Let the Sky Fall (4 page)

The thought would be amusing if it weren’t so terrifying. Vane can be crushed far too easily, and I know better than anyone what we’ll face when the Stormers arrive.

A wave of pain rocks me as the memories I try so hard to ignore batter my mental barriers.

Vane’s parents. My parents. The unfathomable force of the cyclone tossing them around like dry leaves in a storm. The vindictive smirk on the Stormer’s lips.

I close my eyes, just like I did that day—but I can’t close out the roar of the winds tearing at me, or the echoes of the Westons’ screams. Or the sound of my father’s voice, before he surrendered himself to save us, ordering me to take care of Vane.

Sounds that will haunt me until I draw my last breath, and probably beyond.

Four of them fought one Stormer, and only my mother survived.

Raiden always sends his Stormers in pairs now. What chance do Vane and I have?

My legs itch to run—to grab Vane and flee this suffocating place. Keep him hidden. Protected.

I fight the urge.

The Stormers will destroy the entire valley in their search to find us. As a guardian, I can’t allow that to happen. Plus, they’d follow our trace. Overtake us eventually.

Forcing Vane’s first breakthrough is the best option.

Our only option.

Besides, I’m strong, and prepared. I haven’t tied myself to the earth with a bite of food or a drop of liquid since the day my father died ten years ago. None of the other Gales have kept the sacrifice so long. But I learned from my father’s mistake. It’s about to serve me well.

I have time to teach Vane to fight. Maybe even trigger his other breakthroughs. And if he can live up to even a fraction of his potential, we’ll be more than enough to take them on. Assuming I succeed tonight . . .

I’ve joined the wind only once before during my training—and I could only bear the pain a few seconds. It will take Vane’s mind a few minutes to have the breakthrough.

I’ll hold on as long as it takes. This is my only chance.

I rise to open his window. It’s time.

Usually I slip a breeze through the crack at the bottom to let the wind’s songs stir his senses while I listen outside. Tonight I’ll make direct contact with his mind. If that doesn’t awaken him, nothing
will. I reach for the Northerly I can feel prickling my fingers and send it under the sill, thrusting the gust against the lock until it clicks. An extra swell of wind pushes the window silently open.

Vane lies stretched out on his bed—asleep, but not peaceful. He’s tangled in the sheets and strangling his pillow.

I almost feel sorry for him. He has no idea what he’s in for.

Of course, neither do I.

Deep breath
.

I’m stalling—and I don’t have time for weakness.

I close my eyes.

Joining the wind requires absolute concentration. Even then, it will be easy to lose myself.

The Northerlies I sent from the mountains fill the air, but for this I need Easterlies. The winds of my heritage. Like the blood in my veins, their drafts flow through me. And if I surrender myself to them, they’ll release me from my earthly form.

I murmur the call I’ve memorized, commanding every eastern wind to find me. Fortunately, there are some nearby, so the movement won’t be detected.

I step into the open, blinking as the drafts whip my hair against my face. Usually I keep it bound in the Gale’s regulation braid, but the intricate twists and folds can’t be replicated in the transformation. Shifting requires letting go.

I stretch out my arms and let the cool air streak across my bare skin. The Gale Force designed my dark sleeveless dress specifically for this task, cutting it short and low to leave most of me uncovered. The smooth, sleek fabric is woven from tiny fibers that cling to each
other in a mesh but can quickly break apart. Like dandelion fluff when the wind sets it free. It will dissolve and re-form as needed.

If only my body could make the switch so easily.

I wonder what the Gales would say if they could see me now. What my mother would say.

Would she be worried?

Would she care at all?

No. She would see this as fitting punishment for the crime I can never redeem.

Maybe it is.

I fight off a shiver caused only partially by letting the chilly drafts seep through my skin. They sink into the deepest recesses of my body, swirling and thrashing for freedom.

I have to let them out.

I can’t explain the moment of surrender. It happens on an instinctive level, deep within my core. I just have to trust my gut. And withstand the pain.

With a final breath, I silence my resistance and let the winds rip me apart.

