Let the Storm Break

by Shannon Messenger

  His voice has turned to the kind of hollow whisper you hear in horror movies when a character’s just seen a ghost.

  “Uh, then thanks. I’ll pass. I’ll just do some more push-ups.”

  “You can’t stay awake by sheer force of will, Vane—look what happened last night. You have to sleep. If you won’t give us the language we need to protect you, you will have to come with me. The choice is yours.”

  Doesn’t sound like there’s much of a choice—but that’s probably the point. This is just another dare to try and force me into giving them what they want. And I’m not caving.

  “Fine,” I tell him, throwing off my covers. “Take me wherever you want—but there better be a soft bed.”

  Os shakes his head. “I wish you would change your mind.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not going to.”

  He closes his eyes, and his voice has that ghostly tone again when he says, “So be it. But you’ll need your walking shoes. We have a long journey ahead.”

  CHAPTER 6

  AUDRA

  I should be home by now.

  I can’t tell where I am. Flying with the power of four turned the journey into a blur of color and light. But I can feel the sun directly above me, telling me it’s midday, and I see no bright yellow desert on the horizon. Only the dark blue of the sea.

  I command the drafts to slow so I can get my bearings, but they ignore me—and when I shout at them, they rush faster, spinning into a squall. The more I resist the more they tighten their grip, crushing me in their cyclone and dragging me far too fast toward the ground.

  I have no idea what’s happening, but I curl into a ball and focus on the air brushing my skin. It’s not the same as wind, but it fuels my strength and steadies my nerves. I let the energy build inside me until I feel ready to burst. Then I shove myself forward and launch out of the vortex, squinting in the bright sunlight.

  A quick glance down tells me I’m high above the shore, but when I call a draft to catch me, they rebel and whisk away. Leaving me alone in my free fall.

  I force myself to stay calm.

  I cannot fly without wind, but I’m still a part of the sky. I can float like a feather on a breeze—I just have to hold still and trust that the air will carry me.

  I stretch out flat, trying to keep my body flexible as I take slow, deep breaths and concentrate on the white puffy clouds. I wish I could sink into their softness, bury my face in their cool mist. Instead I drift with the currents, dipping and diving and swooping so much I can’t tell whether I’m falling or flying until I collide with the rocky sand.

  It’s not a soft landing, and I can feel my cheek sting from where my skin met a splinter of driftwood.

  But I’m safe.

  For now.

  Something is wrong.

  The wind always has a mind of its own, and sometimes it refuses to obey—but I’ve never seen every draft rebel. Some other force is at work. Something dark and powerful, if it could spook the winds that way.

  I pull myself up and scan the shore, wincing as my muscles complain. The dark gray sand and white pieces of driftwood remind me of the beach I left hours ago.

  In fact . . .

  I turn to the ocean, feeling my heart jump into my throat when I see the stacks of stone standing tall among the waves. The glaring sun shows a fifth peak that I couldn’t see under the moonlight. But the twisted shapes are unmistakable.

  I never left.

  I never moved.

  All that time I thought I was flying, I was really just hovering in the sky, spinning like a windmill rooted to the ground.

  I have no idea what kind of command could bind me that way, but whoever gave it has to be here.

  The beach is too empty.

  No seals sunning themselves on the rocks.

  No dolphins splashing in the waves.

  Not even a single bird in the sky.

  I reach for my windslicer, cursing myself for leaving it back at my old shelter. I was so focused on escaping my problems that I never considered that Raiden might come after me.

  I should’ve known better.

  He’s always trying to capture Gales to interrogate. And I’m Vane’s former guardian. He’d expect me to know all kinds of secrets about . . .

  I sink to my knees as a horrifying thought hits me.

  I know Westerly.

  But no one knows that except Vane and—

  No.

  A few hours ago I shouted a Westerly call. If someone was watching . . .

  My chest starts to burn and I realize I’ve stopped breathing—but how can I breathe?

