Let the Storm Break (9 page)

CHAPTER 17

VANE
A
udra’s apology has played in my head on autorepeat all night, and I still have no freaking idea what she means.

Sorry for
what
?
And why send a Westerly to tell me?
Why not just come home?
But there’s a worse question festering in the back of my mind. I’m trying to keep it there, trying to lock it away and pretend

it doesn’t exist so I won’t have to answer it. But as I stare out my window at the empty sky, I have to whisper it to the passing breeze. “Is she breaking up with me?”
The words should sound stupid. We’re
bonded.
Of course she wants to be with me.
But . . . why isn’t she here, then?
My room starts to spin and I have to get out.
I shred my shoulder on the thorns as I climb out my window, but I barely feel the pain. A terrifying numbness is swelling inside me, like my body is already accepting what my head is fighting to resist.
I have to fight harder.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Fang calls as I race across the grass.
Honestly, I have no idea, but I shove past him and head into the date grove.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised when he follows me. Or when I end up back at the burned-down shack. But if I’d been hoping to find another message—one that magically explains everything—I’m completely disappointed.
There’s nothing left.
No warmth on the wind. No wisps of the draft I felt earlier. I can’t even feel the pull of our bond, but I can’t tell if it’s just because I’m freaking out or because she’s finally run far enough away to break free.
I’m not letting her go that easily.
I reach for the winds and tangle them around me. I have to find her. Fix this.
My feet barely lift off the ground before someone tackles me.
“What are you thinking?” Fang shouts as I try to wrestle him away. “Have you lost your mind?”
Maybe I have.
Or maybe this is a dream—another trick from Raiden to trap me—and I just need to find a way to break free.
I bite my thumb, waiting for the sharp pain to rip me away. All it gives me is a bloody wound and an iron taste on my tongue.
“Hey,” Fang says, yanking my hand away. “Tell me what’s wrong. Let me help you.”
The kindness in his voice is so un-Fang—it has to mean this isn’t real.
It can’t be.
But . . . it hurts too much to be fake.
I stop fighting and Fang loosens his grip and lets me to crawl to the corner. I grab a few of the palm leaves Audra used to sleep on and curl up with them, not caring that they’re covered with bugs. Even if I could get away from Fang, what am I going to do? Fly around the world hoping I can track her down?
And then what?
Beg her to take me back?
I would. She’s worth begging for.
She’s worth everything.
But I know it won’t help. Once Audra makes up her mind . . .
Has she though?
I don’t know.
I don’t
want
to know.
I’m too tired to think anymore. Let Raiden’s winds find me—the nightmares can’t be worse than this. . . .
I can hear Fang shouting at me again, but his voice is too far away. I can’t understand him. At some point I hear others around me too, but I don’t have the energy to listen. I just want to sleep.
Maybe I get my wish, because I feel a strangely warm breeze sink into my mind, filling me with its sweet rush. And as it swirls around my head, I feel a memory untangle from the chaos.
A white, snowy forest. Cold and quiet and way more wet and slippery than I expected. I don’t have boots or a coat, and my fingers and toes are freezing, but right now I just need to get away.
Snow soaks through my jeans, turning my skinny legs numb—but it feels good to be outside after so many days trapped indoors.
I’m never going back to that cabin again.
No more hiding from the wind.
No more listening to my parents fight through the walls, trying to guess why I keep hearing my name.
I run until my lungs feel ready to explode, and when I stop to catch my breath, I’m shivering so hard my teeth chatter. I hug myself, trying to keep warm, but I’m not used to this kind of weather. The worst I’ve had is a cloudy day.
Fresh snow begins to fall and I start moving again, trying to find some sort of shelter from the storm. But the trees are too thin—their branches too weak and scrawny to give me any protection. And the farther I run, the more tired I get, until I can barely lift my legs through the thick dredges of snow.
I have to go back—even if it makes me want to scream.
I turn to retrace my steps, but I can’t find the trail. Everything is smooth and white and looks exactly the same, and the more I try to find my way, the more confused I get.
I call for help, but the snow muffles my words, and even when I shout at the top of my lungs I know they’ll never hear me back at the house
They probably haven’t even realized I’m gone.
The snow falls harder, and I stumble in circles, looking for anything that might tell me where I am. It all looks the same—empty and scary, and I want to cry but my eyeballs are too frozen, so I run as fast as I can.
I don’t remember tripping. I can’t even feel my feet. But I remember the pain in my head as I fall and the way the light flashes behind my eyes. I try to move, but I can’t—all I can do is watch the spots of red on the snow grow bigger as I count my heavy breaths.
I don’t know how long I lie there, but I know the shivering stops. I feel my heartbeat slow, and I close my eyes and let my mind drift with the icy wind.
“Vane?”
The soft voice feels like a dream. I want to reply but my mouth won’t work. The most I can do is open my eyes.
A dark-haired girl squats in front of me, watching me with dark, worried eyes.
I don’t know her name, but I know her. She lives with the people who dragged us out of our house in the middle of the night. Who told us we had to trust them if we wanted to stay alive. Who ordered us to stay inside and who keep making us move to new houses every few weeks.
I hate that girl—and I hate her parents more.
But as she drapes her jacket over me and presses her warm hand against my cheek, I find the strength to whisper, “Don’t leave me.”
“I won’t,” she whispers back.
And she doesn’t.
She stays by my side, holding my hand and calling for help until her dad finally finds us and carries me back to the cabin. And she keeps holding on as my mom cries and my dad screams at me for running away and everyone wraps me in blankets and bandages my head.
Even when they’re done with me, and lay me down next to the fire, I can still feel her holding my hand.
“Stay,” I whisper, afraid to be alone.
“I will,” she promises, sitting down beside me.
I can still feel her warmth as I drift off to sleep.

