“Like what?” she asks when I don’t finish.
I take my eyes off the street long enough to look at her. “I would never chase after some hot girl when I’m with someone else—not that the girl’s hot. I mean, okay, she is—but . . . that isn’t why I cared.”
“Why did you care?”
I wish I knew.
“She’s just . . . someone from my past.”
It isn’t a lie, but it isn’t the truth, either. She isn’t just someone. She’s the girl. The one I’ve been dreaming about since the day I woke up in that pile of rubble and found my whole world torn apart. The only clue to my past. The only thing I see when I close my eyes.
She’s aged in my dreams. Grown up along with me. Which is the most confusing part. What kind of dream does that? And what kind of dream girl walks into Yard House?
The dreams are insanely vivid, too. Every night it’s like she’s in my room, leaning over me, watching me with eyes so dark blue, they’re almost black. Her long, dark hair tickling my skin. Her lips whispering sounds I can’t understand as they float through my mind. But when I wake up, I’m alone. Nothing but silence, and a faint breeze swirling through the air even though my window’s locked tight.
It all sounds so crazy.
But I’m not crazy.
I don’t know how to explain it—but one of these days I’ll figure it out.
I turn down Shelby’s street, searching the row of single-story houses for the gray pueblo-style one Shelby’s parents own. The rounded architecture might look cool, if normal, flat-roofed houses didn’t surround it. La Quinta’s random like that, like no one could make up their minds what to build here.
Isaac’s beat-up truck is out front, so I switch my phone off. He won’t be happy with me when I drop Hannah off so early.
Hannah gathers her purse as I slow to a stop, but I don’t unlock her door. I can’t let the night end like this.
“I’m really sorry,” I say, realizing I never apologized. “I was actually having a nice time, before I ruined everything.”
“Me too.” She tucks her hair behind her ears.
She looks so shy. So vulnerable. So different from the girl haunting me.
Maybe Hannah will make her go away.
I have to get over my obsession before she ruins my life.
A couple of June bugs—dumbest bugs on the planet—knock into the windshield, shattering the silence between us. I come to a decision.
“Can I . . . maybe have a chance to redeem myself?” I ask, ignoring the voice in my head begging me to let it go.
A half smile spreads across her lips. “Maybe—but only if you promise no Canadian jokes.”
“Aw, come on, you have to give me at least one, eh?”
She laughs. Even though it sounds forced, I can tell things are on the mend. I’ll have to be on absolute perfect behavior, but if I can pull that off things might be okay. And it surprises me how much I want them to be okay.
I don’t want to be the crazy guy chasing a mystery girl. I want to be a normal guy who hangs out with his friends and has a summer fling with the cute girl from Canada.
So I get out of the car and walk her to the door, the sticky air smothering us as we stand under the porch light. Moths fly at our heads and crickets chirp in the bushes and our eyes meet. I have no idea what the look on my face says—but her expression seems to say, Why not?
I can’t agree more. It’s time to take control of my life.
My stomach does back flips as I step toward her, and I try to tell myself the sourness rising in my throat is nerves. I refuse to feel guilty for cheating on a girl I’ve never met. A girl I’m still not sure is real.
My hand cradles Hannah’s cheek, which is slightly cool from the car’s AC. She closes her eyes, and I close mine and lean in, hardly able to believe I’m finally doing this.
But in the split second before our lips touch, I hear a loud hiss, and a blast of arctic wind rushes between us.
Hannah staggers back as the fierce gust whips around her hair, tangling the blond waves. I try to reach for her, but the wind pushes and pulls at me with such force it feels like it’s trying to shove and drag me away. I lean into it, fighting to resist, but it sweeps against my legs, nearly knocking my feet out from under me. It’s like the wind has come alive—and only right here, around Hannah and me. The palms in the yard next door don’t move.
Just when I think it can’t get any weirder, a familiar voice blows straight into my brain.
Go home, Vane.
