Let the Storm Break

by Shannon Messenger

  The cave is empty and unremarkable. Rough gray walls and dripping stalactites. No signs of life except the tiny green crabs skittering across the sand. No breeze except the rush of my own breath.

  My only clue to what I’m facing is the broad piece of seaweed coiled around my palm. Cool tingles sink into the blisters underneath, easing the pain of my burn.

  An unnecessary mercy, probably meant to soften me. See if they can coax my secrets instead of beating and breaking.

  I shudder.

  I’ve worked my whole life to protect the Westerly language, but I’ve never been so directly responsible for its safekeeping. I want to believe that I’m strong enough to stay silent. Willing to lay down my life like I was on the beach.

  But Raiden’s a master interrogator.

  Four years ago, he captured two of the Gales’ best guardians and tortured them for days, weeks—no one knows how long. All we know is that he broke them, finally learning that Vane is still alive.

  Am I really stronger than them?

  The Westerlies resisted, I remind myself.

  But then I think of Vane’s face, pale and tinged with green, ready to vomit or faint or worse. All because I’d told him that he might have to kill. The longing for peace flows so strongly through the Westerlies, it’s involuntary. Giving them an unending supply of courage. Unlimited strength to resist.

  I’m an Easterly.

  The swift, tricky winds.

  Easterlies do whatever it takes to survive. . . .

  But I have my bond, I tell myself, wishing I could feel the pull in my chest. Without the wind, the pain has faded. And even though Vane’s still a part of me, I can’t help worrying that our connection won’t be enough. That Raiden will find some weakness and push until I break.

  I’ll know soon enough.

  The damp air makes me shiver as I watch the sun melt into the ocean. But the hollowness inside me feels far colder. The silence starts to smother me, so I hum one of my father’s favorite songs, letting the low, deep melody fill the air. It’s a sad tale of loss and longing. Chasing things that can never be caught.

  I’ve always wondered why my father loved it so much, but sitting here, waiting for my enemy to return, I think I finally see the appeal.

  Success isn’t always about triumph.

  It’s about carrying on, continuing the battle. Even if the fight can’t be won.

  “You didn’t scream,” a raspy, male voice says, making me jump. He has an accent I can’t place—clean and precise. Like each word has sharp edges. “Didn’t you want to call for help?”

  His words echo off every inch of the cave, making it impossible to tell where he hides.

  I clear my throat. “I’d rather save my voice.”

  “It is a lovely voice,” he agrees. “I’ve been very much enjoying it. But do you really think so little of yourself that you believe no one would come to your rescue?”

  Yes.

  Instead I say, “You left me ungagged for a reason. I decided not to find out what it was.”

  He laughs. A creaky, hollow sound that gives me chills. “You are a clever girl, aren’t you? I must admit, I find you incredibly fascinating.”

  “Glad to entertain you.”

  “Oh, it’s far more than entertainment. Far more.” He falls silent, and I can tell he’s studying me, even though I can’t see him. “So tell me, clever girl. What should I call you?”

  “Audra.” I see no point in lying. Plus there’s genuine curiosity in his tone. Maybe even a trace of sincerity. I decide to test my boundaries. “What should I call you?”

  “Let’s stick with you for now, shall we?”

  “But I’ve answered all your questions. Shouldn’t you have to answer at least one of mine? It’s only fair.”

  “Ah, so you still foolishly believe that the world we live in is fair?”

  “No. But you eased my pain.” I nod toward my seaweed-wrapped wrist. “So I’m assuming you have some sort of moral compass.”

  He’s quiet for so long that I worry I’ve crossed a line. But when he speaks again he says, “Pick a different question and I’ll answer it.”

  Hundreds of options swarm my mind, but I pick something easy. Something that might earn me another.

  “Where am I?”

  “A cave.”

  He laughs when I scowl.

