fancy cars or private jets and escapes to their second, third, or fourth homes, leaving behind a bunch of old people, a few crazies, and the rest of us—trapped outside the country clubs in the “non-rich” areas.
My family’s one and only house is unfortunately stuck in the middle of an unruly date grove in Bermuda Dunes, California, a.k.a. the hottest freaking place on the planet. Today it’s 109°F. The kind of day where the locals sit around and talk about the nice “break in the heat,” because two days ago it was 126°F. I can’t feel the difference. But I’m not a local.
I moved to California just after my eighth birthday, when my
adoption became final. So to this Nebraska native—even after nine years living here—pretty much anything over 100°F feels like sticking my body inside an oven. People keep telling me I’ll get used to it, but I swear every year it gets worse, like the sun’s melting me from the inside out and I’ll eventually be nothing more than a Vane puddle on the ground.
On hot summer days like today, I do everything in my power to avoid leaving the dark cave I call a bedroom. Which is the main reason I refuse to let Isaac drag me out tonight for another one of his disastrous fix-ups.
There’s another reason I don’t like to date—but I’m trying not to think about
her.
“Come on, man,” Isaac whines. It’s the third time he’s called me in twenty minutes. “I promise it won’t be like last time.”
By “last time” he means when he hooked me up with Stacey Perkins. Apparently she’s a vegan—which is cool. Her choice. But nobody told me that until
after
I brought her to Outback Steakhouse. Then she asked the waitress if they had any “cruelty free” items on their menu.
Things only went downhill from there. Especially when I still ordered a steak. There are few things worse than an irritated vegan.
“Not interested,” I tell him, pulling my blinds closed and flopping on my bed. I spread out my arms so I can get maximum fan exposure. The breeze feels better than AC, better than jumping headfirst into a swimming pool. Almost like my body craves the rushing air.
“Come on, Hannah is Shelby’s cousin and they’ve been joined
at the hip since she got to town. It’s been three weeks. I’m going out of my mind.”
“Pawn her off on someone else. I’m not getting stuck on another crappy blind date just so you can make out with your girlfriend.”
“You know I’d do the same for you—if you ever
had
a girlfriend.”
“Don’t go there.”
“But, I mean, dude—you’re seventeen and you’ve never even kissed a girl. What is
up
with that?”
I don’t say anything because he’s right. I have no problem asking girls out—or even getting them to say yes when I do. But I officially have the worst luck with girls. If I don’t screw things up on my own, something always happens. Drinks spill on their clothes. Birds poop in their hair. I swear I’m cursed.
“Come on, Vane—don’t make me beg,” Isaac finally says.
I want to hang up on him. The last thing I need is another dating humiliation. But he’s my best friend.
So I throw on a slightly less wrinkled T-shirt, run water through my short, dark brown hair, and an hour later I’m stuck with Hannah from Canada, who didn’t even crack a smile when I pointed out the rhyme. She’s also complained about the heat at least ten quadrillion times. And we’re only fifteen minutes into the date.
“Cheesecake Factory or Yard House?” I ask, pointing to the massive restaurants overlooking the shallow, man-made river we’re walking along.
Tourist traps like The River are pretty much the only things open this time of year—though I’ll never understand why any tourist gets excited about a fake river and some chain restaurants. Especially
when it’s too hot for any sane person to be outside. My T-shirt is stuck to my back like the sweat formed a vacuum, and all we’ve done is walk from the parking lot to the mall. Not even the tiniest breeze to help cool us off.