CHAPTER 18

AUDRA

I

shouldn’t be doing this.

I should be racing back to the safety of the Gales.
To
Vane
.
I thought that’s where I was headed. I even passed the first

groundling road that could’ve guided me into the east.

But as soon as it was behind me, the fear Aston planted started to take root, making me wonder if I was turning my back on something crucial. And when a second gray, winding road appeared on the horizon, a swarm of Easterlies tangled around me, pulling me toward the unknown.

At first I tried to resist them, but then I heard the familiar melody of my father’s song in the air. A lyric had been added, singing of bravery and searching for truth and carrying on the fight. But mostly it was about trusting the wind.

So I let the winds pull me east. Leading me to a valley of death. I drift with the Easterlies for most of the journey, but when I pass a glowing tower in a small, sketchy town, I land and send the drafts away. The strange structure is apparently “The World’s Largest Thermometer,” and it has a round, red sign at the base that says

THE GATEWAY TO DEATH VALLEY.

There’s no turning back from here.
I call three Westerlies to carry me for the rest of my journey. If there
are
Stormers where I’m going, I’ll need to sneak in undetected, and flying with Westerlies will hide my trace. No one can understand their words.
Their peaceful songs steady my nerves as I launch back into the sky, following an empty road into the mountains. The sun starts to rise as I crest the highest peak, painting the stark valley with orange and pink. It should be a breathtaking sight—and in many ways it is. But everything about this place screams Raiden’s name.
The parched, empty dunes.
The erratic flurries in the sky.
There’s no peace here. No calm.
Only an endless struggle to survive.
And it’s
massive
. Stretching for miles in every direction until the desert meets the dark rocks of the mountains.
I ask the strongest of the Westerlies to blanket me in a shield as I steer toward the nearest peak and touch down by the ruins of a mine, trying to figure out where to start looking.
“Come on, Easterlies—you wanted me to come here. Any help?”
No answer.
A few footprints mark the white, chalky ground, and below me are a couple of crumbling buildings, but it’s obvious no one has come up to this place in a very long while. In fact, I’ve seen none of the groundlings’ disgusting smog machines along the road. No tents or settlements along the trails. It’s like the entire valley has been abandoned—and I can’t say I blame them. Even this early in the day, the heat is almost choking.
I close my eyes and listen to the winds, hoping to find a melody about the sailing stones Aston mentioned. But they sing only of the pounding sun and the quiet emptiness of flying alone. I’m about to move on when I find one draft singing of devils and games.
If there were a way to sum up Raiden, that would be it.
I call it to my side and ask it to take me where it’s been.
The Northerly is weary and reluctant to obey. But I make my request again—firmer this time—and it carries me over stretches of cracked earth and rolling dunes until it sweeps down a row of mountains and sets me in a wide basin of flat white ground. The sharp smell of salt is laced through the air, and I realize I’m in a dried lake bed. A remnant from a time when this valley must’ve been lusher. Friendlier.
Before it all withered away.
It makes me uneasy being below sea level, like I’ve sunk too far from the purer air above. But I suppress an urge to run to higher ground, and make my way across the jagged, salty formations until I reach a sign that tells me where I am.

