But she’s too far above me. She doesn’t even know I’m there. The winds erase my screams before they reach her. I don’t know how to help her.
I wish my parents had taught me something that would save her. A simple command. Anything.
The winds shift. I stumble to my knees as the draft holding Audra rips her higher, until she’s barely a speck in the dark sky. Her scream cuts through the roaring storm, making my stomach twist and clench.
The draft drops her like a stone.
“Fly,” I scream.
She falls faster.
Some instinct deep inside me takes control. My hands stretch out—but I don’t remember telling them to do that—and I hear my voice whisper this crazy-sounding hiss.
I have no idea what I said. But the wind understands.
A gust wraps around Audra and grabs on. It isn’t strong enough to catch her, but it slows her fall. She hits the ground hard enough to hurt. Not hard enough to kill.
A man bursts through the wall of wind, and I start to run. Then I realize it’s Audra’s father. He crouches over her, checking her before he lifts her over his shoulder.
I stumble to his side and he steadies me against the icy wind.
“Thank you,” he says. “You saved my daughter’s life.”
I jolt awake.
The sky is dark—but not nighttime dark.
Storm dark.
Clouds of my breath hang in the air and I stare at them, trying to remember the last time it was cold enough in the desert to see my breath. I reach for my sweatshirt, struggling to get it over my head with shaking hands. The valley is eerily silent. Every windmill still.
The calm before the storm.
“They could be here any minute,” Arella announces.
I jump as she steps out of the shadow of a windmill.
“Ugh—watching people sleep is beyond creepy,” I grumble.
A half smile curls her lips. “I came over to wake you, but you seemed to be having a nightmare.”
More like a memory. “Where’s Audra?”
“Why? What do you need?”
She flashes a smile that’s probably supposed to make me trust her—but I’m still too ready to punch her for last night. “I need to talk to Audra.”
She sighs and points to the opposite end of the hill, where I spot Audra pacing among the windmills. I set off toward her.
Arella follows me.
“I can find her on my own,” I tell her.
“I’m coming as chaperone.”
“Uh, I have more important things to do than try to make a move on your daughter.”
“That’s not what I hear.”
I don’t have time for this crap. I do my best to ignore her as she trails right behind me.
Audra’s hair’s back in the braid—figures—and it’s hard not to stare at her mouth, remembering how close it came to pressing against mine.
I shake the flashback away. “I need to talk to you.”
“There’s not much time. I launched a wind flare about an hour ago. They’ll be coming straight here.”
I breathe into my cupped hands, trying to stop shivering. “Fine. I just thought you’d want to know that I remembered something in my dream. I spoke Westerly.”
Arella gasps and I glare at her. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
“What do you mean you ‘spoke Westerly’?” Audra asks.
“Yes, Vane—what do you mean?” Arella chimes in.
I move toward Audra, keeping my back to her mom. “It wasn’t your father who saved you in the storm—at least, not the first time. It was me. I called the wind that caught you.”
“But . . . I distinctly remember my father carrying me out of the storm,” Audra argues.
“He did. After I called a Westerly to slow your fall. Don’t you remember how fast you were falling before that?”
She frowns. “I thought my father sent that draft.”
“Nope, it was me.”
“But—”
“If your father had sent the draft, don’t you think it would’ve cushioned your fall more? You hit the ground hard, right? Because I didn’t have enough control.”
Arella grabs my shoulders and spins me to face her. “Does that mean you’ve had the breakthrough?”
Her eyes are bright. Too bright. Desperate.
I jerk away. “I can’t remember what I said to call the wind. I’m not sure if I even knew back then. It was more like my instincts took over somehow.”
Her hands clench into fists as she turns away. “So close.”
Tell me about it.
“Something must have triggered those instincts,” Audra says.
“Yeah. I didn’t want you to die.”
Her gaze softens at that, and I have to stop myself from taking her hands. But I step closer, lowering my voice so only she’ll hear. “I wanted to save you. I still do.”
Pink tinges her cheeks as she stares into my eyes.
She still cares.
Arella clears her throat, ruining the moment.
She’s begging to be tackled.
“I wasn’t try—”
“So if I threatened Audra’s life right now,” she asks, cutting me off, “would your instincts take over again?”
“Uh . . . probably not—because I’d like to believe you wouldn’t actually kill your daughter just to trigger my breakthrough.”
“Then you don’t understand how much your breakthrough means.”
Is this woman psycho? Or are all Windwalkers so caught up in this power struggle, nothing else matters?
I don’t know which is worse.
“We need to try,” Arella continues. “We need something that will trigger your protective instincts for Audra.”
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn when she moves toward Audra. I will pin her arms at her sides if I have to. I remember what she did to the Stormers in my dream.
“It’s too late,” Audra interrupts. She points to the sky, which now looks like a giant bruise. A thunderous roar echoes off the mountains, drowning out the rest of her words.