I look around, trying to see through the darkness and the swirling sand to find where she’s hiding. But the street’s empty. Just me and Hannah—who’s still battling the crazy wind yanking her away from me.
“I’m going inside,” Hannah shouts, swiping sand out of her eyes.
“Okay,” I yell, watching helplessly as she turns away from me. “I’ll call you.”
She doesn’t turn back. Doesn’t acknowledge me at all.
The wind sweeps my words away before they reach her. And then she’s gone.
CHAPTER 4
AUDRA
I’ve sacrificed ten years of my life for this assignment.
Trained physically. Mentally. Emotionally.
I’ve given up food and sleep. Suffered hour after hour under the relentless weight of the desert sun. Lived in total isolation. Relegated myself to demeaning tasks like playing chaperone while the stubborn, ignorant boy rebels against everything that matters.
And now he may have gotten us both killed.
But it’s my fault as much as his.
Once again, I’ve called the wind too loudly. And once again I’ve given us away.
The Northerly wind was too far beyond my reach to command with a whisper. I had to shout. Which means my call is branded to the draft now—and it carries Vane’s trace as well. There’s no way the Stormers won’t check the cold wind coming from the warm valley. And when they investigate, they’ll finally have their prize.
The world starts to spin and I suck in a breath.
I won’t let it happen again.
I can stall them. Confuse their search.
Then I’ll deal with Vane.
He drives away in his white smog machine, and my legs shake as I step from the shadows, scanning the street for the dark shape I know will be roosting on a roof nearby. I hold my left arm out and he swoops down, gripping the sleeve of my jacket with his talons. Gavin knows not to screech. Our role is to be invisible.
It’s Vane’s fault we’re exposed. He’s lucky I went gentle on him. He has no idea who he’s messing with. But he’ll soon find out.
I stroke the soft gray feathers around Gavin’s neck, trying to calm the panic seizing my chest, making it hurt to breathe. “Go home, boy,” I whisper. “I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
Gavin’s sharp, red-orange eyes lock with mine and I know he understands the command. Then he spreads his wings and, with a powerful flap, takes to the skies. I envy his easy flight. Mine requires significantly more effort.
I retreat to the shadows, my fingers searching the air for an existing breeze to hide my trail.
Nothing. I have to wait.
The sporadic stillness of this place is like a drain, drying up my energy, my options, and my sanity. If the air hadn’t turned stagnant earlier, I could’ve put a damper on Vane’s “date” sooner. I wouldn’t have been forced to walk among the groundlings to try to scare him off. I wouldn’t have had to let him see me. And I wouldn’t have had to call the Northerly to stop him from bonding to that girl.
We’d still be safe.
Of course, if he didn’t insist on breaking rules, we wouldn’t be in this mess either.
I hug myself, squeezing my shoulders to calm my trembling. He’s never come that close before. Another second and . . .
My eyes blur as my mind flashes to the memory of him on the porch. His hand on her face. Leaning in. Their lips coming so close.
If I hadn’t stopped him—I
can’t even think about the consequences.
An ache in my jaw warns me that I’m grinding my teeth. I force myself to relax. A guardian must be calm and clear-headed at all times—the Gale Force drilled that into me. Suppressing emotion is the key to our success. The only way to endure the life of sacrifice we’re sworn to.
Plus . . . it isn’t technically Vane’s fault. He doesn’t know about the ordinances he almost violated, or how big a commitment a single kiss is—though I’ve given him enough warnings over the years. He should’ve caught on.
But it’s pointless to dwell on things I can’t change. I know better than anyone that the past can’t be undone. Moving forward is the only option.
A wispy wind tickles my fingers. An Easterly—finally, a stroke of luck.
Soft, untraceable murmurs bend the draft to my will, wrapping it around me. When I’m completely entangled in the feathery breeze, I breathe one final command in the Easterly language and surrender to the force of its power.
“Rise.”
