Let the Sky Fall by Shannon Messenger
For my husband, Miles
I never could have written a love story (or channeled my inner snarky boy) without you
CHAPTER 1
VANE
I’m lucky to be alive.
At least, that’s what everybody keeps telling me.
The reporter from the local newspaper even had the nerve to call it a miracle. I was “Vane Weston: The Miracle Child.” Like the police finding me unconscious in a pile of rubble was part of some grand universal plan.
“Family Survives Tornado”—now, that would’ve been a miracle. But trust me, there’s nothing “miraculous” about being orphaned at seven years old.
It’s not that I’m not grateful to be alive. I am. I get that I shouldn’t have survived. But that’s the worst part about being “The Miracle Child.”
The question.
The same inescapable question, plaguing me for the last ten years of my life.
How?
How could I get sucked in by a category-five tornado—nature’s equivalent of a giant blender—get carried over four miles before the massive funnel spit me back out, and only have a few cuts and bruises to show for it? How was that possible, when my parents’ bodies were found almost unrecognizable?
The police don’t know.
Scientists don’t know.
So they all turn to me for the answer.
But I have no freaking idea.
I can’t remember it. That day. My past. Anything.
Well, I can’t remember anything useful.
I remember fear.
I remember wind.
And then . . . a giant, blank space. Like all my memories were knocked out of my head when I hit the ground.
Except one.
One isolated memory—and I’m not even sure if it is a memory, or if it’s some strange hallucination my traumatized brain cooked up.
A face, watching me through the chaos of the storm.
A girl. Dark hair. Darker eyes. A single tear streaks down her cheek. Then a chilly breeze whisks her away.
She’s haunted my dreams ever since.
CHAPTER 2
AUDRA
It was my fault.
I knew the rules.
I knew how dangerous it was to call the wind.
But I couldn’t let Gavin die.
Back then, guarding the Westons consumed every second of my family’s lives. Constant worry. Constant running. Constantly looking over our shoulders for the coming storm. We’d holed up in two tiny houses in the middle of nowhere. Waiting. Watching. Holding our breath. The fear hung over us thicker than the clouds.
I survived the hardest days by seeking shelter in the sprawling cottonwood trees at the edge of the property. Balanced high in their branches, with the breeze sliding across my skin, I could let the world fall away and open my mind to the whispers of the wind.
To my heritage.
I never spoke to the wind. Just listened and learned.
But the songs of the wind weren’t enough to fill the lonely days. So I turned to the birds.
Gavin’s nest was hidden in the thin limbs at the top of the tallest tree, tucked safely out of reach of predators. But I was a wispy thing, and my nimble legs had no problem scaling the fragile trunk to reach it. Inside were three balls of fluff. Goshawks—proud and noble, even with their downy gray feathers and open beaks, waiting for their mother to return.
I’d never fully connected with a bird on my own before. I always needed my mother’s guidance to make them understand me, respond to me, trust me. But she was too busy with the Westons. And Gavin was different.
He never screamed or flinched the way his siblings did when I came to inspect the nest. He just watched me with his wide, unblinking eyes, and I knew he was daring me to reach out and grab him. I visited him every day after that, as soon as his mother left to hunt.
I’d been counting down the days until his first flight, torn between excitement and dread. Longing to witness the moment he drank in the freedom of riding the wind, but crushed by the idea of losing my only company. My only friend.
Brave Gavin was the first to leap.
My heart stood still as he propelled himself out of the nest, his red-orange eyes staring at the horizon. Focused. Determined.
For one second his wings caught the draft, and he screeched in triumph from the rush of flight. Then a gust of wind knocked him off balance and sent him crashing toward the ground.
I’d love to say that I didn’t think. That instinct took over, clouding out all reason. But I knew the risk.
Our eyes met as he fell, and I chose to save him.
I called the wind—the first time I’d ever done so—wrapping a swift gust around Gavin’s tiny body and floating him to my waiting hands. He nuzzled against my fingers, like he knew. He knew I’d saved him.
I brought him home and showed my father, never telling him how Gavin came to be mine. I had plenty of chances. My mother asked lots of questions. All I had to do was tell the truth.
If I had, my father would still be alive.