  I have the prize Raiden’s after, and I’ve basically hand delivered it to him, coming here with no weapons, no backup, no one even knowing where I am.

  Bile rises in my throat, as bitter as my regrets. I choke it down and stand.

  I’m a trained guardian.

  I harness the power of four.

  No Stormer is going to defeat me.

  I turn toward the cliffs lining the beach, trying to guess which dark hole my attacker hides in.

  It’s impossible to tell—but I know they’re watching me.

  I call the nearest Westerly and coil it around my wrist.

  Let them see how powerful I am.

  Let them know that they don’t scare me.

  “Show yourself!” I shout.

  My words echo off the rocks before they’re swallowed by the waves.

  I march toward the cliffs, but I’ve barely gone two steps before the winds vanish, turning the air quiet and still.

  The calm before the storm.

  CHAPTER 7

  VANE

  You’re leaving?” my mom asks as I drag myself down the hallway, following Os to the front door. “I made you a torpedo.”

  She points to the table, where one of her life-changingly good breakfast burritos is waiting for me. My dad’s there too, working on the crossword and trying to choke down a glass of questionable-looking grayish-green juice. The table is set for three.

  I can see the hope in my mom’s eyes.

  I haven’t had time for a family meal in weeks.

  Os clears his throat. “We need to get going, Vane.”

  My mom frowns, and my appetite vanishes. I know that protective you’re not taking my son anywhere without my permission look. She’s been using it a lot lately. And I’m not sure I have the energy for another fight.

  “Where are they making you go now?” she asks me.

  “I—”

  “That’s an official Gale Force matter,” Os interrupts.

  “You can call things official all you want,” my mom snaps back, “but it doesn’t change the fact that Vane is my son and—”

  “Actually, he’s your adopted son—and the only reason we allowed you to raise him was—”

  “I’m sorry, did you just say that you allowed me to raise him?”

  “Oooooooooookay,” I say, stepping between them before my mom goes into full-fledged Mominator mode. “We can fight over who gets to control my life when I get back. I’m sorry about breakfast, Mom. But right now I’m really tired, and apparently I have a long journey ahead of me, so . . . I’m pretty much maxed out in the things-that-I-can-handle-without-my-head-exploding category.”

  I can tell by my mom’s glare that this is definitely not over. But she stands aside to let us pass, and I promise my parents I’ll see them tomorrow as Os follows me outside.

  “Your mother is much more attached to you than I realized,” he says after the front door slams shut.

  “Yeah, that tends to happen with family.”

  I’m so sick of the Gales acting like nothing about my human life matters.

  This is my real life—sylph or not. The sooner they get that through their windblown heads, the better.

  “Yes, well, I guess we’ll have to discuss this later,” Os tells me as he wraps himself in Northerlies. “For now just try to keep up.”

  He blasts off into the sky, and I’m tempt
ed to run back inside and lock him out of my room. But I really do need to sleep.

  I grab a pair of Easterlies and follow, spinning the winds fast enough to obscure my form in the sky—not that anyone’s around to see me. Os is leading me east, to the part of the desert where no one actually wants to go. Cactus-and-tumbleweed land, with no sign of life in any direction for miles and miles and miles.

  The sun beats down, and I’m starting to feel like a Vane-crisp when thin, dark shapes appear on the horizon. They look like crooked poles, but as we fly closer I realize they’re trees.

  Dead trees.

  Palms with nothing left but twisted trunks and crumbling bark. There are dozens of them, arranged in random circles, like they were once supposed to be something. But now they’ve been abandoned, like some sort of palm-tree graveyard.

  I move to Os’s side as he starts to descend. “Ugh, please tell me we’re not going to Desert Center.”

  It’s the kind of town you go to only if you have to, and the deserted gas station by the freeway does not look promising.

  “We won’t be there long,” Os promises. “It’s just the starting point I use to guide me from the sky.”

