Let the Storm Break

by Shannon Messenger

  He hands another spike to me as proof, then reaches up to smear the blood off his cheek.

  The cut on his face has opened wider from the strain, and I can’t decide if it makes him look cruel or strong.

  I never thought those two things could be interchangeable, but as I stare at the broken spike, I wonder if maybe they are.

  Maybe sometimes the only right choice is the wrong one, and what it really comes down to is being brave enough to make it.

  Traitor, the Westerlies snarl, and this time it feels like they’re saying it to me. But what else was Os supposed to do? There weren’t any other . . .

  The thought trails off when I realize that there is another option—the one Gus and Audra are already working on.

  Releasing Arella wasn’t an easy decision either—but it’s better than ruining the wind.

  But they should be here by now, shouldn’t they?

  I clutch my heart, trying to feel the pull of our bond. But I feel colder and emptier than I have in a long time.

  It could be that Audra’s deep in the Maelstrom—but why would she still be there?

  What if something’s wrong?

  I drop the damaged wind spike and reach for a Westerly to carry me—but they all ignore my call, whispering, Traitor, and flitting away. I’m searching the air for any other winds that might be willing to help me when a Storm’s fist slams into our cave.

  Everything crumbles.

  I flail to protect my wounded arm as I skid down a rocky slope, not stopping until I’m halfway down the mountain. I’m grateful my Westerly shield didn’t abandon me, because I’m pretty sure I’d have no skin left on my chest otherwise.

  I’m choking on the dust and sand when I hear Solana scream and turn my head just in time to see one of the remaining Storms snatch her away.

  I shout for Os’s help, but his legs are pinned under a giant boulder. Which leaves only me.

  Taking on two Living Storms all by myself probably isn’t the smartest idea—especially with the winds mad at me and with a superwounded left arm.

  But I can still hear Solana screaming.

  I’ve ruined her life a million different ways.

  This time I’m going to save it.

  CHAPTER 42

  AUDRA

  I shouldn’t be surprised.

  My mother’s sold me out to Raiden twice before.

  But this time I won’t be getting away.

  Before I could react, Raiden tangled me in a web of sharp red winds, and even with my shield, the cruel drafts shock like lightning every time he steps away from me.

  “I’m so sorry,” my mother keeps telling me. “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “There’s always a choice,” I tell her, earning myself a laugh from Raiden.

  “When I have control, the only choice is mine,” he tells me, stepping away and letting the lightning bonds strike so hard, I feel like my skin is melting off my bones.

  I crawl to his feet, unable to believe I’m choosing to be close to him. But I have to stop the pain.

  He crouches in front of me as I gasp for breath. “If it eases the sting of Mommy’s betrayal, you should know that you didn’t have a choice either. I’m impressed that Os figured out how to build a Maelstrom—but he missed its true brilliance. It’s the perfect trap. No way to sense anyone’s presence. No winds to call to your aid. All I needed was something to draw you here, and something to keep your army distracted so I could catch my prize unguarded.”

  “Are you telling me that all the Gales you ruined to make your Living Storms—all the innocent people who died or lost their homes today—were just a distraction to catch me?”

  Raiden grins. “Makes you feel rather special, doesn’t it?”

  Actually, it makes me physically ill.

  “Why me? I’m not—”

  “A Westerly?” Raiden finishes for me. “No, you’re even better. You were the one who stirred up that haboob in my valley—a brilliant play, by the way. And that, right there, is what makes you so special. You talk like a Westerly. But you think like me.”

  “I’m nothing like you!”

  My outburst only makes Raiden smile wider. “Breaking you is going to be fun. Though I had been hoping to catch your little boyfriend as leverage. I guess I can settle for the boy who thought he could kill me.”

  He stands, and I brace for another jolt, but he only turns to where Gus lies unconscious, tied in the same horrible winds.

