by Laura Kaye
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WEST
OF WANT
Hearts of the Anemoi
Book Two
Laura Kaye
The Hearts of the Anemoi series
North of Need
West of Want
South of Surrender
East of Ecstacy
Other books by Laura Kaye
Hearts in Darkness
Forever Freed
Just Gotta Say
In the Service of the King
Seduced by the Vampire King
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Laura Kaye. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Edited by Heather Howland
Cover design by Heather Howland
Print ISBN 978-1-62061-055-8
Ebook ISBN 978-1-62061-056-5
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition July 2012
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Morton’s, Gorton’s, M&Ms, Wikipedia, The Wedding Crashers, Porsche Panamera, Pontiac Solstice, Toyota Prius, Jeep.
You can’t choose how or when you die,
but you can choose how you live.
This book is for the living.
CHAPTER ONE
Ella Raines knelt on the varnished deck of the sailboat’s cockpit, her dead brother’s ashes in her hands, and stared out at the dark green chop of the Chesapeake Bay. The cold March breeze kicked up sea spray and rippled through the sails, but all Ella could feel was the metal urn turning her aching fingers to ice. She had to let him go—she knew she did—but with everything else she’d lost, how could the world be so cruel as to expect her to give up her twin, too?
She twisted open the urn’s brass lid and stuffed it in the pocket of her windbreaker. Sailing had been the passion over which she and Marcus had most bonded, not just as siblings, but as best friends. A day spent cruising on the bay, blue skies overhead and warm winds lifting the sails, had been Marcus’s favorite thing to do. He wasn’t a religious man, but said he most believed in God when he was out on the open water. So a burial at sea made sense, and it was time. When she’d woken up this morning and seen the clear forecast, she resolved today was the day. After all, it had been two months, and the first day of spring seemed a fitting time for starting over.
Leaning over the stern, Ella tilted the brass container by slow degrees until fine ashes spilled out, swirled on the wind, and blew away in a sad gray ribbon that blurred from her silent tears. Choppy waves splashed against the transom, soaking Ella to the elbows, and the boat heeled to the starboard. She braced herself on the backstay. The fixed steel cable bit into her hand but steadied her enough to empty the urn.
“Good-bye, Marcus. I love you.” She barely heard herself over the sudden gusting of the wind that roared through the sails.
Ella locked down the grief and despair that wanted to claw out of her chest and climbed to a standing position. The boat heeled again, hard, the forty-five-degree angle nearly catching her off guard. She stumbled. The urn dropped with a brassy clang to the deck of the helm and rolled lopsidedly as the sloop tossed.
She turned, her brain already moving her hands and body through the motions of furling the mainsail and tacking upwind. A bright flash caught her gaze and a gasp stuck in her throat.
An enormous dark cloud sprawled low over the water to the southwest. Mountainous black plumes protruded from the top, creating a tower through which brilliant explosions of yellow-orange streaked. Inky fingers reached down from the storm’s edge as the squalling winds lashed at the sea.
Where the hell had that come from?
A long growl of thunder rumbled over the bay. Ella felt it in her bones. The boat tossed and heeled. Waves pounded the hull, sloshed over the sides, and soaked her sneakers. A spare glance at her instruments revealed thirty-knot winds. Thirty-five.
A four-foot wave slammed against the port side. Ella slipped on the wet deck and went down hard on one knee. She grasped the wheel just as the boat lurched sideways. Thunder crashed above her, the sound vibrating through the whipping wind. Bitter cold rain poured down over the boat in a torrent. Tendrils of Ella’s hair came loose from her long braid and plastered to her forehead and cheeks.
She needed to turn the boat and reach shore if she had any hope of escaping the wind. Ella wrestled the steering wheel hard to windward, the rudder fighting her every turn. Damn, how could she have been so reckless, so unobservant? Storms like this didn’t just develop out of nowhere. A sailor never trusted the weathermen over her own eyes and ears. How long had she been kneeling on the deck giving in to her woe-is-me routine, anyway? And here she was, in the literal eye of a storm, sailing single-handed without life jacket or tether on. She locked the wheel into place. At least she could remedy that problem.
Ella reached for an orange vest and slipped her arms through the holes. A final glance at her instruments revealed forty-knot winds now. Dread threatened to swamp her. She disconnected the electronics, leaving only the compass to guide her. Her mast was a forty-foot lightning rod, so she did what little she could to combat the likelihood of a strike.
The windward course was a short-lived pursuit as the wind direction changed again and again. Eyes on the compass, she adjusted to the wind as best she could. She couldn’t see squat through the deluge, and the hovering gray sheets of rain and spray and six-foot waves obscured the horizon. She’d have to ride it out. With shaking, bone-cold fingers, she connected the bottom of the three buckles on her vest. Small clicks sounded from overhead, got louder, more frequent. Hail pelted down the size of dimes, then nickels. Ella crouched against the wheel and shielded her head with her hands and arms. The falling ice ripped into the plastic of her jacket and bit into her knuckles.