  I’m not loving the whole starting-point thing. Especially since I can see pretty far in every direction, and other than some old, crumbling buildings, there’s basically nothing, nothing, and more nothing no matter which way you go. But Os sweeps low, landing in the center of the most isolated circle of trees. I have no choice but to follow him.

  It smells like something died here.

  Actually, it smells like lots of things died, and given the graffiti and the scary-looking shacks nearby, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  “So now what?” I ask as I move to one of the crooked shadows, taking what little escape from the heat I can get. I’m still soaked in sweat in about thirty seconds.

  “Now, we walk,” Os says, turning toward the foothills.

  “Whoa, wait—you mean windwalk, right?”

  “No, we dare not take the winds any closer. We would only get sucked in.”

  “Sucked into what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I’m about to press for an actual answer when I realize where Os is heading.

  “Uh, hang on—that’s the freeway. You don’t walk across the freeway—not unless you want to get splattered against a few windshields.”

  “We can weave our way through tornadoes, Vane. You need to learn to trust your instincts.”

  “I’ve only known I’m a sylph for a month—I don’t have any instincts!”

  But as the words leave my mouth, I realize I do.

  I remember running through the tornado that killed my family, easily avoiding the drafts and debris and keeping my feet on steady ground. I never thought about how weird that was until now.

  Still, as I watch the cars and semis whip by at seventy-plus miles per hour, I’m glad I didn’t eat my torpedo. Pretty sure I’d be spewing it all over the ground.

  “Just watch for the breaks in the air,” Os shouts, crouching on the side of the road like a runner before a race.

  “You realize that makes no freaking sense, right?”

  He rolls his eyes and reaches for me. “If you need me to hold your hand . . .”

  I know this is my chance to prove that I’m a big, brave Windwalker king and can do this all by myself. But three more semis whizz by and I grab Os’s hand and hold on as tight as I can.

  He sighs. “Let’s go.”

  And then we’re running. Darting forward and sideways through the lanes like a terrifyingly real game of Frogger. I can see the breaks Os means—wide distortions in the air in front of each car that tell where it’s safe to step—but I don’t dare let go of his hand. And when we finally make it across both sides of the freeway, my legs are so wobbly I can barely stay standing.

  I wrap my arms around myself, trying to steady my shaking.

  “I’m surprised how disorienting this is for you,” Os says quietly. “Some things come so effortlessly, like your windwalking and your mastery of Easterly.”

  Both of those came from my bond to Audra—but I can’t exactly say that. So I shrug and say, “I’m learning as fast as I can.”

  He frowns, like he’s not convinced that’s true. “Come on—still a ways to go.”

  “Seriously?” I’m not sure how much longer I can last. The sun is sucking up what little energy I have.

  But Os starts walking away, so unless I want to stay here alone, I have to follow.

  We hike across the desert toward some weird piles of rocks that look like giant anthills. My shoes fill with sand and I keep scraping my shins on the cacti—but none of that is as uncomfortable as the stillness.

  The air doesn’t move. It presses down on my shoulders like the sky has turned heavy.

  “That’s the pull of the Maelstrom,” Os explains as I rub my arms, “a name that is not to be shared—with anyone. Do you understand?”

  “Why?” That’s the second time he’s talked about how secret this place is, and it’s starting to creep me out.

  Os looks up at the sky, his fingers tracing the lines of his scar. “The Maelstrom is a place that shouldn’t have to exist. It emerged from a necessity the average citizen cannot comprehend, and should they learn of its existence, it would shake them to their very core. As king, it is your job to protect them from the shadows and secrets that would rob them of what little security they have.”

  Okay . . .

  I would ask for an answer that doesn’t make Os sound like he’s one Froot Loop shy of a box—but honestly? I’m too tired to care. If this Maelstrom has a place to sit and some shade, I’m game.