  Blood streams from a dark gash above Gus’s temple, and it’s hard to tell how deep the damage goes. His face looks disturbingly pale.

  Raiden kicks him in the chest, filling the cave with the sound of breaking bone. “Every time you don’t cooperate, I’ll punish him. Understood?”

  When I don’t answer, he grabs my fallen wind spike and presses the sharp end over Gus’s heart.

  I take particular pleasure in whispering the command to unravel it.

  The Maelstrom devours the drafts as soon as they uncoil. Except the Westerly, which I wrap around Gus like a shield, relieved when it obeys.

  “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” Raiden asks, grabbing my neck and lifting me off the ground.

  His grip crushes through my weary shield, cutting off my breathing. My vision blurs and my lungs scream for air, but I don’t try to fight.

  Let it end here—now—when all the secrets are still safe.

  But Raiden tosses me backward, letting me cough and heave as the lightning shoots through my veins.

  Spots dance across my vision, and I feel myself start to slip away when the shocks fade and rough hands pull me to my feet.

  “Grab the boy,” Raiden orders his Stormer as he shoves me toward the pathway that brought me here.

  “Wait—we had a deal!” my mother shouts behind us.

  She shakes the chains in her cage and I almost want to laugh.

  Doesn’t she realize? Trusting Raiden is like trusting her.

  It always ends the same.

  Raiden hisses something in his wicked language, and the winds in the Maelstrom double their speed.

  Then all I hear are her screams.

  “I wouldn’t get any ideas,” Raiden tells me when the exit comes into sight. “Even if you can fight through the pain of your bonds, they’ll drag you back to me. And then I’ll make you watch as I break your friend apart piece by piece.”

  He’s going to do that anyway.

  Just like he did to Aston.

  And I . . .

  I have to be strong.

  I have to endure anything.

  I accepted this responsibility when I let Vane into my heart.

  I have no choice but to protect it.

  There’s always a choice, I can’t help thinking, and the weakness makes me sick.

  But what makes me far, far sicker is that I’m not nearly as sick as I should be.

  Vane could barely function when he thought about sharing his language with Os—yet here I am, feeling only slightly queasy at the thought of giving it to Raiden?

  Clearly, my Westerly instincts aren’t as strong as I’m going to need them to be—and if I can’t count on them to fuel me, how will I find the strength to resist Raiden’s interrogation?

  If I’d been holding out any hope that Vane would sense my danger and save us, it’s crushed when I set foot on the sand. The desert is empty, save for the vultures, and even the Westerlies have all been frightened away.

  We’re on our own.

  There will be no escape.

  But I guess it’s better this way.

  Better that Vane stays safe.

  If there were a way to spare Gus, I would give it, but I can at least spare my loyal shield. I whisper the command to release it, begging it to flee far away.

  The draft ignores me, clinging like a second skin. And in that simple act of loyalty, I find a hint of strength.

  “Feels like your army has done better against my Storms than they should have,” Raiden mumbles as he stretches o
ut his palms to test the air.

  “Good.”

  “That’s a brave word coming from a hostage.”

  “Well, I’m braver than you think. You can take me and you can torture me. But I will never let you change me.”

  He barks a laugh, and the sharp sound stirs the vultures. “That’s what they all say. Until I find their weakness.”

  He glances at Gus, then back at me, the threat impossible to miss.

  He turns to give orders to his Stormer, and I realize this is it—the last few seconds I’ll have before he drags me away to his fortress.

  Thousands of regrets race through my mind, but I focus on the breeze that’s suddenly tickling my skin.

  It’s a strong wind.

  An Easterly.

  And as it braves the treacherous skies of the Maelstrom just to bring comfort to me, I close my eyes and let myself believe it’s my father. Come to say goodbye. Come to give me peace.

  But when I listen to his song I realize he’s brought me a message. The same advice over and over, turning more urgent with each repetition.

  Time to let go.