Thunder crashed right above her and the storm-darkened sky exploded in ferocious jags of electricity. Rain and hail lashed her body, and wind and waves battered her ship like it had a personal vendetta to settle. With her. A tremendous wave crested over the starboard side, shoving her head against the metal spoke of the wheel. Spots burst across her vision. She cried out, the sound swallowed by the wind.
When she could focus agai
n, her gaze settled on the lidless cremation urn wedged fore of the wheel pedestal. Marcus. What she wouldn’t do to have him with her. She reached around the huge wheel to grab the container, just grasping for something, anything to make her feel less alone. She couldn’t reach. Shifting her hold on the wheel, she stretched, her fingers straining, yearning to feel the cold brass. Not quite.
She lunged for the urn, grabbed it up, and hugged it to her chest.
Thunder and lightning blasted the sky above her. A wall of wind shoved at the side of the sailboat. It lurched. Spun. An ominous crack reverberated from below. A wave pounded Ella’s shoulders and back, flattening her atop the urn onto the deck of the cockpit, holding her hostage with its watery weight. Seawater strangled her, stole her breath, and receded.
The boat reared over a peaked wave and bucked. Ella slid into a free fall.
Not releasing her death grip on the urn, Ella’s right hand shot out and clutched the steel backstay. The ligaments of her shoulder wrenched apart in a sickening, audible pop just as her lower body whipped over the transom and hit the frigid water. The jolt stole her scream, allowed her only to moan long and low. Icy wetness soaked through her heavy clothes and the drag tugged and pulled at her destroyed joint.
Triple bolts of lightning illuminated the gunmetal sky in quick succession. Shaking nonstop from cold and pain and adrenaline, Ella stared up at her hand clutching the metal cable. One strike and she’d be done. Her mind laid out the choices. Ship or sea. Urn or ship. Drown or fry. Life or death.
A wave swamped her. And another. She choked and gagged. The next slammed her head against the fiberglass transom.
Her hands flew open from the impact. She plunged into the storm-tortured water, sucked down nauseating mouthfuls. Her body whipped feet over head, side to side. Impossible to determine which way was up. The violent churning of the sea ripped the lifejacket off one arm, but the orange padding held just enough to finally guide her head to the surface.
Despite her daze, survival instincts had her gulping oxygen, precious oxygen. Her successful fight against the urge to vomit left her shuddering, the sour bile almost a welcome respite from the cold salt. No matter. The next cresting wave forced her to drink more.
Panic jolted through her body, shook the drunken haze from her mind. Kicking and paddling, she spun around and around, until she’d done several three-sixties. The boat. Gone.
As her body crested the top of wave after wave, she strained to see some glimpse of white in the thick, dark gray. At thirty-four feet, the True Blue was not little, but the sea was too rough, the wind too forceful.
No. No, no, no. Not their sailboat, too. Not the last place that truly felt like home, the last place filled with memories of laughter and love and honesty.
Deafening thunder rumbled over the world. Jagged electricity flared over the monstrous seascape.
Ella tilted her head back, squinted against the blinding rain, and screamed. “Is that all you got? Well, fuck you! Fuck you and the cloud you blew in on! I’ve got nothing left to lose, so take your best shot!”
A wave smacked her in the face. She gagged. Coughed. Laughed until sobs took over.
Exhaustion. Pure and utter. Like she’d lived a thousand lives.
Debris thudded against her ear. She howled as the jarring hit rang through her head.
Please don’t let it be pieces of True Blue.
Her eyes focused on the sea next to her. Nothing. She propelled herself around. The urn. Ella gasped and irrational joy filled her chest.
She half-swam—a nearly impossible feat against the thrashing waves with one useless arm. Each leaden stroke sapped what little energy she had left.
She grabbed the urn. Held it in her numb hands.
“I knew you wouldn’t leave me,” she whispered against the brass, all she could manage. “We’re true blue.”
Together, the churn carried them up one side of a wave, then plunged them down the other. Ella’s head slumped against the flat base of the upside down container. Her eyelids sagged.
And everything went black.
CHAPTER TWO
A life force was fading.
The sensation tugged at Zephyros’s consciousness, embattled as it was as he raged over the sea. Caught up in his own thoughts, his own pain, his own loss, he writhed and tossed, howled and lashed out. The wind and rain—nature’s very energy—were his to control, even when he was out of control. But, still, the wrongness of the sensation tugged at him, demanded redress. In his elemental form, he felt the call of life and birth and renewal most strongly. He could ignore it no longer.
