War Storm

by Victoria Aveyard

  “I’m what you want me to be,” he forces out, his voice a little strangled.

  I’m seized by the realization that I don’t know when I’ll see him again. But I can’t look back up. It will just make this more difficult.

  “Don’t pretend like you gave all this up because I asked you to. We both know that isn’t what happened.” For your mother, for what is right. For yourself. “And I’m glad for it,” I mutter, still staring at his hand in mine.

  He tries to pull me closer, but I stand my ground.

  “I need time, Cal. So do you.”

  His voice drops so low he could be growling. It makes me shiver. “I decide what I want and need.”

  “Then give me the same courtesy.” Without thinking, I look back up sharply, surprising him. Even though I feel anything but strong, I play the part well. “Let me figure out who I am now.”

  Not Mareena, not the lightning girl. Not even Mare Barrow. But whoever came out on the other side of all this. He needs space too, whether he can admit it or not. We need to heal. Rebuild. Just like this country, and the rest that might follow.

  Worst of all, best of all—we have to do it without each other.

  There’s still a gap between us, a rift. Even in death, Maven is good at keeping us apart. Cal will never admit it, but I saw the resentment in his eyes that day. The sorrow and accusation. I killed his brother, and that weighs on him still. I know it weighs on me.

  Cal searches my eyes, his own flashing as the sunlight above us turns red. His eyes could be made of flame.

  Whatever he’s looking for, a weakness, a crack in my resolve—he doesn’t find it.

  One blazing hand trails up my neck, until it stills at the side of my jaw, fingers resting behind my ear. His skin isn’t hot enough to burn, not like Maven’s, which marked me forever. Cal wouldn’t do that, even if I asked him to.

  “How long?” he whispers.

  “I don’t know.” It’s the truth, easy to admit. I have no idea how long it will take to feel like myself again, or whoever I am now. But I am only eighteen. I have time.

  The next part is far more difficult, and my breath hitches. “I won’t ask you to wait for me.”

  When his lips brush mine, the touch is fleeting, a farewell.

  For however long it takes.

  The Paradise Valley is well named. It stretches for miles, a rolling plain in the bowl of the mountains. The rivers and lakes are pristine and strange, unlike any place I’ve ever seen before. Not to mention the wildlife. No wonder Davidson sent us here for a little peace and quiet. It seems untouched, removed from the rest of the world.

  We walk the path at dawn, careful to keep away from the red-hot geyser fields running the length of the clearing. Most of the watery pools are still and flat, but they spiral in a rainbow of colors. Beautiful but deadly, able to cook a person in a matter of seconds. Or so I’ve been told. In the distance, one of them spits boiling water and clouds of steam high into the hazy purple sky. The stars fade one by one. It’s cold, and I pull the heavy wool shawl tighter around my shoulders. Our footsteps echo against the wooden walkway beneath us, built up and over the rust-colored basin floor.

  I glance at Gisa sidelong, watching her keep stride. She’s more willowy these days, and her dark red hair hangs in a long braid. The breakfast basket dangles in her hand, swinging idly. She wanted to watch the sun rise over the big spring, and who am I to deny my little sister anything?

  “Look at the colors,” she murmurs as we reach our destination. Indeed, the big hot spring looks like something out of a dream. Ringed in red, then yellow, then bright green, and finally the deepest, purest blue, it doesn’t seem real.

  We were well warned, and in spite of the urge, neither of us dips a finger in the waters below. I don’t fancy boiling the skin off my bones. Instead Gisa sits down on the walkway, her legs folded beneath herself. She pulls out a tiny notebook and starts to sketch, occasionally scribbling notes.

  I wonder what this place might inspire in her.

  I’m more inclined to eat, and I fish through the basket, pulling out a pair of still-warm breakfast rolls. Mom made sure we were well provisioned before we set off for the morning.

  “Do you miss him?” she says suddenly, not looking up.

  The question catches me off guard, especially the vagueness. She could be talking about anybody. “Kilorn is fine. He’s back in Ascendant, and Cameron will be there in a few days.”

  Gisa doesn’t mind the thought of someone else with Kilorn. She cares more for the pretty shopgirl back in the city, these days.

  “I don’t mean Kilorn,” she says pointedly, annoyed with my dodging.

  “Oh?” I ask, raising an eyebrow dramatically.

  She doesn’t seem amused.

  “Of course I miss him.”

  I mean Cal. I mean Shade. I mean Maven, even in the smallest of pieces.

  Gisa doesn’t press me further.

  The silence feeds me as much as the breakfast. It’s easy to forget out here. To feel lost in another time. I relish the detachment, even with the usual worries clinging to the corners of my mind. What happens now? I still haven’t figured that out.

  And, for a little while, I don’t have to.

  “Bison,” Gisa says softly, raising a hand to point across the geyser basin.

