“Rise.”
The word sounds like a hiss, and the wind races away, pulling me along with it.
Riding a draft is the closest to freedom I ever come. Rushing higher and deeper into the sky brings clarity to my life. Meaning. I can never fully control the wind. I can coax it, cajole it, ask it to obey—but it’s still a force of its own, free to do what it wills. The trick is to listen as it speaks and adjust as needed.
Most Windwalkers are twice my age before they reach my level of control. I can hear even the softest whisper of change or dissent, translate any turbulence or unease, and adjust. It was my father’s gift. He passed it to me the day he returned to the sky.
Not a second goes by that I don’t wish I could give it back.
Dark peaks appear on the horizon and I whisper, “Dive.” The gust drops low enough for my toes to skim the ground. My legs speed to a run, and once I have my bearings, I release my hold. The wind unravels, racing away as I screech to a halt, my feet firmly planted on the cool, rocky ground of the San Bernardino Mountains.
The air is so much purer up high—the gusts so much stronger. I allow myself one minute to let the surging winds restore me. They ripple across my skin, filling me with strength and confidence that can only come from being in my natural element. Part of me could stand there all night, drinking it up.
But I have a job to do.
It feels wrong to command the wind at full volume—just like it felt wrong earlier. But that’s the point. One mistake to hide another.
Still, my voice shakes as I send Northerly squalls on all sides of the mountains and order them to surge through the desert basin. Sandstorms streak across the empty dunes, leaving dusty footprints in their wake. Scattering my trace in every direction.
The Stormers won’t be able to pinpoint our location—but they’ll know we’re here. And they won’t leave until they find Vane, tearing the valley apart in the process.
The telltale flurry will reach the Stormers’ fortress by nightfall tomorrow, and it’ll take another day of swift flight for them to arrive in the region. I’ve bought us an extra day with the false trails they’ll have to rule out.
Which means we have three days. Then people will start to die.
Vane has to have his first breakthrough tonight. Three days will be enough to train him in the basics, and I’m at my peak strength, thanks to my years of sacrifice. We should be able to fight them off together.
But there’s only one way to be sure the breakthrough happens.
My mouth coats with bile at the thought.
I reach for another Easterly, focusing on the way the edge of my palm tingles as I call the swift gust and wrap it around me. The cool tendrils wash away my fears as they brush my skin.
“Return.” I say the word so softly, the wind’s roar washes it away. It sweeps me in its force, carrying me gently down the mountain, across the parched, empty sand, to my house.
It isn’t much of a home, but I don’t have time to stay anyway. I have work to do.
Tonight will be a very long night.
CHAPTER 5
VANE
My parents are still awake when I come home. Of course they are. It’s barely ten o’clock. I’m probably the only teenager in the valley who never breaks curfew.
Course, I bet other guys don’t have icy drafts attacking them out of nowhere or hear their name on the wind. Goose bumps erupt across my arms just thinking about it.
Deal with it later.
I find my mom in our cluttered pink family room, reading on the mottled brown couch. The salty scent of meatloaf still fills the air, and when I glance over her shoulder I can see plates piled in the kitchen sink. Great, I’m home before she even did the dishes. Fail.
My dad waves from the living room, but he doesn’t get up from his worn leather recliner. He’s too engrossed in some Discovery Channel special—I have no idea how he watches those things—to want to hear about his son’s latest dating disaster.
My mom, on the other hand, closes her thick book, sweeps her long blond hair out of her face, and motions for me to take a seat.
I’m not in the mood for one of her “chats,” but I know she’ll read too much into it if I flee to my room. My mom’s a gold medal worrier. Part of her is probably glad I’m not out impregnating some poor teenage girl right now. But I know another part always worries I’m not having a normal life.
She has no idea how abnormal it is.
No way have I told my parents about my dream-girl stalker. I’d rather not spend endless afternoons sprawled on a couch while some shrink spouts useless psychobabble and drains my parents’ limited savings account. I had quite enough of that when I was “The Miracle Child.”
“How was the date?” she asks as I cross the brown shaggy carpet and plop down beside her.
I answer with a shrug—my best weapon against my mom’s never-ending questions. It’s always fun to see how long I can get away with it.
“Was Hannah nice?”
Shrug.