“Audra!” Vane screams. He sounds far away, and I can’t tell if it’s because the winds are so loud or because he’s been pulled away. Or maybe I’ve been pulled away. It’s hard to think through the pain.
I stumble to my feet, wiping the wetness dripping down my cheek. My hand turns red with blood, but I dry it on my pants and press forward. I feel for a draft—any draft—to call, but find only broken, useless winds.
The Stormers crippled the air.
Crippled me.
I unsheathe my windslicer, shredding the eerie winds. But every draft I destroy makes the air thicker, like a fog. It clings to me, stinging like needles as it weighs me down and clouds my path. I press forward anyway. I have to help Vane.
Dozens of wind spikes explode around me, burying me in rubble. I shove myself free of the dirt, rocks, metal, and who knows what else in time to hear Vane scream.
I race toward the sound, wiping blood and dirt from my eyes and slashing the fog with the windslicer. For one second the wall of windy muck parts, and I see two figures dressed in gray drop from the sky. One on each side of Vane.
“No!” I yell, charging forward as they bind him with a thick gray coil of drafts.
A wall of arctic wind slams into me.
I slash at the draft, but it’s like stabbing a waterfall. The force overpowers me. I tumble along the rocky ground, barely managing to hold on to my weapon as I drown in the vicious, broken draft.
Vane shouts my name.
I jump to my feet, only to get tossed backward by another icy blast. It pins me to a windmill, tearing my face like the draft’s grown chilly thorns.
I hold the windslicer to the airstream and the winds part wide enough to show me Vane. Our eyes lock and he shouts something I can’t hear—but it looks like “Don’t do it.”
Then the Stormers form a pipeline and shoot him out of the storm.
Gone.
A primal sob rocks me as another draft cracks against my chest like a frozen whip. I barely notice the pain.
I won’t let them take him.
Everything I’ve worked for—sworn to—comes down to this.
My sacrifice.
The thought should shake me, but it actually fills me with calm. I wonder if my father felt the same way.
I’m ready.
I shout at the winds, begging all of them to surround me so I can surrender myself to them.
The shattered, ruined drafts won’t answer my call.
There’s nothing I can do. I can’t surrender myself if the winds won’t take me.
Tears stream down my face. I want to scream. Crumble. Collapse.
But over the roar of the storm I hear another sound.
Laughter.
I open my eyes and find a Stormer a few feet in front of me. He smooths back his dark hair and grins like a lion stalking his prey. “Now, now, we can’t have you sacrificing yourself. That would ruin everything.”
He slams me with a cold, ruined Northerly. Another frozen whip, this time cracking against my face.
He laughs as I wipe blood off my cheek. “We’ve been chasing your windsong all over the desert, worrying we were up against some all-powerful ghost of a Gale. But you’re just a scrawny little girl with the same boring trick up her sleeve as her father. Too bad for you we were ready for that play this time.”
He whips me again, pummeling my chest, knocking the wind out of me. He laughs as I hack and wheeze. “Don’t worry. If you want to die, that can easily be arranged.”
I scream as a burst of strength fills me.
I never wanted to die.
I wanted to save Vane.
I will save Vane.
My grip tightens on my windslicer.
They can break the winds. But they won’t break me.
Time to show these Stormers what kind of guardian they’re dealing with.
CHAPTER 51
VANE
I expected to scream, cry—maybe even soil myself—if the Stormers ever caught me. Bravery isn’t my thing.
But as the Stormer launches me away from the ground, away from Audra, away from my life, my world, I don’t feel afraid.
I feel rage.
This is what they did to my parents. To countless Westerlies.
They won’t do it to me.
I’m the last freaking Westerly—I can break some stupid wind bonds.
The streams of cold, semisolid air rush across my wrists and ankles, keeping me tied up and hovering in the gray-blue sky. I strain against them and they tighten. I strain harder and they tighten more. Not my most brilliant moment, but I’m desperate here.
My head’s getting fuzzy, my muscles mushy. It feels like the wind bonds are wearing me down, sapping my strength. I don’t know if that’s possible, but I’m not about to sit around and find out.
An Easterly streaks by and I order it to slam into my bonds. It bounces off like rubber. At least it responds. I must be high enough above those creepy busted winds down in the storm. My skin still remembers the way they scraped against it, like they’d turned rough. Hard.
I guess I should’ve grabbed a knife before I left. I can move my arms a little—I could’ve stabbed the Stormer when he gets close.
Metal slicing through flesh. Blood splashing on my skin.