Icy needles and shredding teeth tear through me, breaking my body down cell by cell. It takes only a second to transform, but every fiber of my being will forever remember the agony.

Mixed with the pain is an unimaginable freedom.

No boundaries. No limits.

I
am
the wind.

My years of training vanish as an uncontrollable urge pulls at me. I yearn to take off, to follow the wind’s teasing song to the ends
of the earth and beyond. The farther away, the less the pain will be, until it’s gone and I’m free.

Free.

The idea is so tempting. . . .

No!

I focus on the one thing that keeps me grounded: my father’s face.

His lips are stretched wide with a smile. A faint dimple peeks out of his left cheek, and his sky-blue eyes have crinkles at the corners. He looks happy. Proud. I have to believe he would be.

Under control now, I flow swiftly through the open window, thrilling at the rushing motion as I swirl around Vane.

Time to wake up.

My thoughts fill the whispers in the air, speaking for the wind in the secret Easterly language. But the words aren’t enough to break through. He needs more than the tendrils of my breezes wrapping around him, grazing his cheeks and tousling his hair.

He has to breathe me in.

I sweep across his face, waiting for him to inhale. When he does, I follow the pull in the air. Once I streak past his lips, I break free from the rest of his breath and press deep into his consciousness. To his very being.

It’s dark and confined inside his mind. I thrash to escape, longing to push free when he exhales. The pain amplifies the tighter I’m contained, and my winds rage. I’m a tempest, battering his thoughts, trying to tear them loose.

Wake. Up.

Something stirs around me, a warm tingle of energy building to a hum—but no breakthrough. Not yet.

The urge to fly away tears and pulls at me like cold, clawed fingers. But I focus on my father. He was always calm, always confident. So full of life and love. What would he do?

He would be gentle. He would care.

So I ignore the pain and lessen the force of my drafts, letting only the soft threadlike breezes weave through the strands of Vane’s consciousness.

Please, Vane. Wake up.

His body moves.

I’m reaching him.

Your people need you, Vane.

I almost add that I need him. But I can’t bring myself to say those words. I don’t want them to be true.

He doesn’t need to hear them.

He wakes with a gasp and I retreat from his mind with the rest of his startled breath in a frenzied rush.

Finally.

My drafts stretch and spin, relishing the freedom as I watch him look around, his eyes wild. Feral.

There’s only one way to know if the Easterlies have truly broken through.

I gather the winds—my winds. Me. All the parts of myself that float on the breeze—and hover in front of him. If he’s had the breakthrough, he’ll be able to see my true form. Otherwise, I’ll be as invisible as the wind.

Please see me.

His eyes widen and he scrambles to his feet, shouting something I can’t understand over the roaring rush.

But he
sees
me.

Vane Weston is ready.

With the last of my strength I pull myself in tighter. When I have a firm hold, I send the winds away.

Burning hot pokers and battering rams and a million other pains I can’t begin to explain. The particles of my dress cool me where they cling, but there aren’t enough of them to extinguish the fire in my skin as my body re-forms.

I stagger as I meet Vane’s eyes. His mouth hangs open from something he must have said when I was blind and deaf from the pain.

“It’s about time,” I mumble.

Then I collapse.

CHAPTER 7

VANE

T
en million questions squish together and burst out my mouth—along with a healthy mix of words my mom would kill me for using. But I don’t care about her conservative language rules at the moment.

I have a freaking ghost girl passed out on the floor of my room.

I suck in a huge gulp of air and let that process. She’s
here
. If I want, I can reach out and touch her.

I take half a step toward her, then shudder and back as far away as my small, cluttered room allows. She may be real, but that doesn’t explain what she is, or what just happened to me. It felt like she was actually
in
my head, an eerie presence inside of me.

Not to mention the wispy ghost thing I saw floating near the
ceiling. A swirling cloud of dark and light and color and wind—with a face. Her face. Then somehow all the chaos mashed together and
bam!
—passed-out phantom girl on my bedroom floor. If I didn’t feel my heart thumping against my chest, I’d be convinced this is a horrible dream.