  I tense up, ready to spring. If one of those beasts gets too close, it’ll be my responsibility to get Gisa out of here safely. My lightning prickles beneath my skin, ready to unleash. It feels almost unfamiliar these days. I haven’t been training or sparring, not since we returned to Montfort. I keep telling myself I need the rest. Bree and Tramy keep telling me I’m lazy.

  The bison are far off, fifty yards at least, and lumbering slowly in the opposite direction. The herd is small but impressive, a dozen at least, all shaggy and dark brown, moving with surprising grace for things so big and heavy. I remember my last encounter with a bison. It wasn’t exactly peaceful.

  Gisa returns to her sketch, thoughtful. “Davidson’s guide told me something interesting.” The premier was good enough to send an escort with us into the valley.

  “Oh, what’s that?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the herd. If they bolt, I’ll be ready.

  My sister continues to chatter, oblivious to the possible threat currently picking its way across the basin. I’m quietly happy that she doesn’t know enough to be afraid. “She said that once, the bison were almost gone. Thousands upon thousands hunted and killed, maybe millions, until only a few were left on the entire continent.”

  “That’s impossible,” I scoff. “They’re all over Paradise, and the plains.”

  “Well, that’s what the guide said,” Gisa replies, sounding annoyed by my dismissal. “And it’s her job to know what goes on up here.”

  “Fine,” I sigh. “So what happened?”

  “They came back. Slowly, but they came back.”

  My brow furrows, confused by the simplicity of her answer. “How?”

  “People,” she says bluntly.

  “I thought the people killed them—”

  “They did, but something changed,” she replied, her voice sharpening. Now I think she despairs of my comprehension. “Something big enough to . . . change course.”

  I don’t know why, but I’m reminded of something Julian taught me once, long ago.

  We destroy. It’s the constant of our kind.

  I’ve seen that firsthand. In Archeon, in Harbor Bay, on every battlefield. In the way Reds were treated and are still treated across the continent.

  But that world is changing.

  We destroy, but we also rebuild.

  The bison move off, slowly disappearing into the trees on the horizon. Seeking new grasslands, oblivious to two small girls sitting at the edge of the water.

  They returned from slaughter. So will we.

  As we make our way back to the cabin, now sweating beneath the heat of the rising sun, Gisa chatters on about everything she’s learned in the pas
t week. She likes the guide, and I think Bree does too, in more ways than one.

  My mind wanders, as it usually does in these small moments. Drifting back through memory, and forward too. We’ll return to the Montfort capital in a few weeks. I wonder how different the world will be by then. It was already unrecognizable when we left. Evangeline Samos, of all people, was living in Ascendant, last I heard, as an honored guest of the premier. Part of me still hates her, and her family, for all they took from us. But I’m learning to live with the anger, to keep it close without letting it eat me alive.

  Slowly, I touch the stones pierced along my ear, naming each one in turn. They ground me. Pink, red, purple, green. Bree, Tramy, Shade, Kilorn.

  I couldn’t stay, I think again, for the thousandth time. I still don’t know if he’ll wait for me.

  But maybe, when I go back . . .

  My fingers brush the last earring, the newest. It’s another red gem, red as fire, red as my blood.

  I will go back.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  People keep asking what it feels like to finish a book series, and I keep telling people that I’m waiting to feel something. I thought the experience left me numb, but the sensations of something are creeping up. Relief, of course. Anxiety. Fear. But most of all, gratitude. So much gratitude I can barely even make sense of it.

  My deepest and most sincere thanks go to my family, for making the beginning, middle, and end of all this possible. It’s easy to look back and see the moments where my life changed, and you were integral to each. Thank you to Mom, Dad, and Andy, to the Aveyards and the Coyles, for everything you’ve done for me, and will continue to do.

  I refuse to get sappy or emotional while thanking my friends, largely because they won’t tolerate it. Thank you to Morgan, Jen, and Tori for making sure I never get in too deep. Thank you to Bayan and Angela, to Natalie, to Lauren, to Alex. Thank you to all the rest, too many to name. We’ve been going to the same party for seven years and that is in no way depressing.

  Indy is a dog, so this is kind of useless, but thank you. You’re the best girl. I love you more than is socially acceptable or psychologically healthy.

  This series has occupied almost six years of my life, and landed me a career I used to dream about. And the books themselves would not exist without some tremendous people who pushed us both along. Thank you to Christopher Cosmos, Pouya Shahbazian, and Suzie Townsend for sparking everything, no pun intended, and keeping this train rolling as smoothly as it can. Thank you to Jo Volpe, Kathleen Ortiz, Veronica Grijalva, Sara Stricker, Mia Roman, Danielle Barthel, Jackie Lindert, Cassandra Baim, Hilary Pecheone, and the rest of the dynamite team at New Leaf Literary. Thank you to Sara Scott, Max Handelman, Elizabeth Banks, Alison Small, and all the heroes of Universal Pictures and Brownstone Productions. Thank you for loving these books as much as we do. All my love to the army at HarperCollins and HarperTeen, doing battle for Red Queen for so long. Thank you to my fearless, ferociously talented editors, Kristen Pettit and Alice Jerman, as well as Jen Klonsky, Kate Morgan Jackson, Erica Sussman, and every person who ever put a fingerprint on an Aveyard manuscript. You’ve made these books what they are. Thank you to Gina Rizzo, who has now successfully guided me through four years of festivals, tours, interviews, and too many airports to count. Thank you to Elizabeth Ward, Margot Wood, Elena Yip, the Epic Reads crew, and all the geniuses behind the Red Queen campaigns over the years. Never thought I’d have a foam sword with my book on it, but here I am. And of course, thank you to Sarah Kaufman for turning what I saw in my head into the most beautiful and iconic covers any author could ask for.

