What else am I supposed to do, though?
Westerlies are the only winds Raiden can’t ruin or send away. If I don’t teach the Gales how to call them, they’ll be completely defenseless in this battle. And I can’t let any more guardians die for me.
But what about the Westerlies who gave their lives to protect this secret?
They trusted me to do the same, to keep our language safe from anyone who might abuse or destroy it. And now I’m going to hand it over to my entire army—some of whom I’ve never met—right after their captain basically threatened to torture me? . . .
My ears ring and everything goes dim as I start to sway—but then someone’s wrapping their arms around me and I can finally breathe when the rush of warmth hits me.
“Audra?” I whisper, trying to get my eyes to focus. I can only see a blur of red and skin—which wouldn’t be such a bad thing if my stomach weren’t flipping and flopping and making the possibility of throwing up on her feel very, very real.
“Hang on,” she tells me, pulling me down to the floor and helping me put my head between my knees.
Calm down.
Breathe.
Do not hurl all over your very hot girlfriend.
“He needs space!”
Audra’s voice sounds much too far away, considering I can feel her hand on my unbruised shoulder. The ringing is getting louder and my vision is completely dark and I collapse to my side, curling up in a ball and trying not to swallow as my mouth waters the way it always does right before I vomit.
“Okay, everyone out,” Gus shouts. “Give the guy some air.”
I reach for Audra and she squeezes my hand, just like that cold day in the snow. Everyone else stomps away, and when their footsteps are gone, Audra whispers a soft call in Westerly. A cool breeze sweeps into the room, circling around me.
“Try to relax,” she tells me.
I concentrate on the cool wind brushing my skin and the whispers filling the air. The Westerly’s song is peaceful and soft, but it’s sad, too. About constantly trying to get back to the calmer skies it used to know. I know how the draft feels.
Sometimes all I want to do is rewind back to the days when my biggest problems were convincing my dad to cough up some gas money or getting teased about how I messed up yet another date. Now I don’t even need my car—and I have pretty much the hottest girlfriend on the planet, who’s sitting here next to me in an absurdly sexy red dress, stroking my back even though I’m all gross and sweaty from almost passing out around her again.
But I also have to figure out how to protect my army and all the innocent people in this valley from the creepiest dude I’ve ever met.
If only I could keep all the perks and not have to deal with the other crap.
Especially since the only way I can think of to help everyone is the same thing that’s making me stay crashed on the floor, counting my breaths and trying to figure out how to keep the promise I just made when the thought alone turns me into a useless Vane-lump.
I could make them all the special wind spikes, like I did for Gus. He didn’t need to know any Westerly commands to use it to destroy the Living Storm.
But what if some of those fall into Raiden’s hands?
If I don’t teach the Gales the voice commands, they won’t be able to call them back after they throw them or unravel them if the Stormers manage to steal them, and there’s no way I can keep track of that many wind spikes on my own.
Another wave of nausea hits me, and I go back to concentrating on the Westerly, wishing its song would tell me what to do. The only clue it gives me is the verse “don’t flee from the path”—but which path? The promise I just made? Or the path I’ve been on all this time? It could be either, and if I guess wrong . . .
I tighten my grip on Audra’s hand. “This is a lot tougher than I thought it would be.”
“I know.” Audra reaches up with her other hand, running her fingers through my hair and sending gentle ripples of heat through my head. “I feel sick thinking about it too—and I’m not really a Westerly.”
“You kinda are. Shoot—you have better control than me, and I’m pretty sure that Westerly you brought home wanted to be your pet.”
“Maybe.” She sighs, pulling her hand slowly away. “But this has to be your decision, Vane. I can’t be a part of it.”
“Why? I thought we were in this together now.”
“We are. It’s just . . .” A painful stretch of silence passes before she says, “This is your heritage—and we may not be bonded forever—and if—”
“Uh, wait a minute,” I interrupt. “Yeah we will.”
My eyes sting when I open them and find my room filled with light—the sun must’ve risen while I was panicking—but it’s worth the pain when I get another glimpse at her dress.
Holy freaking wow.
Right—focus.
“No way am I letting them break us apart,” I tell her. “Not unless . . .”