“I’m fine,” Gus promises.
“I don’t think you realize how close you came to dying. I barely brought you back.”
“Yeah . . . about that.” His eyes lower to my lips, and my heart jumps into my throat.
He remembers. . . .
“I’m really sorry,” I mumble.
“For saving my life?”
“For triggering that trap in the first place, thinking I was being clever.”
I could leave the apology there—pretend there’s no awkwardness hanging over us. But Gus is still focused on my mouth, and I know my face must be ten different shades of red.
“I’m also sorry for the way I saved you,” I whisper. “I know it was very . . . personal.”
“It was,” Gus says, a small smile curving his lips. “Don’t worry, I didn’t feel any connection, in case you’re worried.”
“Neither did I.”
“Yeah, I figured.” His smile fades. “What you did though . . . that was way above and beyond anything anyone has ever done for me. So I just wanted to say . . . thanks.”
My cheeks burn hotter, and all I can think to say is “Anytime.”
“Yeah, I don’t think Vane will want me taking you up on that.”
I focus on my hands.
For all I know, Vane and I will never—not that Gus and I would ever . . .
“You’re overcomplicating it. You know that, right?” Gus asks. “You and Vane chose each other once—why wouldn’t you choose each other again?”
“I don’t know. Things change.”
“They clearly haven’t for Vane. Mr. Lazypants flew across the country, scaled a mountain, and took on an army of warriors—for you.”
“And you.”
Gus rolls his eyes. “He loves you, Audra. And I know you love him, too. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to resist the power of these.”
He puckers his lips.
I want to laugh, but the gesture draws too much attention to his wounds, and I find myself wondering how much his handsome face will forever be ruined by scars.
Gus leans across the hall, closing some of the space between us. “Whatever you’re thinking about that’s causing that wrinkle between your brows? Stop it. And promise me you won’t give up on what you have with Vane just because you’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid.”
But I am.
Loving Vane was the bravest thing I’ve ever done, and I barely survived it the first time. It’s terrifying to imagine making that journey again.
And yet, I can feel pieces of myself stirring—like my essence is shifting, making room for something.
Or someone.
“Come on,” Gus says. “The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can find him.”
I let Gus take the lead so I can keep a better eye on his wobbly movements.
“Is it getting colder?” he asks, his breath clouding the air.
“They’re trying to freeze us out.”
The winds are also getting stronger, speeding our feet, erasing our caution. I’m moving at such a blur that I don’t notice the metal grate ahead until the sharp, angled slats glint in my eyes, and I barely manage to grab Gus and pull him backward in time.
The contact sends us into another tailspin and Gus shoves me away, sending us both crashing hard to the floor.
“Thanks,” I mumble, rubbing my bandaged side.
“Yeah, you too,” he says. “Good eye. I don’t know how I missed that.”
“Might be the cold getting to us. But I think these winds are toxic.”
“Then let’s get away from them, shall we?” He inches toward the grate. “I wonder if Raiden has a welcome party waiting for us.”
He peeks through the slats and gasps.
“That bad?”
He shakes his head. “You . . . have to see this.”
I’m imagining every possible worst-case scenario as I shuffle toward the grate. Still, I’m definitely not prepared to see two figures standing in the room far below, watching the spinning gears of a giant turbine.
One is a blond girl in a tiny dress.
The other is a boy I’d recognize anywhere, even wearing a Stormer uniform.
Vane and Solana.
CHAPTER 27
VANE
What was that?” Solana asks, grabbing my arm—and totally screwing up my throw.
My windslicer sails in a wobbly arc and lands nowhere near where I was aiming.
Even better: It settles between the teeth of one of the giant cogs, and when the gears spin together . . .
CRUNCH!
“What the hell?” I timed that throw perfectly, and now I’ve lost my weapon, and the freaking turbine is still spinning.
Solana turns a slow circle, studying the fans and vents. “I saw something,” she tells me, reaching for her windslicer. It’s all mangled from banging it against the gears in our other failed attempt to sabotage this stupid thing—who knew a turbine could be so indestructible?
I ask my Westerly for a report, but I can’t separate its song from the roar of the wind and the gears. And the constantly swirling air throws off my senses, with all the waves of hot and cold and swishes of sour and bitter.