by Cora Carmack
She swallowed and nodded her head. He was right. But that didn’t stop the longing. She wanted the cool rush of the wind and the hard pound of hooves. She wanted the kind of speed that left everything else behind and gave her the simplest, purest form of happiness there was.
“Let’s go to a tavern,” she said. “I’ve never actually been inside one.”
He touched her cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll take you sometime. But tonight, I’m afraid we are both covered in sweat and sand.” He rolled closer, sliding his hand from her cheek to tangle in her hair. “You’re restless tonight. What’s going on?”
Opposing impulses crashed inside her.
Run—wild and free.
Stay—close and warm.
She wanted both of them. She wanted safety and adventure and excitement and comfort. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I feel like doing something wild.”
One moment she was lying there in the sand, staring up at the sky, her fingers fidgeting against her thighs, and the next he’d pulled her so that she lay half on top of him, one leg strewn over his and their chests pressed together.
His voice was a low rumble as he said, “I can think of a few wild things.”
She felt her heartbeat everywhere—at the bottom of her throat and the base of her spine and the hollow of her knees. One of his hands ran up her side, mapping out the curve of her waist. He brought her close, so close she could feel his breath against her mouth. She shut her eyes, hovering there so near his warmth but still separate. The anticipation made her hand tremble against his chest, and all her limbs felt hollow. She wanted him to close the distance, wanted to do it herself. But something held her back. Her distracted mind had not stopped, only now it flickered between the curve of his lips and the wall of his chest and the sand blowing over their legs and the bird that was chirping somewhere in the distance and the lone insect who was fighting valiantly to fill the whole night with sound.
A hot flush of irritation swept over the back of her neck. She rolled away from Locke, feeling frustrated and petulant, which made zero sense. He was here, and if he stared at her any harder, her skin would catch fire. When his fingers touched low on her back, she shuddered from pleasure at the same time that her fists clenched in her lap.
That was when she noticed her bandages had come undone and she had reopened the cuts on her fingers. Locke had warned her that they would not heal easily. She hadn’t realized how often she used her hands until each strong flex of her fingers broke open the wounds again.
“Roar?”
Irritation seized her, and when the blood from her hands dripped onto the sand a moment later, that irritation bloomed into wild delight. The hair on her arms stood up on end, and blinding white skyfire split the sky in two. Sound exploded in her ears; the whole world seemed to shake when the blazing light pierced the earth so close that she felt a stinging shock push through her, locking up each and every muscle in her body.
It was gone faster than it came, and a few moments later, it struck again, splintering a brush tree and leaving fire in its place.
She swore. The land was flat, not a single large tree within sight, which meant she and Locke were the biggest targets out here. She heard another jarring crack, like the snap of a whip, and light flared in her peripheral vision. Glee welled up inside her—eager and excited, and so at odds with her own terror. She moved on instinct, pulling her legs in so that she sat in a ball. She curled her hands over her head and looked beneath her arm for Locke. She expected to find him fighting the storm or readying himself to do so. But instead, he sat still, his legs sprawled out and his upper body supported by his elbows, likely the same position he had been in when she rolled off him without warning. His handsome face had gone slack, his eyes big and blank.
Mesmerized.
She swore again, louder and with trembling panic. He had one of the strongest minds she had ever known. She did not think he had ever been mesmerized by a storm, at least not that he had told her, and he loved to tell all his most frightening stories to convince her of the danger. This was her fault. She had distracted him and weakened his control. Skyfire hit the earth again. She couldn’t see it, but she could feel it, like the knowledge that a blade swung and came far too close.
She didn’t know what to do; she wanted desperately to go to him, but that might make them more likely to get struck. Before she could make a decision, skyfire streaked down again, and it landed only steps away from Locke. It didn’t hit him, but his body jerked, spasming for a moment as his elbows gave and his body collapsed back on the sand. She knew the shock from skyfire could travel through the ground and affect people who were not directly hit. And sure enough, when she scrambled to his side, she found him unconscious.
