If only his parents had taught him something of his heritage. One tiny word.
But they’d refused. They’d refused to teach anyone. Even my father, when he asked.
I spent many nights crouching in the shadows, watching my parents argue about that very thing. My mother’s anger was a storm, her accusations like flurries slicing the air. She’d scream that the Westons didn’t deserve our help if they wouldn’t share their language. We could’ve used their power to protect them. Defeat Raiden. Save everyone. Return to our lives, our home, our native winds—winds that were gentler for her, because she belonged with them.
Why should we make sacrifices for people who would never do the same for us?
Why should we help them, if they selfishly refuse to share their knowledge and help us?
But my father would wrap his arms around her and shield her from the raging winds that always seemed to surge with her tempers. When she’d calmed, he’d whisper that the Westons had the right to protect their heritage however they wanted. If they didn’t trust him with the responsibility, it was their choice.
I tried to agree with him then—and most of the time I still do.
Sometimes it’s hard, though.
They couldn’t have known for sure that they’d die for their language—that their son would be left alone and defenseless without it.
That doesn’t change the fact that they condemned us with their decision.
If they’d taught my father Westerly, he’d still be alive.
If they’d taught Vane Westerly, I wouldn’t have to sacrifice myself.
But . . . if I hadn’t saved Gavin, none of this would have happened.
If.
If.
If.
Infinite possibilities. And none of them matter.
What matters is here and now.
The Stormers are coming.
Seven days left.
CHAPTER 25
VANE
I expect to sleep deeply, pretty dead to the world, after everything I’ve been through. But the wind did something to my head.
I went to the beach as a kid, and after hours of getting tossed by the waves, my body absorbed the rhythm of the ocean. That night I’d felt like I was still in the water, letting the tide toss me around.
The winds cause the same effect—but it’s way more surreal. I float and fall through a world of shadow and light. Shapes blur together. Sounds overlap, and I can barely make them out over the roar of the wind as I swirl and spin and hover.
And as my mind flips with the gusts, something shakes loose.
Shattered bits of scenes flash through my mind. Shards of reality that don’t fit, smash-cut together, like a montage in a movie.
CLOSE-UP: AN UPROOTED TREE
Its gnarled branches flail as it shoots through the sky, pulled by the wind. Then the drafts shift and the tree spins, revealing the jagged edge where a thick bough has been ripped away. The sharp splinters at the break are bright red. Like they’ve been painted.
Or coated with blood.
CUT TO: RIPPLES ON A GLASSY LAKE
Rocks skip across the surface, blurring the reflection of the mountains and puffy white clouds. It should be a peaceful scene, but I don’t feel peaceful. More rocks break the water, splashing as waves of anger wash through me.
CUT TO: A YOUNG GIRL
Long, dark hair whips her face. Her bony legs and arms thrash. I squint through the storm and realize she’s tangled in the drafts. Her scream rings in my ears as the winds pull her higher and higher. Then they let her go, flinging her in a death drop to the rocky ground. Our eyes meet as she falls. . . .
I jerk awake and kick off my sheets even though I’m shivering. Sweat glues my hair to my forehead.
The girl in the sky. The girl about to die. It was Audra.
But I have no memory of that moment, not unless . . .
I sit up, gripping the edge of my bed.
“Unless the memory came back.” I say the words out loud, hoping it’ll make them true.
Audra told me they were gone—permanently. But there was something in her eyes when she said it.
Fear.
I want to shake the thought away, refuse to let it rattle my trust in Audra. But she is hiding something from me. I already know that.
Could it have to do with my memories?
What could I have possibly seen or known when I was seven years old that would be important now?
“Vane, are you awake?” my mom asks, knocking on my door.
I lie back down, trying to look normal. “Yep.”
She peeks her head through the doorway. “I thought I heard you moving around. I brought you some breakfast. The protein will help your muscles.”
She holds out a plate filled with the biggest torpedo she’s ever made. The growl my stomach makes echoes off the walls.
She sits on the edge of my bed, watching me eat. I do my best to ignore her, concentrating on the spicy, cheesy goodness, but I know she’s hanging out for a reason.
“So, about yesterday,” she finally says.
Aaaaaaaaaand, there it is.
I shoot her my best I really don’t want to talk about this look. She doesn’t take the hint.