Audra.
The fantasy feels so real I can almost hear his voice. Almost see the cool blue of his eyes. The warm brown of his hair. Sky and earth blended into one perfect face.
Audra.
His voice sounds louder. Closer. Real.
Have I sunk so deep into the dream I’ve lost track of reality?
Audra.
I want to open my eyes, but I don’t have the strength. I’ve slipped too far away.
Audra, hold on.
I want to do what he says. But I don’t know how. I’m lost to these wicked winds.
A hint of gray rims the edge of the darkness and creeps toward the center, till all the black turns dull. My windsong rings in my ears, ready to be unleashed.
The winds clench and tighten.
White light explodes around me as I feel myself slip too far away.
To the end.
CHAPTER 53
VANE
I’m new to the whole wind control thing, but I’ve never seen anything like the funnel Audra’s trapped in.
The gray, chalky winds spin horizontally between the blades of the two tallest windmills, like some possessed hammock/cocoon. Audra hovers in the center. Pale. Still.
I scream her name. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
“Hold on. I’m here.”
There’s no sign of the other Stormer, but that doesn’t mean he’s not nearby. I have to hurry.
Ruined winds fill the air, rubbing my face like sandpaper. But their gibberish songs are mixed with some healthy drafts that have broken through the storm. I call a Westerly to me and tangle it around my legs.
For one second I stare at the sharp, spinning blades of the windmill and wonder if I’m losing my mind. Then I shout, “Rise,” and the wind launches me off the ground.
It jerks and flips and knocks me so hard into the pillar of a windmill that I lose my hold and crash to the ground. I dust myself off and call another.
Same thing.
Audra wasn’t kidding when she said windwalking takes practice.
I try again and get higher this time. High enough to almost get sliced and diced by the giant blades. I barely release the draft in time and land with a thud, bruising every part of my body.
Okay—new plan!
I grab every healthy wind I can feel and hurtle them at the vortex. They rebound without so much as a dent.
Come on, Westerlies, tell me what to do here.
I let a minute of silence pass before I give up that idea too.
Looks like I’m on my own.
I weave a wind spike and line up my aim. But I know it won’t be enough. The winds binding her are . . . mutated somehow. I need the power of four. It’s supposed to be unstoppable, right?
If only I had any idea how to channel it.
I call a Westerly to my side and coil the draft around the spike. The universe doesn’t implode, so that seems like a good sign. But I still have to combine the draft with the others, and I don’t know what command to use.
Merge? Combine? Blend?
I have a feeling the difference between success and catastrophe rides on my ability to guess the right one.
Absorb? Meld? Pool? Marry?
I need a bigger vocabulary.
And then it hits me.
Converge.
The word tingles my mind. That has to mean I’m on the right track.
I smooth the Westerly strands along the wind spike, stalling.
Trust your instincts.
I force my lips to whisper the command.
The Westerly sinks into the wind spike, and the drafts spin to a blur. I jump back when the spike shoots into the air, and barely miss getting conked on the head. A crack splits down the center of the spike and I dive for cover, expecting an explosion. But it never goes boom.
It hovers in midair, twisted and blue, with sharp pointed ends. Force and energy flow through it, and when I grab it, it’s soft as a feather but somehow solid too. And cold. It conforms to my grip, like it’s made for me, and crackles like a lightning bolt.
I love the way it feels, like I hold the power of the wind in the palm of my hand.
Okay—time for the craziest part of the plan.
I point the weapon at one end of the vortex binding Audra and line up my aim.
Don’t miss.
Man, I wish I’d practiced more with Audra. If I’m off by even a few inches . . .
And even if it works, there’s no telling how the winds will unravel. They could easily fling her into the spinning blades.
My mind flashes to an image of Audra getting tossed through the windmill, shredded and splattered.
The world spins and I grip my knees to send some blood to my brain.
When my head clears, I stare at her pale body, losing life with every second I stall.
I have to do this.
I test my throw three, four, five times.
On the sixth I let it fly.
And.
It’s.
Wide.
Maybe the winds knock it. Maybe I suck. But it’s going to hit her.
It’s going to hit her!
I thrash my arms at the air, trying to grab it, stop it, change its course.
It has to divert.
“Divert,” I shout in the Westerly tongue.
And it does.