It hits dead on the mark, and Aston launches it back through the final Storm near us, dissolving it into a puff of sickly smoke.
“How many have we taken out?” Vane asks as we grab the spike and run.
“My best count says we’re down to twenty-four,” Aston says as he falls into step beside us. “But it might be twenty-five—which is better than I’d expected, honestly. I don’t see how we’re going to hold out. This wind spike is getting weaker with every toss. I’m betting it has about three good hits left before it unravels. Also, I’m getting rather tired. This body isn’t exactly built for running.”
“Can’t you draw strength from all this pain?” Vane asks.
“Not without wind. And even then . . . this is a far darker kind of suffering.”
My stomach turns as I survey the battlefield, and the rot and ruin heaped everywhere.
This is the great legacy Raiden has brought to our world.
But I can’t worry about the dead.
Our guardians are still outnumbered three to one, and without weapons, their fights have been relegated to running and dodging. And Solana’s veering erratically through the sky with at least a dozen Storms chasing after her.
“If only we had some wind,” I whisper when I note three more Storms bearing down on our position.
I swear the sky hears me, because in the same breath Vane murmurs, “I don’t believe it.”
I turn to follow his gaze and see he’s stretched out his hands to the west. When I open my senses I can feel the pull of my Westerly—and it didn’t return alone.
My shield streaks toward me, swirling around my face as hundreds of drafts flood in from every direction.
“You’re hearing this, right?” Vane asks as he listens to the winds’ chanting song.
I can only nod, my eyes welling with tears at the beauty of so much unbridled power.
I doubt the winds need us to give the command. The song seems more of a warning for us to be prepared.
Still, as the drafts coil themselves around us—Easterlies, Westerlies, Southerlies, Northerlies—and Vane and I lock eyes, we both raise our voices and shout, “Rise!”
CHAPTER 45
VANE
I have no idea how to describe anything that just happened.
I’m not even sure if it did happen.
Maybe a Living Storm ate me, and my mind made the whole thing up while my body was being digested.
All I know is, one second the battle was falling apart and I was thinking that Audra and I should spend our last few minutes making out. And the next second the winds were swarming in out of nowhere, telling us to “Rise!”
And then . . .
I don’t even know.
The wind became a beast with a million invisible heads and arms and teeth, like some sort of hydra-kraken woven straight from the air. And it used all of that weirdness to devour everything it touched—including us. But we weren’t destroyed. We were just sort of . . . sucked up.
Audra. And me. And Aston. And Solana. And Os. And any other Gales that were still breathing—even Arella.
We were all pulled into . . . was it a cocoon?
I guess I could also call it a womb—but that sounds way too gross.
So we were in this freaky cocoon-thing, floating around with all these warm breezes that were singing about salvaging our heritage. Meanwhile we could still see the battle going on all around us—kinda like watching a movie but somehow knowing you’re not just watching?
And then . . . everything went quiet, and we were set down gently in the crushed grass, and we all just stared at each other like, WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED???
So yeah.
I don’t know.
But I guess it doesn’t matter.
WE’RE ALIVE!!!
And, WE WON!
Os celebrates by ordering everyone to gather up the bodies, proving that he seriously knows how to kill the buzz.
I offer to help. But yeah . . .
The gore is way too much.
Especially when I realize that most of the Stormers have their necks snapped.
“Suicide drafts,” Aston breathes. “He terminated his whole army.”
“Why would he do that?” Solana whispers. “Would he truly give up that easily?”
No one has any real answers, though they debate a bunch of different theories.
I try to pay attention, but I can’t stop thinking about all the dead dudes watching me. Audra has the same I’m gonna hurl look in her eyes that I’m sure is in mine, so I take her arm and lead her to the fringes, to a soft spot of grass peppered with wildflowers. When we keep our backs to the battlefield, it’s almost like we’re sitting in a park somewhere, watching the sunset. You know, if we really pretend.
“Do you think it hurt?” Audra whispers. “When the drafts . . .”
I picture Gus’s face the moment his draft triggered.
One second he was Gus.
The next he was blank.
“No, I don’t think they feel anything. It happens too fast.”
Minutes tick by, and I count the cars in the visitor center parking lot, glad to see they’re still in the same neat rows, untouched by the storm.