Just Vane’s perfect, happy family.
I punch the ground, releasing the rising resentment before it can choke me.
I don’t need food or family.
I don’t need anything. Except to stay focused.
I concentrate on a nearby Easterly’s song, listening for any sign of the Stormers’ approach. The lyrics hold no clue to their presence. It should be a relief. But the song carries no note of anything out of the ordinary. Not even my mother’s trace.
I know she’ll be careful, hide any glimmer of her trail. Still, I wish I had some sign that she’s really out there stalling them. Keeping us safe.
If she isn’t, the Stormers could arrive any second. And even if she is, can I really push Vane to be ready for the fight? I almost lost him today.
But if I don’t . . .
My hand clutches the pendant resting against my chest, and I can’t help wondering how much longer my cord will stay turquoise blue, vibrant with the energy I breathed into it before the Gales clasped it around my neck. When I stop breathing, it will turn black like my father’s.
I can’t imagine him wanting me to leave this earth the way he did. He didn’t even want me to become a guardian. I still remember the look on his face when I told him.
He’d brought me to a meadow for my first lesson in windwalking, and when I’d finally lifted my feet off the ground—even though it was only for a second—I’d been so proud. I told him I was on my way to being just like him. My first step to becoming a Gale.
The crinkles around his eyes sank into ravines and his dimple vanished. Then he wrapped his arms around me and ran his fingers through my hair, untangling the knots caused by the afternoon breezes. And he said, “I want you to always be free.”
He didn’t want me to be bound by oath or duty. At least not then.
But something changed. Why else would he send me his gift and beg me to take care of Vane? He knew what that meant. And he knew how that journey would end for him.
Was it because what happened was my fault? Did he shove me toward a life of sacrifice as penance? Or did he choose me because he thought I could do what he couldn’t? Protect Vane and live to breathe another day?
I want to believe I’m strong enough—and that Vane will have the fourth breakthrough and be powerful enough to protect himself. But we only have seven days until the Stormers arrive, and I can’t force the final breakthrough. I don’t know the language, so I can’t call the Westerlies to him or send them into his mind. He’ll have to reach them on his own—and if he doesn’t . . . I only have seven days left to live.
I smear my tears away, pressing hard enough to hurt. I loathe the physical proof of my body’s weakness almost as much as I loathe myself for giving in to self-pity.
I made this choice. And it isn’t about protecting Vane or fulfilling my promise to my father. This is my one chance for redemption. My one chance to make up for the horrible mistake I’ve made.
I will do what needs to be done—and I will do it willingly.
No more pathetic weakness.
I need to be strong. And for that, I need pure, powerful wind.
I dust myself off as I rise and reach for my jacket, shoving my arms through the coarse sleeves. The heavy fabric makes me sweat, but I ignore the discomfort and fasten the buttons across my chest. Then I call every nearby draft—twice as many as I normally use—twisting them around me into a knot of wind. The extra gusts and the muted tones of twilight obscure my form in the sky.
I fly almost entirely on instinct, relying on my father’s gift as I creep through the scattered clouds at more of a walk than a race. The drafts sing their scattered melodies, some promising life, others promising rest, and I drink in their words, even if I know they aren’t meant for me.
When my feet touch down, I collapse in a heap. But I’m on San Gorgonio Peak—the highest in the range—and I already feel the fresh mountain air reviving me. The faster, stronger, richer winds skim across my face, cooling me to the core as they share their strength and energy.
I curl up and close my eyes, focusing on the gusts as I clear my mind. Surrendering my consciousness. Drifting with the wind. It’s somewhat like sleep, but a deeper kind of rest. One that washes through every cell, leaving a clean slate.
I’m not sure how long I stay that way, but when I open my eyes the stars are out. Tiny pricks of light, warring with the darkness. They remind me of the few highs in my mostly black existence. Glints of happiness and good—that can’t erase the bad and gloom, no matter how much I want them to. But they hold their place anyway.
Soon I will add another star to my constellation of highs. I’ll get Vane through this, no matter what it takes. And with my death, I will finally give my life meaning.
In that, I find peace.
But I can’t stop trying, either. Our world needs Vane Weston to have the fourth breakthrough as much as I do. There has to be a way.