THE DEVIL’S GOLF COURSE.

This must be what the draft meant about devils and games—
not
the lead I’d been hoping for.
The winds are much more unhelpful here, whispering their songs so softly I have to strain to hear them. They scoot away from me before I can call them to my side. One gust mentions a place where the wind ends, but when I ask it to take me there, it zips into the cloudless sky before the command fully leaves my lips. So I backtrack through the basin, crossing ground that’s crackled like a honeycomb as I try to find steadier drafts.
The sweltering heat leaves me soaked in sweat and crusted in salt and sand. I’m starting to worry I’m wasting my time when I catch the tail end of a Westerly breeze singing about stones that creep and crawl on their own. I call the draft to my side, relieved when it obeys. And when I listen to the uneven melody, I know I’ve found what I need.
The song starts as a ballad about boulders that etch their own trails in the earth. But it ends as a lament, mourning an indescribable loss in a valley of stillness and sadness. The Westerly feels especially reluctant to take me there, but when I add a plea to the end of my command it tightens its grip and lifts me into the sky.
The air turns heavier as we fly, like it’s trying to force me back to the ground. And as I enter a flat basin, the sky turns achingly empty.
The draft carrying me panics.
I keep control long enough to land on the pale, crackled ground, but as soon as the wind releases me, it streaks away in terror. My Westerly shield is just as uneasy, but I beg it not to leave me alone, and it chooses to stay, wrapping even tighter around me.
I don’t blame the winds for their fears. The unnatural stillness is
eerie
.
It’s not a calm. Those are always paired with silence—and the basin rings with a grating, nerve-shattering screeching. Like everything rough and horrible is being scraped together and ripped apart. I try to find the source of the chaos, but all I see are large boulders scattered randomly along the parched ground. Crooked lines are etched into the earth all around them, marking their wandering journey through the basin.
They have to be the sailing stones.
But where are the Stormers?
Large cracks cut deep into the mountain along the badlands, and I assume Raiden’s soldiers must be lurking somewhere in those shadows. But I can’t tell where, and until I’m sure, I have to stay hidden. I will not make any mistakes this time.
I find a narrow crevice in the nearest foothill and crawl inside, tucking myself out of sight. If the Stormers are here they’ll reveal themselves eventually. I just have to be patient.
It’s not easy. The searing afternoon sun makes the jagged stones I’m pressed against feel like burning coals. Even the shade provides no relief.
I distract myself by rebraiding my hair, surprised at how good it feels to wear the guardian style again. For years the braid had become almost painful. Pulling too tight and putting too much pressure on me. But now it feels natural.
It feels
right.
I only wish I’d had a chance to retrieve my guardian pendant from where Aston tossed it along the beach. Hopefully the Gales will give me another.
Assuming they let me continue my service . . .
Honestly, it’s possible they’ll assign a guardian to protect
me—
which is too bizarre of a thought for me to process.
My
life has never been worth keeping safe. I lived simply to serve others.
But I’m a Westerly now—sort of. And I’m bonded to the king.
Everything is going to change.
My mind runs through a list of Gales I’ve met, trying to decide who I’d prefer—but a crack of thunder rips me back to reality.
I glance up, stunned to find heavy gray clouds blanketing the sky. A few minutes ago it was a clear stretch of blue.
Lightning flashes and I lean forward to get a better look at the valley, sucking in a breath when I see two Stormers suddenly stationed outside the widest crack in the badlands. Their gray uniforms have an even darker patch on their arms, marking them with Raiden’s storm cloud.
Thunder claps again, and a blinding flash of lightning streaks down from the sky—right next to a man who seems to have appeared out of nowhere.
Dressed in a head-to-toe white cloak with his long blond hair swirling around his face, he looks like the gods in the groundlings’ myths and legends.
I know who he is even before the Stormers drop to one knee.
Bowing to their leader.