“Well then, here’s your chance to prove it—and this will be a one time only offer, so think it through. I’ll give you my help. I’ll even figure out a way to sneak into Brezengarde. But only if you agree to give me your pain.”
I have absolutely zero idea what that means, and judging by Arella’s expression, she’s just as clueless—until Aston raises his arms and tangles a draft around her.
Arella screams and drops to her knees.
I try to help, but the wind knocks me back. Same thing happens to Solana.
Several terrible seconds pass. Then the wind calms and Arella falls still.
Aston, meanwhile, is smiling so wide, his whole face looks stretched. “I’d heard stories of the ache her gift caused her, but I never realized it was so deliciously intense.”
“What did you do to her?” Solana asks.
“I absorbed her agony. Usually I’m forced to draw on the wind’s pain to hold myself together. But hers is so much stronger—so much more liberating.” He stands over Arella, the moonlight casting his strange speckled shadow over her. “That’s my offer. My help, in exchange for your pain three times a day.”
“So . . . basically, you want to torture her,” I clarify.
“Only for a few minutes. Don’t tell me she doesn’t deserve it.”
She does—but something doesn’t add up. “Why would you offer that when you could just capture her right now?”
“Because he would never be able to keep me here,” Arella whispers.
“Your gift does give you a very specific skill set,” he agrees. “Os was right to contain you in the Maelstrom. Separating you from the sky is the only way to truly contain you—unless you cooperate. But don’t think that means I don’t have ways to control you. I know what you crave.” He squats to make sure Arella’s looking at him. “I want your word that when this is over, you’ll return here with me to keep our arrangement going. Break it, and I’ll destroy everything you care about.”
“Keep Audra out of this,” I warn.
“I meant what she really cares about. Oh yes—” he adds when Arella sucks in a breath. “I know how to find him. But I won’t if you’re a good girl. And as a bonus, I’ll help you save your daughter.”
I can’t imagine Arella agreeing to any of this—but maybe I don’t know her as well as I think I do.
Or maybe she thinks she can outsmart Aston.
Or maybe she’s afraid.
Either way, she whispers, “You have my word.”
CHAPTER 8
AUDRA
The swirling patterns of lines make me dizzy—or maybe it’s the blood.
Or the fact that I have no idea what Aston’s guide means.
“You’re sure you re-created it exactly?” I ask.
“I’m not an artist,” Gus says. “But the original is just as confusing.”
Weariness weighs down his words, and a pained stiffness has settled into his motions.
“You should rest,” I tell him.
Gus nods.
“I hope you’ve memorized this,” he says as he pulls off one of his bandages and smudges the guide with the soaked fabric.
When the marks are reduced to a smear, he lies down on top of it to make the bloody puddle seem as if it seeped from his many wounds.
“?‘Raiden’s greatest weakness is that he has no weakness,’?” I mumble.
“What does that mean?” Gus asks.
“I wish I knew. It was something Aston told me while I was his hostage. He also said, ‘His fortress has more security than anyone could ever need and none all at the same time. Once I figured that out, getting away was easy.’?”
Gus sighs. “I’ve never been good at riddles.”
Neither have I.
But I close my eyes and picture the bloody lines of the guide, trying to imagine anything that could make a similar pattern. Some of the lines intersect, separating the design into clusters of three, four, and five.
Seventeen clusters in all.
Seventeen is a prime number—but I doubt Raiden pays attention to basic mathematics. It’s also my age—though I’m certain my lifeline holds no importance.
Still, the reminder startles me.
I’m only seventeen.
Most days I feel much older, but it suddenly feels too young—too inexperienced to face a foe with triple my lifetime’s worth of wisdom.
Panic tightens my chest and I lean against the wall, closing my eyes and counting my breaths until they slow into a pattern I can manage.
Behind me, I hear Gus shift positions.
Then shift again.
And again.
Each time he moves, he grunts in pain.
I watch the red trickle across the ground, wishing I had a way to comfort him. But I have no wind. No warmth. Nothing except . . .
My voice.
For years my songs were silenced—the loss of my father too thick in my throat. But now that I know the truth of his loss, I’ve been slowly reclaiming the melodies.
I choose the song my father sang to calm my mother during her worst bouts with pain: Another day, another night
Hollow darkness, blinding light
Both have to share.
Another calm, another storm
Calls of peace, violent swarms
It’s never fair.
Might be grounded now, but the sky still calls for you Hush now
Rest your wings
Sleep now
Close your eyes and let the wind sing
And be miles away
Until yesterday