“I thought you were—”
“A helpless girl who needed you to rescue her? Did you expect me to show up with nothing but the clothes on my back, needing you for every little thing? While you might have helped me the other night, generally I can take care of myself just fine.”
He ground his teeth so hard, Rora wouldn’t have been surprised to see them crumble into dust in his mouth. “I didn’t say that either.”
“Good. Because I would have been tempted to have Honey here trample you if you did.”
With a loud, metallic scrape, a hatch slid open on top of the strange coach, and a loud laugh poured out from it, followed shortly by Bait’s fiery red-orange hair.
“Marry me. Please. Anyone who threatens Locke without batting an eye is my ideal woman.”
Locke turned on the other hunter, his face set in a menacing scowl, and the young teen gave an inelegant squeak before disappearing into the carriage. Rora laughed, and Locke’s scowl was turned on her. But rather than the angry retort she expected, he barked, “Your hair is dark.”
Her stomach flipped in momentary fear before she said, “So?”
He shrugged, grumbling something she couldn’t hear before gesturing for her to get down from her horse. He reintroduced her to each member of the crew. Most of them were enthusiastic at the prospect of her joining the team. Jinx had practically tackled her in excitement. Ransom was more subdued, but she had the feeling that he rarely showed much emotion. Sly, on the other hand, had not even tried to disguise her glare. Rora remembered only a brief glimpse of the girl that first night in the market, and that made more sense when Locke said, “Sly is our stealth specialist. You won’t hear her sneaking up on you unless she wants you to hear her.” The smile Sly gave Rora after that declaration made the hair on her neck rise.
“You can ride in the Rock,” Locke said, gesturing toward the odd carriage. Through the glass dome at the front, she could see all manner of knobs and dials and cranks, and though she was curious, her pull toward Honey was stronger.
“I’d prefer to be on my horse.”
He sighed. “This isn’t going to work if you argue with every thing I say.”
“I wasn’t arguing. My horse has never left this area. I’d prefer to be with her, so she stays calm. Do I need to argue?”
“Fine,” he said, but he didn’t look happy about it. “Get on your horse. We’re leaving now.” He followed that declaration with a shrill whistle that was apparently the signal for everyone else to pack up and prepare to leave. Duke and Bait both climbed into the Rock, and the redheaded teen blew her a playful kiss before he closed the top hatch. Everyone else took a horse, leaving a few more horses to carry supplies.
Rora crossed to Honey and ran a hand along her flank before hoisting herself up into the saddle. She leaned against Honey’s neck, patting the horse’s jaw, and asked, “Ready, girl?”
Honey stamped her hooves restlessly as if to say get on with it. Rora knew it was a risk taking Honey with her, but she needed her as a reminder of home, as a companion in an adventure that was either brave or insane.
“Sly, you take lead. We’re not expecting to run into any storms today, but you have the best eyes. Ran, you bring up the tail. Bait—you ready?”
From inside the carriage, Rora heard Bait call out, “Ready!”
She frowned. There had been two horses hooked to the carriage when she arrived, but now those horses were saddled with supplies, and the carriage sat alone. How did they expect it to move without horses? She heard another scrape of metal, a loud whooshing noise that morphed into a whir, and the clank of turning gears. The sound sped up, and she saw Duke pull a lever inside the Rock. The wheels of the carriage began to roll despite the utter lack of incline on the land. The wheels spun faster, until the carriage was a dozen horse lengths ahead.
With another whistle from Locke, the remaining crew took off on horseback. Rora tapped her heels against Honey’s sides, and they darted forward. Honey must have been excited or anxious, because the horse took off faster than Rora expected. With a pull on the reins and a few soft whispers, Rora convinced Honey to ease her hurried pace, and they moved into position on the left of the carriage near Locke.
“How does the Rock move?” she asked. “I have never seen anything like it.”
“That’s because it’s the only one of its kind as far as I know. And it works on storm magic. There’s an enclosed space in the back, a chamber that we throw torque magic into, and the rotation turns a ratchet system that turns other gears that turn the wheels and allow the carriage to move unassisted.”
“Torque magic?”
“It’s what hunters call storms that rotate around a center point. The eye.”
She frowned. “I’ve never heard it called that. Not in all the books I’ve read about—”
“Ah, but your books are written by Stormlings, aren’t they? They inherit their power. They rely on their magic to fight at a distance. Any idiot with an affinity can dispel a storm, but to get close and stay close long enough to steal magic—that takes skill.”
“And just a dash of a death wish,” Jinx called back.
“Maybe a little more than a dash.” Locke smiled at his friend, and it was the first time Rora had seen him do so since she arrived.
He turned back to her and continued: “No one has ever gotten as good a look at the inner workings of a storm as us. To defeat a storm without an affinity, you have to know how it behaves, which is why we divided storms by movement. Besides torque, there’s torrent—rain, snow, sleet, lightning.”
“Storms that move from sky to ground?”
“Exactly. Third type is tide. Anything that sweeps over the land like an ocean tide. Sandstorms are one. Though it can happen with dust here in the grasslands too.”
“Fog,” she supplied quietly. Though unassuming, fog had always featured prominently in her nightmares. Perhaps it was the parallel to her real life—that slow, agonizing creep toward the inevitable. Fog had not the strength of a twister or the power of a firestorm, but fog was greedy with its victims. Once it had them trapped in the mists, it liked to keep them, wandering till madness or death or both.
“Depending on which of us you talk to, tsunamis or forest fires could be considered tide storms too.”
“Those have Stormhearts?” Rora had thought it only the religious sects that worshiped storms who believed that way.
Locke shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Sly believes they do because that’s how she grew up. Her tribe believe all extreme acts of nature to be storms. They believe that storms come from the souls of the dead who lived exemplary lives. They’re birthed again as part of the elements. But as far as I know, no one has ever successfully captured a Stormheart from one.”