“Vane, you okay in there?” my mom calls through my door.

I jump so hard I crash into my desk and knock off some books and video game cases.

If my mom comes in and finds a gorgeous girl in a skimpy dress passed out on my worn gray rug, I’ll be grounded for the rest of eternity. Especially since all I have on at the moment are my Batman boxers. Pretty sure she won’t buy my ghost/guardian angel/freak-of-nature theories either.

I stumble toward the door, prepared to barricade it with my dresser if I have to. “I’m fine, Mom,” I say as I grab the first T-shirt I see off my floor and throw it on, along with my gym shorts.

“Then what’s all that banging?”

Come on, Vane. Think!

Inspiration strikes. “I found a date roach in my bed.”

“Did you kill it?” My mom sounds farther away, like she jumped back.

“I tried to, but now I can’t find it.” I don’t need to worry about my mom offering to help. She’s a big believer in the whole
boys should kill all the bugs
philosophy.

“Well, I won’t distract you, then,” she says, and I can’t help smiling. “But make sure you kill it before you go back to sleep. I don’t want it getting loose in the house.”

“On it,” I promise, my body relaxing as her footsteps retreat down the hall.

One crisis solved. Now I just have to deal with the passed-out, scantily clad girl on the floor of my room who’s most likely a supernatural creature.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight
.

No clue what to do about that one.

I switch on my lamp and creep toward her, craning my neck to get a better look. Her eyes are closed, but her chest rises and falls in slow, heavy breaths.

It occurs to me that she might be hurt. I don’t know if ghosts can get injured—or if she even is a ghost. She looks real enough right now. Pale, though—and her face looks like she’s in pain.

Is she sick?

What am I supposed to do if she is? Pretty sure the hospital won’t be able to help her. Do magical creatures have the same anatomy as humans?

My eyes scan her body.

Wow.

And . . . I’m checking out a girl who might be something other than human. Not to mention she’s currently
unconscious
.

Awesome timing, man
.

She clearly needs help. She’s been out cold for at least five minutes. I have to do something.

But what?

Water.

On TV they’re always giving it to people like it’s a cure-all.
It can’t hurt. I even have a half-finished water bottle by my bed.

I grab it, then tiptoe to the girl. She doesn’t stir—even when I crouch beside her.

I hold my breath as I lift her head, gently propping her neck against my knee. Her skin is cool and smooth and I worry she’s shaking—but then I realize it’s me who’s trembling.

She’s
real
.

I didn’t really believe it until that moment. All the dreams. All the fleeting half glimpses. Even seeing her so clearly tonight. All of that could’ve been a mistake somehow. But now I have her—in my room.
In my arms.
And despite anything my eyes just saw, she feels human.

She feels like me.

A tiny thrill jolts me as my fingers part her lips. They’re even softer than I imagined. Yeah—I imagined them. I dare anyone to try being haunted by a hot girl for ten years and not think about kissing her.

I place the bottle against her lips. Will she be able to swallow if I pour it into her mouth? Or will she choke?

I pour just enough to wet her tongue, not breathing until I see her swallow. It’s surreal watching her lips close and the muscles in her throat contract. Little, normal things in such an impossible situation.

I still can’t believe I’m actually holding her. My fingers tangle in her hair—the same dark, wavy strands that always swirl around her face in the dreams. I’m glad it’s not in the tight braid she was wearing earlier. She looks softer with it loose. Gentler. She still has a strong jaw, but it balances her wide eyes and full lips.

Back to her lips. I can’t stop staring at them.

Dude—not now!

I pour more water in her mouth, and this time she drinks faster. She downs the rest of the bottle, but she still hasn’t fully woken.

I scan the room for more water, freezing when she moans.

I set her head down and back against the farthest wall. I have no idea what will happen when she wakes up, but having some distance between us seems like a good idea. She may look gentle when she’s sleeping, but there was something in the way she carried herself earlier that I definitely don’t want to get on the wrong side of.