  I have no idea what he means, but the next time I inhale, the breeze slips inside with my breath, pressing into the darkest places in my mind.

  The melody swirls around my head, and as I focus on the simple verse, something starts to stir.

  A pressure.

  A gathering.

  It’s not my essence.

  It’s not any part of me.

  And as the mounting rush shocks me with warm tingles, I realize what the wind is telling me to let go of.

  Who to let go of.

  The Easterly’s song turns mournful, echoing my grief as it whispers the command I’ll need to give.

  It’s a familiar word. A word that’s defined the last ten years of my life.

  But I can’t make myself say it.

  It’s too much.

  The wind is asking too much.

  I’ve given everything—suffered anything.

  Why must I lose the one thing I’ve taken for myself?

  Protection, the Easterly whispers, and the word is like fog, thick and numbing as it clouds my resistance and cools my rage.

  This will break my heart—and likely break me.

  But I know it has to be done.

  I give myself one final second to cling to the only thing that’s ever brought any joy or hope to my life. Then I close my eyes and whisper the command to rip it all away.

  “Sacrifice.”

  The draft inside me splits into a million blades—slicing and slashing and shredding every part of me until there’s nothing but splinters.

  The warm, calm shards slip with my ragged breath and vanish like wisps of smoke. The cold, angry pieces cling, hardening into a wall that holds in all the emptiness inside me.

  “Stop!” Raiden shouts, snarling something in his wicked language and drowning me in a flood of arctic winds.

  They shove and beat and batter my body, trying to force back together what’s already lost.

  But it’s gone.

  It’s all gone.

  Everything that matters is gone.

  CHAPTER 43

  VANE

  Pain crashes into my heart, so sharp and sudden I clutch my chest expecting to find a windslicer sticking out of it.

  Nothing’s there.

  No wound.

  No weapon.

  It’s like the pain is coming from inside me instead of . . .

  Oh God.

  Audra.

  I have to—I never should’ve—I—

  The crack of a whip way too close to my head yanks me back to reality, and I barely manage to fly out of the way as the Living Storm tries to swat me out of the sky.

  I steer east, gathering any winds that are willing to listen to me and tangling them around me to fuel my speed.

  But Solana’s scream stops me cold.

  I turn back just in time to see one of the Storms toss her to the other. Playing with her like some sick toy.

  If I leave, she dies.

  But Audra needs me.

  The pain in my heart cuts deeper, and I know it means she’s in serious danger.

  But I can’t leave.

  I can’t fly away and let Solana die.

  I can’t have another death on my head.

  Audra has Gus and the power of four and years of training to make her strong enough to hold her own for a few more minutes.

  I’ll be there as fast as I can.

  “Come!”  I shout, calling one of the broken wind spikes Os made.

  The Westerly shielding me changes its tune, singing about traitors as it whisks away.

  “What else do you want me to do?” I shout, flailing to strengthen my hold on the other drafts. “Do you want them to die?”

  The Westerly doesn’t respond, disappearing into the clouds.

  I feel like I’m turning my back on my heritage—but I’ve tried fighting with my own wind spike and it did nothing. And the Westerlies told me themselves that they couldn’t stop the Storms.

  So, seriously, what am I supposed to do?

  I order the winds still holding me to hover, and I test my swing, aiming for the Storm that’s carrying Solana. I check my swing twice to steady my nerves, and on the third sweep I let it fly.

  The freaking Storm ducks.

  I shout commands to adjust the spike’s trajectory as it passes, but the angle’s too sharp and the spike swishes across the Storm’s shoulder, making such a small slice, the wound doesn’t even leak any fog.

  But it does still piss the Storm off, and I turn to flee as it tosses Solana back to the other Storm and takes off after me.

  “Hang on,” I shout as I duck the crack of a whip and call the broken wind spike back to my hand.

  I race toward Solana, knowing this is probably the stupidest strategy I’ve ever come up with. But I don’t have time to play Keep Away with the evil Storms anymore.

