“In exchange for the power we’re given? You bet,” the Stormer tells him. “And the suicide draft takes a toll on Raiden too. It drains so much of his strength he can only form one a day.”
“Is power really all you care about?” I have to ask.
He shrugs—but I can tell by the tightness in his features that there’s something more he’s not saying.
“How did Raiden convince you to swear fealty?” I press.
“Why do you care?” he snaps back.
“Because I want to understand.”
“No one ever understands.”
I wait for him to say more, but he turns away.
“This is a waste of time,” Gus says, heading for the stairs.
I’ve only followed him for a few steps when the Stormer says, “A groundling killed my father.”
I turn back and find him wiping his eyes, and he has to clear his throat twice before he can add, “He caught my dad on his property after a storm and pointed a gun at him. I was hiding nearby. Saw the whole thing. He claimed my dad was a looter—like we gave a damn about his rusted junk. When my dad tried to calm him down, he shot him in the head. It didn’t matter that my dad was the one who saved their filthy house from the storm. And the wind didn’t knock the bullet aside fast enough.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. That’s what everyone says. That, and ‘I wish there were something I could do.” Raiden was the first person who understood. And he did something. After I swore fealty? He brought me back to that house and we tore everything to shreds.”
“Revenge isn’t justice,” Gus tells him.
“Then how do you explain the beating you gave me?” the Stormer argues.
“That was deserved,” Gus says, taking my arm. “He’s just stalling. Stalling until someone finds us.”
“It’s better than that,” the Stormer says. “I’m also making sure we have time to capture your Westerly friend—if we haven’t already.”
An unearthly howl stops my reply, and the grating mix of rage and ruin crawls under my skin.
I’ve heard the sound before—and I hoped to never hear it again.
The cry of an unwilling victim being transformed into one of Raiden’s Living Storms.
CHAPTER 21
VANE
Solana’s bleeding a lot.
Like, a lot a lot.
She’s even leaving a trail of red footprints on the stone floor.
I keep trying to get her to stop so we can bandage up her wound. But she claims we don’t have time—and she’s probably right.
Even if the password prevents any Stormers from getting into the passage, I’m sure they’ve guessed where we’re heading. So my whole “stealthy heist” plan is trashed at this point. And I have a feeling the gut-wrenching wail that just shook the passage means Raiden’s making a Living Storm Welcome Party for us.
I refuse to think about who it could be. The cord of Audra’s guardian pendant is still blue, so I know she’s safe. But Gus . . .
“How long is this passage?” I ask.
“Too long.”
I can’t tell if Solana’s worried about Gus too—or if she’s worried about how much she’s having to lean on the wall for support.
Eventually she collapses, and I barely catch her in time.
“I’m fine,” she mumbles.
“Yeah, it looks like it.”
I ease her to the floor and unbutton my jacket.
“What are you doing?”
“Cutting bandages.” I unsheathe my dagger and slice off the bottom of my undershirt. “Figured this was softer fabric.”
Her wound looks pretty gnarly, so I cut a few more strips. Then I realize how stupid wearing a half shirt is and rip off the rest.
“That’s a good look,” Solana says, pointing to my bare-chest-plus-jacket combo.
I can’t tell if she’s teasing me or getting deliriously honest. Either way, I’m pretty sure I’m blushing.
“Warning,” I say, taking a quick sniff of the sweaty fabric. “Apparently I stink.”
“That’s not exactly news. Besides, I’m sure I smell just as bad.”
Actually, she smells like oranges or melon or—
I shake my head.
No time for playing guess-the-shampoo.
Solana tries to take the bandages from me, but I keep a tight grip. “It’s my turn to help.”
It seems like a totally normal thing to offer—until I have to pull her wounded leg into my lap. And it gets worse when I have to slide her dress up another inch to expose the whole gash. . . .
Okay—focus on the blood.
“Let me know if this hurts,” I say as I dab at the wound with a piece of cloth.
She doesn’t cry out, but she keeps sucking air through her teeth, and I don’t blame her.
“This looks awful.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I didn’t mean your leg—not that I’m looking,” I add quickly. “I just meant . . .”
My excuses trail off when she laughs.
“I’m giving you a hard time,” she says, “so you’ll stop looking so nervous. Honestly, I’ve never had a guy so afraid to touch me.”
My cheeks feel way too hot.
Maybe they melt my brain, because I hear myself say, “So . . . you’ve been with other guys?”
“Are you seriously asking me that?”
“No—you’re right. I’m sorry—I don’t know why I said that.”