  I’ve been lucky enough to gain some friends out of my excellent colleagues. You’ve all been wonderful support in what is a truly weird career. Love and thanks to my Patties, Susan Dennard, Alex Bracken, and Leigh Bardugo, for sharing their friendship, talent, and advice. To Renee Ahdieh and Sabaa Tahir, stars from the start. To Veronica Roth, a beacon. To Brendan Reichs and Soman Chainani, for putting up with me. To Jenny Han, fearlessly leading the way. To Emma Theriault, who helped will this series into being. To Adam Silvera, for suffering four hours of mimosas and not running away from me. To Nicola Yoon, for your steadfast kindness. To Sarah Enni and Maurene Goo, my bright lights east of the 405. To Morgan Matson, for ’bux. To Margaret Stohl and Melissa de la Cruz, dear YALL moms to us all. And to everyone I’ve left out entirely by accident, but I love and thank you just the same.

  I would not be here without my teachers. Quite literally, because my parents are teachers. Thank you to the public school system that launched me out of a small town and into the big city. Thank you to the University of Southern California and the professors in the Writing for Screen & Television division of the School of Cinematic Arts, who saw something in a seventeen-year-old nobody from nowhere. One of my favorite professors once told me that good luck is an opportunity you are prepared for, and bad luck is an opportunity you aren’t. Thank you for giving me so much good luck.

  Outside my small sphere of great people, I have others I’d like to thank as well. Thank you to my senators, Kamala Harris and Dianne Feinstein, as well as my congressional representative, Ted Lieu. You fight more than any warrior in my books, and you fight for all of us. Thank you to President Barack Obama and Michelle Obama, for their grace and strength. Thank you to Hillary Rodham Clinton, a pinnacle. Thank you to the Sierra Club and the indigenous tribes standing up to protect the beautiful, sacred, and wild lands of the United States. Thank you to the members of our government working to serve your constituents over corporations. Thank you to those in uniform and your families for their unfathomable sacrifice and dedication to our country. Thank you to all speaking truth to power.

  Thank you to the student survivors of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. Your voices and your convictions are doing more than anyone ever imagined.

  Once more, thank you to Morgan, Jen, and Tori. To Suzie Townsend. To Mom and Dad. I love you all so much and would not be here without you.

  To my readers, there is very little I can say to explain the depth of my awe and gratitude. To quote a much greater writer than me, no story lives unless someone wants to listen. Thank you for listening. Thank you for making sure this journey has not yet ended.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PHOTO CREDIT STEPHANIE GIRARD OF STEPHANIE GIRARD PHOTOGRAPHY

  VICTORIA AVEYARD was born and raised in East Longmeadow, Massachusetts, a small town known only for the worst traffic rotary in the continental United States. She moved to Los Angeles to earn a BFA in screenwriting at the University of Southern California. She currently splits her time between the East and West coasts. As an author and screenwriter, she uses her career as an excuse to read too many books and watch too many movies. You can visit her online at www.victoriaaveyard.com.

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  BOOKS BY VICTORIA AVEYARD

  Red Queen

  Glass Sword

  King’s Cage

  War Storm

  Red Queen: The Official Coloring Book

  Digital Novellas

  Queen Song

  Steel Scars

  Collections

  Red Queen Collection

  Cruel Crown

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  COPYRIGHT

  HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

  WAR STORM. Copyright © 2018 by Victoria Aveyard. Endpapers and map © & ™ 2017 Victoria Aveyard. All rights reserved. Endpapers and map illustrated by Amanda Persky. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclus
ive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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  COVER ART BY JOHN DISMUKES

  COVER DESIGN BY SARAH NICHOLE KAUFMAN

  * * *

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018935742

  Digital Edition MAY 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-242301-6

  Print ISBN: 978-0-06-242299-6

  ISBN 978-0-06-242299-6 — ISBN 978-0-06-284271-8 (int. edition)

  ISBN 978-0-06-285055-3 (special edition) — ISBN 978-0-06-285707-1 (special edition)

  ISBN 978-0-06-285698-2 (special edition)

  * * *

  1819202122 PC/LSCH10987654321

  FIRST EDITION

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