  The closer we get to the weird clumps of stones, the more my head rattles from some sort of high-pitched scraping sound, like a million angry math teachers dragging their chalk across the blackboard at the same time. I thought it was coming from the wind or the giant black birds lining all the rocks, which—by the way—do not make this place more inviting. But when we reach the base of one of the hills, there’s a narrow opening in the ground, and I realize the sand around the hole is moving. It swirls slowly downward, like a tornado has been sucked into the earth and keeps right on spinning, and in the center is a walkway leading into the darkness.

  “Have I mentioned I’m not a fan of small spaces?” I shout over the noise as Os starts to descend.

  “It’s not too late to decide to teach us Westerly instead,” he calls over his shoulder.

  I gotta admit, as I follow him underground I’m tempted to give in.

  Fresh air doesn’t exist down here. Only a hot, sticky mist that feels too thick to swallow, like I’m trying to breathe inside someone else’s mouth. And even though the screeching sound dulls, it’s replaced by a low rumble that makes my teeth chatter.

  But the scariest part is feeling my connection to Audra fade. The pain and pull of our bond lessens with every step and I have to remind myself that she’s not actually slipping away. I’m the one cutting myself off from the winds.

  I wonder if she can feel the change.

  “So what exactly is the Maelstrom?” I ask, brushing my hand along the slowly spinning wall. My fingers sink into the sand, leaving tiny trails. I’d be tempted to write “Vane was here,” but I’m not sure I want to leave my mark on this place.

  “It’s a special vortex that can only be woven from hungry winds. They consume any normal drafts that dare to come close, swallowing them into the earth and keeping this place completely sealed off from the sky.”

  “How do you make the wind hungry? Wave a cheeseburger in front of it?”

  Os spins around, his face all tight and twisted. “You dare to disrespect their sacrifice?”

  “Whoa, easy, it was just a joke.”

  “Altering the essence of the wind is not a joke, Vane. The wind is our kin. It deserves respect and dignity. Exerting our dominance over it is a last resort—a reluctant choice I made because there was no other option.”

>   “Hey, relax, okay? I get it—it’s a big deal. I never meant that it wasn’t.”

  He bites his lip, like there’s something else he wants to say. But he turns around without another word.

  We walk in uncomfortable silence for a few steps. Then he mumbles, “I know you grew up without your heritage, and that you still have much to learn. But you are our king, Vane. People will look to you for guidance.” He turns to face me, grabbing my arm like my dad does when he wants to make sure I’m listening. “You have to understand, our world has been ruined by Raiden—scattered and broken by a tyrant who cares only for power. He’ll break and destroy anything to serve his own agendas. And in this case, I’ve had no choice but to do the same. But I—we—all of us—have chosen to put our faith in you because we’re hoping that you’re going to be different.”

  Funny, I thought they’d put their faith in me because I’m the only Westerly left.

  I’m about to say that when my eyes find the scar on his cheek.

  “What happened?” I ask, pointing to the deep red marks.

  He traces a finger over the lines again.

  “A gift from Raiden. He branded me a traitor when I refused to be his second in command.” He smiles sadly when my eyes widen. “Raiden used to be my friend, Vane—as he was for many of us in his generation. We worked in the Gales together. Fought together. Trained in the might and majesty of the storms, pushing ourselves to master their power. I thought we were doing it to be better guardians. To better control the forces that were wreaking havoc on the earth and spare the innocents who weren’t strong enough to fight them. But it was different for Raiden. The more powerful he grew, the hungrier he was for more, pushing the lengths and limits beyond any reason. Beyond what was natural. When I saw what he was doing, I tried to pull away, but I now wish I hadn’t. Maybe I would’ve uncovered his mutiny before it was too late.”

  He looks away, and I take the chance to study his face, trying to guess how old he is. It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but he can’t be that much older than my parents—which feels wrong to me. I mean, I know the rebellion went down within the last few decades. But I guess somehow it felt further away than that.