“No.” The word choked in her throat, broken and gasping.
Another flash, lighting up Locke’s lifeless face in the night. She spread her hands over his chest, sliding up to cup his neck and check for a pulse. She thought she felt it, but it seemed weaker than it should be. Every other time she had touched his chest or neck, she could feel his heartbeat strong and wild and forceful, just like the man himself.
Another crack, and she screamed, senseless words scraping her throat raw, “Stop! Please, stop!”
Her eyes were flooded with tears, cascading over her cheeks, dripping down onto her shaking hands. And when the next bolt flashed, it did not touch the ground. It flitted from cloud to cloud several times in quick succession. Her confusion was too strong, too consuming to be only her own. Panting and at a loss for what to do next, she focused on the foreign feelings flooding her mind.
It was a mess of jumbled emotions—mirth and impatience and a playful restlessness that she now realized had been influencing her for far longer than just the length of the storm. Again the skyfire storm flashed overhead, deafening and terrible, but calmer. And inside she felt a corresponding rush of feelings. It was too fast to make sense of them separately, but together, they reminded her of a child who had been told no, gearing up to throw a tantrum, a building whine of disappointment.
That restless feeling built and built until the air grew thick with electricity, and she felt the intention of the storm a moment before a bolt of skyfire raged toward the ground. It was too bright to tell where it would land, but she threw up her arms and yelled “NO!”
She waited for the crack, for the pulse of power that radiated out every time the lightning met the land, but it never came. And when she uncovered her eyes, the storm rolled and flickered above her, but did nothing more. It … waited.
She stared, incredulous and shaking as the storm’s emotions washed over her. Feeling crazy (and desperate and afraid and every emotion there was tangled and mixed together in an overwhelming chorus), she began to think that the storm listened to her.
This … connection … she felt, did it work both ways? Could it understand her?
Two bolts of skyfire speared the sand simultaneously, but far enough away that she didn’t feel any overflow of energy. And somehow, she knew that answer was an unequivocal yes.
“Scorch me,” she breathed, and then immediately threw up her hands in a panic. “No, don’t! Don’t scorch me! I didn’t mean it!”
Thin, quick streaks danced overhead, and she somehow felt laughter, rather than heard it. It bubbled up in her chest, and she experienced the urge as if it were her own.
Breathing heavily, she stared up at the sky in wonder. And feeling like she had lost her wits, she whispered, “You don’t want to hurt me?”
The sky blazed with light—bright and beautiful and as nonthreatening as a skyfire storm could possibly be.
She thought back to the way she’d felt all night. That urge to run and jump and be free and fun. She had already gone this far, so she did not see the harm in suspending her sanity a little longer to ask, “You want to play, don’t you?”
More cloud-to-cloud flashes. Joy and excitement and endless energy.
Her fea
r was so strong that she had somehow carved out a space in her mind that was only hers, but she could feel the storm’s consciousness surrounding it, and there was no doubt in her mind that the skyfire above was conscious. The constantly shifting emotions gave her a sense of its impulses, and though she couldn’t hear thoughts or anything like that, she could almost feel them. She was stunned to realize that the skyfire heart had the feeling of a child.
“Can you … go somewhere else?”
A sizzling bolt came down twenty paces away. He—she could not say how exactly, but she knew the storm was male—had stayed far enough back not to harm her, but the displeasure at her question was clear.
“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, it’s only—my friend is hurt. We can’t … play with you without being injured.”
More zigzagging bands striped overhead, and Roar fell back to the ground, stunned by corresponding messages so strong that they felt almost like visions. She saw the land—flat and wide, as if from overhead. Followed by repeated images of her, a knife to her finger as she stood over the altar each morning for her offering. Then a final image of her sitting where she was now, her hands dripping blood from her reopened wounds.