  “Fine. Fine. Apparently you want questions and quality answers. Such a demanding prisoner. I believe the precise name is the Lost Coast. The groundlings decided it was too difficult for their clunky, land-bound bodies to get to, so they all but abandoned it years ago. Which makes it an excellent place to hide.”

  So he’s hiding from someone.

  Working alone.

  That doesn’t sound like a Stormer.

  But he fights like one. . . .

  “Your turn,” he says, interrupting my musings. “And since these questions are costing me now, I’m skipping to the more interesting ones. How did the Gales convince you to join the guardians?”

  “I volunteered.” At the time I thought I was making amends for causing my father’s death. Plus he’d begged me with his final breaths to take care of Vane.

  If I’d kept that promise and stayed to do my job, I wouldn’t be here.

  “You volunteered?” he repeats, stepping from the shadows near the entrance. Even though a dark cloak completely covers his face, I can feel his eyes boring into mine. “I thought your kind were supposed to be peaceful. And how did you keep yourself hidden all these years? Last I heard, all we had left was a boy.”

  I bite my lip.

  He must think I really am a Westerly—which may actually work in my favor. Better that he doesn’t know how much easier I might break.

  “It’s supposed to be my turn to ask a question,” I remind him, avoiding all of his.

  He grins. “There’s fire in you. Fight. You would’ve run me through on the beach with that pathetic little wind spike if you could have, wouldn’t you?”

  I’m still trying to figure out how to respond when a cold wind whips my cheek, stinging like the edge of a blade. I choke down the pain, refusing to let him see that he can hurt me.

  “See? Fire.” He moves closer, his steps so light they don’t leave impressions in the sand. It’s unnatural the way he moves—almost a slither—and when he calls a draft to his side, I can’t understand the words. “You’re different from the others,” he whispers.

  I stare at the wind coiled around his wrist. It’s turned sallow and dull. Sickly.

  “The others,” I whisper. “You mean the other Westerlies you killed?”

  “No—I mean the Westerlies who chose to die. The Westerlies who lay down and let the life be stripped out of them instead of standing up and fighting back.”

  His anger makes no sense.

  Raiden was furious when the Westerlies wouldn’t share their language—and he killed them in retribution. But he never wanted them to fight back. That’s what the Gales wanted—what they’re still hoping for with Vane.

  “Who are you?” I ask, wishing my hands were free so I could throw back his hood and see his face.

  “I told you I’m not going to answer that question!”

  He holds up the sickly draft to threaten me, but if he’s who I think he is, I don’t believe he’ll hurt me.

  Everyone assumed the two guardians Raiden captured were killed when he was done with them. But what if they survived?

  I search my brain, trying to find their names—but the memory is buried too deep, filed away with all the other bits of our brutal history that I didn’t want to remember.

  A haunting melody snaps me back to the present. Whispered words with a series of dark hisses that slice through the heavy air.

  I can’t understand what he’s saying, but the song crawls beneath my skin, sinking into the deepest parts of me and humming with a new sort of energy.

  The shift starts in my gut. A brewing storm that surges with every sound, like the words have br
ought some unknown part of me to life. And now that it’s been activated, it wants control.

  Pain laces through my body, a ripping, tugging sensation that makes me feel like I’m being pulled apart—and I’m horrified to realize that I am. I know this feeling—I’ve lived it twice now. Both times I’ve shifted to my wind form.

  “Stop!” I scream, shaking my head to try to break free of the melody’s hold. But the song is inside me now, raging and roaring and building to a crescendo.

  If it triggers the shift, it will end me.

  Our wind form cannot be merged with anything that’s tied to the earth, and I haven’t deprived myself of food for long enough to truly be able to separate. Parts of me will crumble and scatter to dust. The rest will float away.

  The singing continues and I close my eyes, bracing for the coming breakdown. But just before the pain boils over, he falls silent and the breaking urge recedes, leaving me cold and trembling on the sand.