He forced himself to embrace the calm that had once been the truest manifestation of his nature. Around him, the clouds dispersed, the rains thinned, the winds settled to a bluster. The sea, black and roiling a moment ago, eased into the early spring chop typical of the bay.
Zephyros allowed the tranquility of the open water to fuel the return of his composure. He focused. Scanned for the soul decrying its unnatural end. Commanding the West Wind to carry him down from the heavens, he soared on the gentle gusts. The only thing nearby was a lone sailboat, floundering in the wind.
He glided around the fine boat. No life resided on its decks or within its hull. A sour pit formed in his gut as he began to suspect what had happened.
Rising up to gain a broader view of the sea, Zephyros searched, the dwindling life a beacon he latched onto. Pursued. The thrum of its force vibrated within him. Closing in, he descended toward the surface, the waves passing under him in a blur. There! A flicker of orange upon the dark gray-green.
Flashing into corporeality, Zephyros assumed the form of a giant water kingfisher.
Slate-blue wings exploded twenty feet out on either side of his body. He plunged head-first toward the bobbing figure, the wind ruffling through the crown-like crest of blue feathers atop his head. Rarely did he ever have the need to shift into his sacred animal form, but it was a power all the Anemoi possessed.
Glaring down at the water, Zephyros braced himself. Extreme temperatures pained and weakened him, and he’d be lucky if this water was in the fifties. He skied into the water’s surface, spread wings gentling his landing. No such luck. Mid-forties if it was anything. But this wasn’t about him, was it?
Just ahead, the human bobbed face down, tendrils of long hair floating in strands of silk like a halo. He smelled blood. Best hurry. His senses told him time was short.
Zephyros plunged his regal, avian body into the water, came up with the dead weight draped over his neck. With a shove of a wing, he pushed the legs of the body up, resituating the length along his back. He took flight.
Frigid water shook off him in a fantastic spray as his massive wingspan flapped and lifted them away from the bay. His gaze lit on the sailboat and he banked in its direction. He circled the boat once, twice. The metal cables connecting the mast to the deck would not accommodate his wings. He couldn’t land on the boat.
Taking extra care not to jostle the victim, his victim, Zephyros landed behind the sailboat. Instinctively, he commanded the change and shifted into his human form. The biting chill of the water tormented his naked flesh, but more important matters demanded his attention. Grabbing onto one delicate hand, he ensured his hold on the person draped across his back before turning and cradling the body into his arms.
He sucked in a breath. Mother of gods. A bruise mottled the whole left side of her face, from cheek to eyebrow. A nasty gash along the cheekbone oozed a thin line of blood. Her bottom lip was busted open, swollen. But even the severity of her injuries couldn’t hide her beauty.
That sour pit in his stomach grew, suffocated. He’d caused this. Damn it, could he never do anything right? Ancient turmoil roiled through him, threatening to turn him inside out. No, of course he couldn’t.
Zephyros adjusted the woman’s weight in his arms and reached up over the transom. His fingers searched for and found the release, and the swim platform folded out toward them. He lifted the woman a
bove his head and settled her on the glossy wooden surface, then hefted himself up beside her. With solid footing beneath him, he gently lifted her again. He stepped around the massive wheel to the seating area to the fore, and laid her out on a long bench.
Her head lolled to the side. Wheezes morphed into a weak cough. Her whole body seized. Water expelled from her throat. Zephyros supported her shoulders, held her up until she quieted. Her eyelids creaked open, revealing the rolling whites of her eyes. They sagged again, and her whole body went limp.
Zephyros released a breath as unexpected relief flooded him—followed quickly by guilt. His suspicions about what had happened to her were confirmed by an imprinting on her life jacket. The words “True Blue” matched the dark blue calligraphy painted on the back of the boat. She’d been thrown overboard in the storm. His storm.
He shivered, a combination of guilt, shame, and the wind against his wet body. Well, the latter problem he could address. He materialized jeans and a T-shirt and made himself decent.
Like a magnet, she drew his gaze. He reached out and stroked his fingers over the reds and purples coloring the side of her face. Her hair appeared deep brown, but he suspected the darkness was an effect of the water still drenching her.
Shaking his head, Zephyros debated. He should leave now. The Coast Guard would find her. The bay had patrols. He could even command the current to carry the boat, with her upon it, to shore. Even as he agreed with himself, agreed leaving her would be for the best, he searched the boat for information he could use to help her. Storage lockers filled the space beneath the bench seats. Empty. His gaze scanned. He’d look below.
Down the companionway steps, he descended into the cabin and stepped in a few inches of sloshing water on the galley floor. All warm wood and white accents, the space was surprisingly spacious and bright. Far forward there appeared to be a berth. Aft of that bedroom, a large sitting area centered round a table. To his immediate left, a small galley kitchen, and to his right, a chart table. Compasses and instruments hung above it on the hull wall.