The Stormers have arrived.
CHAPTER 50
AUDRA
The last time I heard this sound, my father died.
The roar crawls through my ears, slips through my veins, and plants itself in my feet, rooting me to the ground.
For a second I can’t breathe, think, move. Then my training kicks in.
I grab Vane’s arm. “Come with me. Now.”
“Vane should stay with me,” my mother says, grabbing his other arm.
“He’s not leaving my sight.”
“Which of us is the stronger fighter?” she asks.
“Which one of us is his guardian?” I snap back.
“I’m staying with Audra,” Vane says, trying to pull away from my mother. Her grip tightens.
Several seconds pass as we stare each other down. Then she releases her hold. “If he’s taken, it’s on your head.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
She scrutinizes me as we move toward our position. Then the first winds shift away from us, a mass exodus of Northerlies. Answering the Stormers’ call.
My mother reluctantly jogs away, taking her place on the hill right below us. Vane runs with me to the cluster of two-bladed turbines. I point to the center windmill. “Crouch there.”
“What about you?”
“I can take care of myself. Please,” I add when he starts to argue. “You have to let me be in charge now. This is what I’ve trained for.”
His clenched fists tell me he doesn’t want to agree, but he squats in the shadows. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he orders.
I know what he’s referring to, but I can’t make that promise. “Keep your hands on the nearest drafts so you can grab them if you need them.”
He nods.
The winds whip the windmills into a blur of white, and I let myself believe that keeping Vane surrounded by giant, sharp blades will deter the Stormers from using a vortex attack. But I can feel the winds streaking to the edges of the hills. Forming a wall. Caging us inside.
What are they up to?
I race to the tallest windmill and wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. It would be faster to float to the top, but the Stormers don’t know exactly where we are. If I call a draft now, I might as well light a beacon. I have to climb by hand.
My legs burn and my fingers feel raw, but I reach the top and crouch behind the blades. I should be able to see the whole valley from my roost, but the winds blur everything beyond the foothills. I can still make out the two dark funnels plowing across the desert, though. Attacking from the north.
I hope my mother’s ready. They’ll hit her position before ours.
Sweat streaks down my spine as the funnels unravel on the outer edge of the wind farm, vanishing into clouds of sand and dust. The Stormers’ first command licks through the icy air, echoing off the whipping drafts. I’ve never heard a call so loud. It sounds like bits and pieces of the three languages. Nothing more than gibberish.
But the winds understand.
All around me they change direction, swooping and ducking and diving in unnatural patterns, searching us out.
Probes.
Unlike any probes I’ve seen. They dip and dart on a whim, almost like they’re seeking movement or heat.
Is that possible?
I duck as a probe beelines for me. It misses my head by inches. Another rushes for my legs and I jump to avoid it, barely recovering my balance when I land. I glance at Vane and see he’s faring no better. The winds whip and twist around him, making him dive and leap and dance to avoid them.
What kinds of tricks has Raiden taught his warriors?
I dodge another probe and lose my footing, barely catching one end of the platform as I fall. My muscles tear, and I barely suppress my scream as my shoulder dislocates. But I haul myself up and twist into the position the Gales taught me, wrapping my arm around my chest so I can force the bone back into the joint. My hands shake, knowing it will hurt just as much going in as it did tearing out.
Three deep breaths and . . .
The howl of the winds covers my groan as white-hot pain stabs my shoulder like a burning windslicer. When I wipe the tears from my eyes, I can feel my arm working properly again.
Before I can celebrate the small victory, there’s another garbled hiss.
The winds disappear. Instantly. Like someone snapped their fingers and made a hundred winds unravel. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it.
I crouch again, squinting through the stirred-up sand, waiting for their next move.
One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes.
No attack.
Winds trickle back and my pulse starts to steady. Until I hear their songs.
I can’t understand any of the words.
Something is very wrong.
Gavin screeches.
My heart stops when I spot him streaking through the sky. Heading straight for me.
No. No! My mother sent him home. Why would he come back?
He circles above my windmill, and I try to transmit a desperate warning: Go. Away. Now.
Instead, he screeches again and dives, landing on my shoulder.
My windmill explodes.
The turbine splits in half, the metal peeling like it’s made of paper. Gavin flaps away as I fall through a shower of shrapnel, shielding my eyes with one arm and reaching for a draft with the other. Most of the winds feel wrong—broken—and refuse to acknowledge my call. But my fingertips reach a usable Southerly and I command it to catch me.
The ruined drafts scrape against my skin like dull blades as I float a few feet above the ground. I sink deeper into the strands of the Southerly to shield my face.
What are they doing to the winds?
It’s hard to see with all the sand swirling through the air, but I catch a glimpse of Vane’s blue sweatshirt stumbling toward me, not even attempting to stay out of sight.