He doesn’t need to hear them.
He wakes with a gasp and I retreat from his mind with the rest of his startled breath in a frenzied rush.
Finally.
My drafts stretch and spin, relishing the freedom as I watch him look around, his eyes wild. Feral.
There’s only one way to know if the Easterlies have truly broken through.
I gather the winds—my winds. Me. All the parts of myself that float on the breeze—and hover in front of him. If he’s had the breakthrough, he’ll be able to see my true form. Otherwise, I’ll be as invisible as the wind.
Please see me.
His eyes widen and he scrambles to his feet, shouting something I can’t understand over the roaring rush.
But he sees me.
Vane Weston is ready.
With the last of my strength I pull myself in tighter. When I have a firm hold, I send the winds away.
Burning hot pokers and battering rams and a million other pains I can’t begin to explain. The particles of my dress cool me where they cling, but there aren’t enough of them to extinguish the fire in my skin as my body re-forms.
I stagger as I meet Vane’s eyes. His mouth hangs open from something he must have said when I was blind and deaf from the pain.
“It’s about time,” I mumble.
Then I collapse.
CHAPTER 7
VANE
Ten million questions squish together and burst out my mouth—along with a healthy mix of words my mom would kill me for using. But I don’t care about her conservative language rules at the moment.
I have a freaking ghost girl passed out on the floor of my room.
I suck in a huge gulp of air and let that process. She’s here. If I want, I can reach out and touch her.
I take half a step toward her, then shudder and back as far away as my small, cluttered room allows. She may be real, but that doesn’t explain what she is, or what just happened to me. It felt like she was actually in my head, an eerie presence inside of me.
Not to mention the wispy ghost thing I saw floating near the ceiling. A swirling cloud of dark and light and color and wind—with a face. Her face. Then somehow all the chaos mashed together and bam!—passed-out phantom girl on my bedroom floor. If I didn’t feel my heart thumping against my chest, I’d be convinced this is a horrible dream.
“Vane, you okay in there?” my mom calls through my door.
I jump so hard I crash into my desk and knock off some books and video game cases.
If my mom comes in and finds a gorgeous girl in a skimpy dress passed out on my worn gray rug, I’ll be grounded for the rest of eternity. Especially since all I have on at the moment are my Batman boxers. Pretty sure she won’t buy my ghost/guardian angel/freak-of-nature theories either.
I stumble toward the door, prepared to barricade it with my dresser if I have to. “I’m fine, Mom,” I say as I grab the first T-shirt I see off my floor and throw it on, along with my gym shorts.
“Then what’s all that banging?”
Come on, Vane. Think!
Inspiration strikes. “I found a date roach in my bed.”
“Did you kill it?” My mom sounds farther away, like she jumped back.
“I tried to, but now I can’t find it.” I don’t need to worry about my mom offering to help. She’s a big believer in the whole boys should kill all the bugs philosophy.
“Well, I won’t distract you, then,” she says, and I can’t help smiling. “But make sure you kill it before you go back to sleep. I don’t want it getting loose in the house.”
“On it,” I promise, my body relaxing as her footsteps retreat down the hall.
One crisis solved. Now I just have to deal with the passed-out, scantily clad girl on the floor of my room who’s most likely a supernatural creature.
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight.
No clue what to do about that one.
I switch on my lamp and creep toward her, craning my neck to get a better look. Her eyes are closed, but her chest rises and falls in slow, heavy breaths.
It occurs to me that she might be hurt. I don’t know if ghosts can get injured—or if she even is a ghost. She looks real enough right now. Pale, though—and her face looks like she’s in pain.
Is she sick?
What am I supposed to do if she is? Pretty sure the hospital won’t be able to help her. Do magical creatures have the same anatomy as humans?
My eyes scan her body.
Wow.
And . . . I’m checking out a girl who might be something other than human. Not to mention she’s currently unconscious.
Awesome timing, man.
She clearly needs help. She’s been out cold for at least five minutes. I have to do something.
But what?
Water.
On TV they’re always giving it to people like it’s a cure-all. It can’t hurt. I even have a half-finished water bottle by my bed.
I grab it, then tiptoe to the girl. She doesn’t stir—even when I crouch beside her.
I hold my breath as I lift her head, gently propping her neck against my knee. Her skin is cool and smooth and I worry she’s shaking—but then I realize it’s me who’s trembling.