The word sounds like a hiss, and the wind races away, pulling me along with it.
Riding a draft is the closest to freedom I ever come. Rushing higher and deeper into the sky brings clarity to my life. Meaning. I can never fully control the wind. I can coax it, cajole it, ask it to obey—but it’s still a force of its own, free to do what it wills. The trick is to listen as it speaks and adjust as needed.
Most Windwalkers are twice my age before they reach my level of control. I can hear even the softest whisper of change or dissent, translate any turbulence or unease, and adjust. It was my father’s gift. He passed it to me the day he returned to the sky.
Not a second goes by that I don’t wish I could give it back.
Dark peaks appear on the horizon and I whisper, “Dive.” The gust drops low enough for my toes to skim the ground. My legs speed to a run, and once I have my bearings, I release my hold. The wind unravels, racing away as I screech to a halt, my feet firmly planted on the cool, rocky ground of the San Bernardino Mountains.
The air is so much purer up high—the gusts so much stronger. I allow myself one minute to let the surging winds restore me. They ripple across my skin, filling me with strength and confidence that can only come from being in my natural element. Part of me could stand there all night, drinking it up.
But I have a job to do.
It feels wrong to command the wind at full volume—just like it felt wrong earlier. But that’s the point. One mistake to hide another.
Still, my voice shakes as I send Northerly squalls on all sides of the mountains and order them to surge through the desert basin. Sandstorms streak across the empty dunes, leaving dusty footprints in their wake. Scattering my trace in every direction.
The Stormers won’t be able to pinpoint our location—but they’ll know we’re here. And they won’t leave until they find Vane, tearing the valley apart in the process.
The telltale flurry will reach the Stormers’ fortress by nightfall tomorrow, and it’ll take another day of swift flight for them to arrive in the region. I’ve bought us an extra day with the false trails they’ll have to rule out.
Which means we have three days. Then people will start to die.
Vane has to have his first breakthrough tonight. Three days will be enough to train him in the basics, and I’m at my peak strength, thanks to my years of sacrifice. We should be able to fight them off together.
But there’s only one way to be sure the breakthrough happens.
My mouth coats with bile at the thought.
I reach for another Easterly, focusing on the way the edge of my palm tingles as I call the swift gust and wrap it around me. The cool tendrils wash away my fears as they brush my skin.
“Return.” I say the word so softly, the wind’s roar washes it away. It sweeps me in its force, carrying me gently down the mountain, across the parched, empty sand, to my house.
It isn’t much of a home, but I don’t have time to stay anyway. I have work to do.
Tonight will be a very long night.
CHAPTER 5
VANE
My parents are still awake when I come home. Of course they are. It’s barely ten o’clock. I’m probably the only teenager in the valley who never breaks curfew.
Course, I bet other guys don’t have icy drafts attacking them out of nowhere or hear their name on the wind. Goose bumps erupt across my arms just thinking about it.
Deal with it later.
I find my mom in our cluttered pink family room, reading on the mottled brown couch. The salty scent of meatloaf still fills the air, and when I glance over her shoulder I can see plates piled in the kitchen sink. Great, I’m home before she even did the dishes. Fail.
My dad waves from the living room, but he doesn’t get up from his worn leather recliner. He’s too engrossed in some Discovery Channel special—I have no idea how he watches those things—to want to hear about his son’s latest dating disaster.
My mom, on the other hand, closes her thick book, sweeps her long blond hair out of her face, and motions for me to take a seat.
I’m not in the mood for one of her “chats,” but I know she’ll read too much into it if I flee to my room. My mom’s a gold medal worrier. Part of her is probably glad I’m not out impregnating some poor teenage girl right now. But I know another part always worries I’m not having a normal life.
She has no idea how abnormal it is.
No way have I told my parents about my dream-girl stalker. I’d rather not spend endless afternoons sprawled on a couch while some shrink spouts useless psychobabble and drains my parents’ limited savings account. I had quite enough of that when I was “The Miracle Child.”