  “You’re an Easterly!” he practically growls. “Your essence never would’ve responded to that call if you weren’t.”

  He grabs my shoulders, squeezing so tight it feels like he’ll crush me. “Who taught you the fourth language? Was it the boy? Has he had the Westerly breakthrough?”

  Vane’s face fills my mind, and I feel my panic calm as I stare into his imaginary eyes.

  “So it was the boy.” He laughs darkly, shaking his head. “Apparently, all Raiden needed was a pretty face and the right curves. Someone will have to tell him.”

  He releases his hold and I collapse, earning yet another mouthful of sand. I spit out the grains and pull myself back up. “Why don’t you tell him yourself? You could send him a message right now.”

  He doesn’t accept my dare.

  “You can’t get anywhere near Raiden, can you?” I ask quietly.

  “I can if I hand-deliver you.”

  “Could you? Or would he take me and still kill you, to punish you for escaping?”

  His grabs my shoulders again. “Whatever you think you know—”

  “I do know. I know everything. Everything except why you never came back. The Gales would’ve understood—”

  “Would they?” He drops me again and stalks away, staring at the sky. “You really think the Gales would’ve accepted the traitor who gave away their most protected secret?”

  “You were tortured—”

  “You know the oath we swore. ‘Sacrifice before compromise.’ ”

  I find myself repeating the words.

  I remember swearing them four years ago, crouched in the shade of the lone oak outside my mother’s shack, when I became the youngest guardian in Gale history. They’d been reluctant to appoint me before, but after the betrayal of—

  “You’re Aston, aren’t you?” I whisper.

  Aston and Normand—those were their names. But Aston was younger and stronger, and famous for his skill in a fight.

  “That name belongs to another life,” he whispers. “A life that ended the moment Raiden ripped Normand apart piece by piece until I told him what he wanted to know. I thought he would finish us both, but he kept me alive. Told me he ‘saw potential’ in me.”

  My mind flashes back to the assault on the beach—the way Aston dominated every move I made—and I know what Raiden saw.

  “He kept me for two years after that. Taunting me with freedom and then punishing me to make sure I knew my place.” He shudders. “I obeyed just enough to earn a window to escape. Then I ran. Holed up here in this forgotten place, trying to finish my days. But then I heard you.” He reels around. “I heard you shout at the west wind and watched it obey. I thought you were a long-lost Westerly, a valuable tool to trade with the Gales. But you’re more of a traitor than I am.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  I can’t see him smile, but I can hear it in his voice when he asks, “So you’re not bonded to the betrothed king?”

  The question hits harder than anything he’s thrown at me.

  And my reaction gives me away.

  “How did you know?” I whisper.

  He shakes his head, turning away and moving toward the cave’s exit. “You still haven’t figured out Raiden’s secret, have you? How he dominates the winds?”

  I rack my brain, trying to guess what clue I could have missed—but nothing he’s said has made sense.

  Not until he unfastens his cloak, letting the silky fabric slide to the ground.

  Pants cover his legs, but the rest of his body is exposed.

  What’s left of him, anyway.

  He steps into the moonlight, giving me the full effect, and I can’t stop myself from gasping.

  Pricks of light leak through his skin—a million tiny holes that make him more empty space than person.

  I want to gag, cry, run away from the horror.

  But his eyes hold mine—sad and vulnerable as he whispers, “There’s much more power in pain.”

  CHAPTER 11

  VANE

  This place is messing with my head.

  I’m so fre’aking tired, but every time I close my eyes, my mind floods with all the doubts I’ve been trying to deny. All the questions I’ve been trying not to ask.

  I never realized how much the pain of my bond calmed me. Gave me something to hold on to—something to prove that my connection to Audra is real. Now that it’s gone, it’s like all my pathetic insecurities are feeding off one another, leaving me needy and desperate and tempted to do something really stupid, like wake Arella up and ask her if she thinks her daughter loves me.

