“No. Sorry. What?”
“I said I think we’re good. But I’ll climb out first and give you the all clear.”
“And if it’s not clear?”
“Then I’ll make it clear.”
“But what if—”
“Vane,” she interrupts, waiting for me to make eye contact. “This is what we’re here for.”
She’s right.
This is it.
It’s all-in time.
Either we pull this off, or . . .
It’s probably better if I don’t finish that sentence.
Not that I’m worried about me.
Okay, fine, I am a little.
A lot.
But I’m much more freaked out about seeing Gus and Audra.
All the things I’ve been trying not to think about—all the ways Raiden might have hurt them . . .
If it’s actually happened, I’ll have to see it—and I don’t know how I’ll handle it.
“Let’s do this,” Solana whispers, reaching for the hatch.
She gives me a smile that looks surprisingly confident, considering we’re two wounded teenagers who haven’t slept in several days, trespassing blindly into a warlord’s mazelike fortress—and he knows we’re here.
“Okay,” she whispers, “if my dad’s memories are right, this hatch should lead into a small storage room. But wherever we are, we’ll need to make our way to the turbine. If we cross any Stormers, we’ll need to dispatch them silently.”
“And by dispatch you mean . . .”
“It’s us or them, Vane. Try not to forget that. And remember that any of them could’ve done something to hurt Gus or Audra. They’re the enemy. The only thing we have to make sure is that we don’t leave a trail. I’m hoping the majority of the Stormers are still chasing after Aston and Arella, or trying to open the hatch we used to get here. But from this point on, no talking unless it’s an emergency—or we know we’re somewhere secure. Otherwise, communicate through gestures only.”
She presses her palms against the ceiling and leans close to whisper the password.
I can’t believe she’s so calm and steady. It makes me extra glad she didn’t leave when I tried to send her home.
Which reminds me . . .
“You don’t have any winds stored inside you, right?” I whisper. “Remember what Aston said could happen.”
“The only winds left are the ones that are already broken,” she promises. “I’ve been saving them for this.”
“You’re planning to use the power of pain?”
“I’m planning to do whatever it takes to get the four of us out of here alive. Ready?”
No. But I nod anyway.
She takes three slow breaths. Then whispers to the hatch.
The door swings open, making only the tiniest of creaks—but it might as well be an air horn.
We both freeze and hold our breath.
Nothing happens.
Either we really are alone, or they’re waiting for us to move deeper into their trap.
Solana glances at me before climbing another rung up the ladder and peeking out into the room.
Nobody chops off her head, so I take that as a good sign.
She climbs another step and slithers out into the darkness. I count the seconds after she’s gone, realizing we should’ve come up with an emergency system—a special whistle, or at least a timeline so I know when to worry.
Thirty seconds crawl by.
Sixty.
Ninety.
By one twenty my twitchy legs move me to the ladder.
I climb a couple of steps at the two hundred mark.
Another at three fifty.
By that point I no longer have any idea how many actual minutes have passed. But I’m up to the top of the ladder.
Solana told me to wait for her signal—but what if she needs me?
My brain is arguing in circles when Solana’s face melts out of the shadows, and I barely manage to stop myself from scream-flailing.
She slides closer, pressing her lips against my ear. “It’s totally empty. No one’s been in here for years. It’s still a storeroom, but not of what I was expecting.”
“Is it dead bodies?” I whisper back. “That’s the kind of thing you need to warn a guy about.”
“It’s not dead bodies. It’s . . . you have to see for yourself.”
That doesn’t exactly sound like I should be excited to follow her into the dark. But I do anyway, and I find . . .
“A bunch of dusty trunks?”
“Open one,” Solana tells me, “but be quiet about it.”
I ease the nearest trunk open, relieved when it doesn’t squeak.
“Toys?” I whisper, staring at the pinwheels and reed pipes and kites and windsocks all neatly arranged inside.
“Raiden’s toys,” Solana corrects. “Look at this.”
I crawl to where she’s opened a trunk filled with stuff I can only describe as “baby things.” Rattles and tiny clothes in pale yellows and blues, and a couple of well-loved stuffed birds. Tucked among the blankets is one of those clay handprint things with the initials R.N. carved in loopy letters.
“N?” I ask.
“Must be his family name. He’s a Northerly, but I only know him as Raiden.”
Same here.
I never realized Raiden had a last name.
Or a childhood.