“How was the date?” she asks as I cross the brown shaggy carpet and plop down beside her.
I answer with a shrug—my best weapon against my mom’s never-ending questions. It’s always fun to see how long I can get away with it.
“Was Hannah nice?”
Shrug.
“What did you guys do?”
Another shrug.
“Vane! That’s not an actual answer.”
Dang—only three. Usually she lets at least four or five go. She must be especially interested. Or especially worried. Can she tell how freaked out I am?
Her pale blue eyes don’t blink as they watch me. They’re the only feature we have in common, the only thing that makes people think maybe, maybe there’s a family resemblance between the tall, dark-haired boy and his short, blond mother.
I try distraction. “Hannah was great. In fact, we drove to Vegas and got married ’cause she needs an American visa and I figured, why not? She’s hot. She’s packing her stuff right now. Hope you don’t mind sharing a roof with a honeymooning couple.”
My mom sighs, but I can tell by the way her lips twitch that she wants to smile. I let her off the hook.
“Hannah was nice. We went to dinner. Then I took her home. It was all very exciting.”
“How come you’re home so early?” she asks.
“We . . . didn’t really hit it off.”
It’s sort of true.
“But you’re okay?” The lines deepen across her forehead.
“Of course.” I smile to sell it. “Just tired. I think I’m gonna play a few games and hit the sack early.”
My mom relaxes. If I’m okay enough to play video games, there’s no reason to worry—Mom’s parenting rule number fifty-three. It comes right after As long as the principal isn’t calling, there’s no reason to worry about his grades, and right before If his eyes aren’t bloodshot, he’s just hungry—it’s not the munchies.
That’s why I love her. She knows when to keep me in line, and when to let me be—both my parents do. I totally scored in the adoptive family department. Even if they don’t look like me and live in a town where the weather can be considered cruel and unusual punishment. They even let me keep my last name—which is awesome because Weston is way better than Brasier. It rhymes with Frasie
r, but I know I’d have been Vane Brassiere to every kid in school.
Plus, it leaves me something from my “other life.”
My past is this giant void that makes me want to bang my head against the wall until I knock the memories loose. I don’t care how many doctors tell me it’s normal for trauma to repress painful experiences—I don’t buy it. How can it be normal to completely forget your entire childhood?
And what kind of selfish jerk erases his family just because it hurts to think about them?
I feel my smile start to fade, so I head down the hall before my mom can notice. Once I close my bedroom door, I switch on the old tube TV I inherited when my parents finally invested in a flat-screen and log online, cringing when one of Isaac’s war games starts up.
Isaac doesn’t understand why I hate playing the first person shooters. I don’t really get it either. The blood turns my stomach for some reason—not that I’ve told him that. Like I need to give him another thing to bug me about.
But I’m not playing anyway. I join the first match I find, crouch my guy in a corner and crank the volume up so my mom can hear the explosions in the family room. Hopefully that’ll keep her from checking on me.
Gunfire blasts, and I sink to the pile of blankets I kicked off my bed last night—is my mom insane? Blankets? In the summer?—and close my eyes. Cool air from my ceiling fan brushes across my face and my shoulders relax. The breeze always makes my head clear. Which is good, ’cause I have some serious crap to figure out.
Sure, I’ve caught quick glimpses of the girl before—but I was never sure I’d really seen her, and not some dark-haired girl who looked like her. Those times were nothing like this—with full eye contact and everything.
And I’ve heard whispers on the wind outside my dreams. But they’ve never been words I could understand or a voice I could recognize—and they’ve never used my name.
Not to mention I’ve never had the wind attack me before. Sudden breezes flaring up at odd times—sure. Winds that seem drawn to me—occasionally. But those never freaked me out. I know it sounds weird, but the wind doesn’t scare me. Even after what happened to my parents. Even after what happened tonight. The wind calms me somehow. I’ve never understood why.
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