  I know I’m being crazy. Audra told me she loved me before we kissed—and I made sure the whole thing was her choice.

  But she’s been gone so long.

  Twenty-four days may not sound like a lot. But considering we were only together for five days—and most of the time she spent fighting with me or accidentally almost killing me—it’s a long time. Enough to make me seriously wonder if she’s really coming back.

  I hold my right arm up to the dim candlelight and focus on the braided copper bracelet Audra gave me.

  I can almost feel the sparks of her touch from when she latched the band around my wrist. She found it in the ruins of the storm that killed my parents and held on to it for ten years so that I’d have something that belonged to them.

  She wouldn’t do something like that if she didn’t care about me, would she?

  Then again, she did give it to me after she told me that loving me would be a permanent mistake . . .

  She changed her mind after that, though.

  But . . . couldn’t she change her mind again?

  Stop it!

  I’m tempted to say the words out loud so that maybe I’ll actually listen to them. It’s just this place making me crazy.

  When I get back to the winds and find Audra’s trace, the rushing heat will blast away these stupid worries—though I have no idea how I’m going to pull that off. I’m sure the Gales will be watching me even closer now, which makes me want to bury my face in these pillowy things and scream until I have no voice left.

  Instead I stare at the silver compass set into the center of my bracelet. It usually channels my heritage somehow and points to the west.

  Right now it’s just spinning and spinning. Like it’s feeling as lost as me.

  “I wish Liam were here,” Arella whispers, making me jump. I didn’t realize she was awake.

  I roll over and find her sitting in the center of her floor, staring at the ceiling.

  “Liam?”

  “Audra’s father. He knew how to weave the winds into lullabies, and they always gave me the sweetest dreams.”

  I really shouldn’t be encouraging her, but I can’t stop myself from saying, “He sounds like his daughter.”

  Audra used to send winds to my room every night. It’s how I dreamed about her for ten years, watching her grow up along with me. How I fell in love with her before I even knew if she was real.

  “He was,” Arella agre
es. “That was the hardest part, after . . .”

  Her voice cracks and she turns away, but through the chains I can still see the tears that streak down her cheeks, leaving shiny trails on her gray, dirty skin. It almost makes me feel sorry for her.

  Almost.

  “You get that it’s your fault, right?”

  She opens her mouth and I expect her to blame Audra, me, anyone she can think of—like she did the first time I confronted her about this.

  All she says is “I know.”

  She walks to the farthest part of her cell, keeping her back to me. I watch her shoulders shake with quiet sobs, trying to understand how the frail, broken woman I’m looking at could be the same person who murdered my parents and tried to kill Audra right in front of me.

  She really does seem different now.

  Which is the most dangerous thought I can have.

  Arella’s smart—and patient. Odds are this is just another part of her game.

  “How are your memories, by the way?” she asks, smearing away her tears with shaky hands.

  “Why? Did you commit any other murders you don’t want me to remember?”

  “Of course not, Vane.” She rubs the skin on her wrist, which I notice is bare now. The gold cuff that she used to wear is gone. “I only ask because I’ve been worried things might be a bit . . . jumbled.”

  I glare at her, hating that she’s right.

  She knows it too.

  “That’s what I was afraid of. Releasing memories is a very tricky thing. I had a feeling Audra didn’t do it properly.”

  “She did it just fine.”

  But she didn’t—and the chaos is almost more frustrating than the blank slate I used to deal with. It’s like my past is a jigsaw puzzle where all the pieces look the same, and no matter how much I try to sort through them, I can never figure out how any of them fit back together. Not without a bigger picture to guide me.

  “Well, if there were a problem,” Arella says quietly. “I do know how to fix it.”

  And there it is. Right there. The play she’s been building toward.

  “Let me guess, you need me to take you aboveground, to the winds?”

  “I would need a few Southerlies, yes.”

  “Wow, do you really think I’m that stupid?”