  “Take my hand,” I shout, stretching out my wounded arm as I duck another blow from the whip. I know it’s going to hurt like hell when she grabs on, but I need my good arm for other, even crazier things.

  Before she can reach me, the Storm yanks her away, tossing her back to the other Storm and swatting its massive hand at me.

  “Get down, Vane!” Os shouts from somewhere behind me, and I decide not to question him, dropping toward the ground as fast as I can.

  I glance up just in time to see a spike streak above me, nailing the Storm in the head and making the monster explode.

  “Now it’s one-on-one,” Os tells me, and I steal a quick glance, surprised to see he’s still pinned under the rock. I’m not sure how he reached one of the wind spikes, but I’m grateful for the help. I can’t afford to waste any more time.

  The Storm carrying Solana races away, and I chase after them, cursing every second this is wasting as I go back to my other crazy plan. I sneak up on the Storm’s blind side and hold out my bad arm, shouting at Solana to grab on when I pass.

  It takes two tries, but she manages to snag my hand. My elbow screams from the pain, but I grit my teeth and bear it, knowing it’s only the beginning as Solana tangles our fingers together and I warn her to get ready. When I feel her get a firm hold, I raise my wind spike and slash it through the Storm’s wrist, severing its hand and pulling Solana free.

  The Storm screams and howls, and I do the same as Solana’s weight—light as she is—rips my elbow back out of joint.

  “Hold on,” Solana shouts as the sickly yellow fog explodes around us, making me want to gag.

  She wraps her legs around mine and shimmies up my body until she has a solid hold around my waist. “Are you okay?”

  I can’t answer.

  It takes the last of my energy to order the drafts carrying us to fly as fast as they can toward the Maelstrom.

  I hope it’s fast enough.

  “Got any winds left in you?” I ask when I glance over my shoulder and see the wounded St
orm chasing after us. The rage seems to have given it a burst of energy, and I’m guessing we only have about a minute or two before it’s right on top of us, unless we get a boost ourselves.

  Solana shakes her head. “I ran out in the first few minutes of the fight, after we realized the spikes you gave us wouldn’t work. If Os hadn’t tried breaking those drafts, we’d all be dead.”

  I want to shout, You hear that, Westerlies?

  But I honestly get why they’re angry. Just holding the spike, I feel the broken Northerly’s pain, and dang, it’s intense.

  “I’m sorry,”  I whisper, wishing the draft could understand me. “If there’s a way to fix this, I will.”

  I didn’t expect the wind to actually listen. But three Westerlies wrap around us out of nowhere, boosting our speed just in time to launch us the hell out of the valley and leave the creepy Storms in the dust.

  I hope the rest of the Gales will be able to handle them.

  And I hope this means the Westerlies have forgiven me—but no matter what, it’s time for a change.

  No more slacking in my training.

  No more fighting to have a normal life.

  The only thing that matters is stopping Raiden.

  And Audra.

  I clutch my chest, realizing our bond is gone.

  Not faded.

  Gone.

  I try to tell myself it’s because she’s still in the Maelstrom. But everything inside me feels very, very cold.

  We pass the crumbling dead palms in Desert Center, and the winds carrying us start to panic. I know they’re freaked out by the pull of the Maelstrom, but I beg them to keep flying. They hold out as long as they can, but one by one they pull away until all we have left are the Westerlies.

  I guess it’s a good thing they forgave me.

  The desert is hauntingly empty. Just a few vultures and some footprints in the sand. And when we touch down in front of the rock piles, all my nerves tangle into knots.

  Audra’s trace is everywhere—but somehow it’s nowhere, too. It’s like it’s her but it’s not her, and it can’t tell me where she went or what she did. Only that she was here. And that she was in a lot of pain.

  Gus’s trace makes even less sense, so weak it’s like he isn’t even alive. And there are other traces in the air too. . . .