I think back to the haboobs I’ve seen. My father always triggered a rapid downdraft that battered the ground so hard it kicked up the towering wall of dust. Most of the force came from how many winds he used, but if I can get my Westerlies to flow in a cycle—flying high and then crashing back down, over and over and over—they might be able to trigger the same effect after a few rotations.
But that’s a complex command. A single word isn’t going to explain that many steps. For that I’ll need a chain of words, like when I call the wind.
The Westerlies swirling around my wrist feel too distracted— too overwhelmed by all the chaos to share their secrets. So I focus on my loyal shield, hating that I have to turn to it again. The draft feels weary and faded and its voice is hushed, its words now stuttered as it sings.
The sound breaks my heart, and I wish I could send the poor wind away, tell it to wander through the endless sky and never worry about me again. But I still need its help, so I whisper a soft apology and beg it for another favor.
The draft’s song turns sad and sweet, whispering about carrying on when all else feels bleak. And one phrase stands out from the others.
The force of peace.
The harder I focus on it, the more I feel other words tingle inside my mind, swirling and building until I know what my instincts are telling me to say.
Surge and swell and rise to increase. Then fall and crash with the force of peace.
The rightness of the command makes my tongue feel heavy, desperate to whisper the words and put them to work. But not yet. Not until the Stormers are closer and I can be sure the chaos will affect them the way we need.
Vane reaches for my hand as the ground shakes again, and I can feel the poor shield fighting to hold on, clinging to the three of us with any strength it has left.
“I want you to promise me something,” Vane says, waiting for me to look at him. “If something goes wrong and Raiden captures me, I want you to make a run for it—no, don’t argue.” He presses my palm against his cheek, closing his eyes as the sparks dance between us. “I’m strong enough to handle whatever Raiden does to me. But I’m not strong enough to watch him hurt you.”
“Vane—”
“No, really, Audra. Raiden’s been messing with my head these last few weeks, giving me nightmares, making me imagine that he had you and he was . . .” He shudders. “I never want that to be real. So I need you to promise me that if you can get away, you will. Even if it means leaving me behind. And try to take Gus if you can.”
I glance at Gus, who’s clearly in shock—not moving or blinking. I can barely tell if he’s breathing. The thought of saving him instead of Vane makes me want to scream. But I can tell Vane needs this, so I nod. “Hopefully I won’t have to.”
“But if you do?”
“Then I promise.”
He grabs me and kisses me. Still electric and hungry and addictive. But there’s a sadness this time and I realize he’s saying goodbye.
I won’t let him give up hope like that.
I press closer, trying to let him feel my confidence, trying to show him he can believe in me again, trying to—
“So these are the warriors who think they can defeat me? Two lovesick teenagers and a guardian who looks ready to soil himself?”
Vane and I break away and find a circle of Stormers surrounding us. Raiden stands in the center, so close that I can see the slate blue of his eyes. The angles of his jaw. The loose strands of hair that flop across his forehead.
There’s something almost charming about his smile as he says, “The two of you will get to be my very special guests. Especially you.” He points to me, and I feel Vane’s grip tighten on my hand. “As for you”—he turns to Gus—“you will get the honor of replacing the Living Storm you destroyed. And I’ll make sure the process is especially painful this time.”
The taunt snaps Gus out of his daze, and in one blur of motion he dives for Raiden and—
Crashes into the wall of our shield and slams back to the dirt.
“Fascinating,” Raiden says as he steps forward, running his hands along the edge of the Westerly.
I see Vane holding his breath and realize I’m doing the same. But no matter how hard Raiden presses, his hand cannot pass through the shield’s barrier.
“Once again, your abilities are very impressive. And yet, your carelessness betrays you.” He reaches behind him and pulls out the wind spike Gus attacked him with. “I suspect I could use this to blast right through your little shelter—much the way you used it to shred my Living Storm. But I’d hate to risk wrecking my new toy.”
He runs his palm along the precise edge and I have to stop myself from lunging for him.
“Come!” Vane shouts in Westerly, and the spike launches out of Raiden’s grip and slips straight through the shield.
Before Vane even catches it, the Stormers draw their windslicers and charge—but they’re knocked back by the shield, which is still miraculously holding strong.
Raiden laughs, tossing his head back so far I can see down his throat. “Bravo. But what’s your move now? Are you going to run me through? The winds told me how well it went for you the last time you got violent. But maybe you think you’re stronger now.” He steps forward, holding out his arms and baring his chest. “Go ahead then.”