Horror filled her, and she actually felt the storm recoil in response, which meant he could feel her exactly like she felt him. She tried to fill herself with remorse, and she felt the tentative brush of him against her mind. She looked at Locke, frighteningly still on the sand, and sent all her fear and worry to the storm.
Thunder rumbled, and though she saw no corresponding light, she felt the same emotion come back at her that she had sent before. Remorse.
She sat there, stunned, her body still pulsing with adrenaline. She looked to the distance, to the craggy rolling hills that she could not see against the dark sky. But she imagined them as they were in the day and pictured the storm lighting up over the rocks. She tried to infuse the image with happiness, tempting the storm to move there.
She swore she heard a whine on the air as lightning touched down again, close, but not too close. She thought of the way a dog’s ears would drop and its tail would curve down when someone yelled for it to go.
She was trying to think of how to bargain with the young storm. Could she ask it to let her take Locke to safety, to the hunters who could make sure he was okay? Would he let her if she promised to return? She was contemplating how best to communicate this when a groan sounded behind her and Locke’s body shifted on the ground.
“Stay,” she told the storm. “Wait.”
And dutifully, the skyfire remained overhead, only streaking between clouds.
Locke was awake and disoriented, but she saw him fumbling with his belt, the only piece of equipment he wore. He pulled out a skyfire Stormheart. When his skin touched the stone, she felt a flare of electric magic, and moments later, curiosity, followed by the eager image of two skyfire storms, flashing together in the night, playing over the land like friends.
“What are you doing?” Roar whispered to Locke.
He winced as he sat up, gripping the stone harder. “Calling out the heart.”
All at once, Roar had a much clearer picture of how Stormhearts worked. Because as she sat there beside Locke, she could sense another storm. She could feel its soul—intense and protective and riddled with guilt—and she knew it was Locke. That somehow when he touched the dead Stormheart, his own soul brought it to life. And she could tell the storm above thought it was real. The child storm waited restlessly for a friend to form. Just as she could feel his presence before the storm manifested, he thought that was what he was feeling now—building magic in the air and a rising soul that would collide to form a playmate for him.
A brilliant light shone above her, not the blinding flash of another skyfire bolt but something both brighter and softer. A small, swirling orb of energy drifted toward them. The light was white, but as it swirled and moved, she saw a dozen other colors reflected inside the revolving sphere, flicking in scattered branches like a smaller version of skyfire. And she knew that inside that cluster of lights lay the living heart of the storm. Every emotion and desire she felt bleeding into her came from that ball of light.
“Get back,” Locke said, using his free hand to physically push her away from him. The storm’s heart hovered closer now, so close that tears gathered in her eyes at the brilliance of it. It seared through her—intense and beautiful. “When I move,” Locke said, “you run. Hard and fast back toward town. Don’t look back, princess. No matter what.”
Then before she could protest, he lunged toward the soul, thrusting his free hand inside it like a blade into a heart.
Roar screamed. Locke screamed. The storm screamed.
Agony burned through her—sharp and hot—accompanied by a burning smell so strong it singed her nostrils. A dozen small spears of skyfire shot off in every direction, and Locke’s body convulsed, rising off the ground as he held tight to the soul that trembled and throbbed with pain.
“Stop!” she cried out, but she did not think he could hear her. She could barely hear herself over his tortured yells and the wailing inside her head. She could feel the storm fighting back, funneling a terrifying amount of energy into Locke. He was weak and fatigued, and she could sense all too clearly the way the battle between their souls tipped back and forth. He had caught the storm off guard, giving him the advantage, but the skyfire’s magic was potent and powerful. She knew Locke could win, but what damage would be done to him in the process? The storm’s strength began to crumble, its light dimming, and the pain was unimaginable, as if her own soul were being ripped open.
Before she could think it through, she ran and tackled Locke, catching him by surprise. His hand pulled loose, and the storm howled in pain. Roar’s body was on top of Locke’s, and she saw his eyelids flutter as he struggled to stay conscious. She could feel his pain too—acute and crippling. And then the world around them became nothing more than fire and light.
“I did it,” she cried. “It’s my fault. I called it. Oh, gods. I called it.”
The storm howled and raged, lashing out with every bit of power it had, the earth shaking as dozens of bolts struck all at once. They did not strike her or the man she covered with her body. But the waves of power reached them anyway, conducted through the earth. Locke groaned and his body shuddered. Now it was him that was in danger, Locke that was fading. She could feel his soul through his Stormheart, but it was faint, too faint.
“ENOUGH!” she yelled at the storm.
There was a momentary pause, long enough for her to sit up and stare at an orb so bright that her eyes burned. But the little storm was too hurt, too afraid. And she could not blame him. She sent waves of calm and healing and remorse, but fierce and frantic, he bucked her hold. And when she saw clearly his intent, electricity crackling through the air around her, she had no other choice.
She whispered, “I’m sorry.” Then Roar thrust her own hand into the storm’s soul. For one moment, she felt only the soul’s shock and confusion and hurt, then its fire poured into her, burning her from the inside, tearing her apart. She screamed, and thought with every bit of strength she had, Surrender to me.
* * *
Locke woke in time to see Roar thrust her hand deep into the heart of the skyfire storm. Her head flew back, her mouth opened in a hoarse scream. Then the orb of power burst with a blinding flash of light. Roar remained standing, her head still back and her arms limp at her sides. It was by far the fastest he had ever seen someone take a Stormheart. And most hunters would have been blown back by the force of the dying heart. He had been knocked out for nearly a bell after he took his skyfire heart.
She swayed on her feet, and then her knees crumpled and she sank to the ground. He rushed toward her right as she released an awful, keening wail that made Locke fall to his knees beside her. She writhed and cried—great, gusting sobs that wrenched her whole body. He tried to touch her, to hold her, but she kicked and squirmed, falling on to her back with her eyes sq
ueezed tightly shut.
“Roar?” He took hold of one wrist, holding on tight to keep her from breaking loose. “Listen to me, princess. Open your eyes. Tell me where it hurts.”
Her free hand tore at the harness crossing her chest. Quickly, he undid one of the straps, wondering if it felt too tight. More likely, it was her chest that hurt, reacting to lingering power from the storm she had destroyed. But when the harness slipped free, she clawed at the sleeveless shirt beneath it, pulling the neck down to bare her collarbone, followed by the curve of her breast. He froze, immediately intending to look away, but he couldn’t. Not even when her shirt tore, revealing more of her body.
Because her skin … glowed. Her chest, the area directly over her heart, flashed as if her veins were filled with light. That light pulsed, zigzagging beneath her skin like her heart had traded places with the storm she’d just taken and skyfire now beat within the cage of her ribs.
He had never seen a reaction like this before, not when he’d taken his first skyfire storm or when the other hunters had taken theirs. They had all been weak and bruised and aching from the inside out, sensations he felt keenly at the moment, but the only lasting effect had been the desire to sleep. And of course, the connection to a Stormheart that had given them new abilities. At that thought, he checked her hands and the surrounding earth, but found no stone. He searched wider, unwilling to go more than a step or two from her still-shuddering form. But there was nothing. No Stormheart. Unless …
He looked back at her chest, watched her nails scrape over the skin there, clawing as if she were trying to reach inside and pull something out.
No. It couldn’t be. That was impossible.
But it really did look like lightning streaking beneath her skin. Again and again, the light diverged from a center point, right where her heart should be, splitting into branches that stretched in every direction but faded before they traveled too far from her heart.
He had no clue what was happening. But he knew she was in terrible pain. Her beautiful face was twisted and scrunched, and her body heaved and jerked against the sand. Quickly, he bent and took hold of her squirming body. She pushed against him, but she was weak and tired. And with her in his arms, he ran. His legs ached and threatened to give out, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He had to get her to Duke. Maybe his mentor had seen this before. Maybe he would recognize what was happening and be able to stop her pain before …
