“Don’t let them see you!” Os hisses as he spins me around to face him.
My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I notice he’s here with Solana, and they’re both crouched in the shadows.
There’s a new gash to Os’s scar, cutting right through the center, like the mark has been crossed out. But Solana looks a lot worse. Huge splotches of blood stain her pale dress. I can’t tell if it’s all hers, but the thick gash on her chin looks pretty gnarly either way.
“What happened?” I ask quietly.
Os points out at the Storms. “What do you think?”
The Storms slam against the mountain next to us, pulverizing a huge hole into the wall of stone.
My mouth goes dry and I have to swallow several times before I can ask, “How many Gales are left?”
Os drops his eyes to his hands. “Last count . . . eight—and that’s including us.”
That’s . . . not even half.
“Where are Gus and Audra?” Solana asks after a second.
I was just wondering the same thing.
I’d thought the “traitor” the Westerly was taking me to was Arella. But it brought me here.
I scan the tiny cave trying to figure out why. A glint of yellow catches my attention.
“What are those?” I ask, pointing to the pile of strangely colored wind spikes piled at Os’s feet.
Traitor, my Westerly whispers again, and I have a horrible feeling I already know.
I pick one up and the winds’ pain and misery pulses through my hand like a heartbeat.
“You broke the winds inside these?” I ask, dropping the spike and backing away.
“Only the Northerlies,” Os corrects as he bends to retrieve it. “And only because there was no other option.”
“Yeah, well, clearly the winds disagree, or I wouldn’t have been dragged here by a Westerly that kept calling you a traitor.”
“A traitor?” Os shouts—then covers his mouth and makes us all duck as we wait to see if the Storms heard.
“I’m a traitor?” he hisses after a few seconds. “I’m the one who saved us! I got your pathetic warning only minutes before the Storms arrived, and before I’d had time to blink they’d taken out a third of our force. We tried to run and hide until the three of you came back to help us, but we would’ve been snuffed out completely if I hadn’t realized that Raiden had broken the Storms. The only way to fight a ruined wind is with another. So I broke the Northerlies in the spikes and we’ve been taking down the Storms one by one. We only have a few left.”
Traitor, the Westerlies around me whisper.
“There has to be another way—”
“There isn’t!” Os grabs one of the spikes and hurls it through the cave’s opening at a Living Storm that had just discovered our hideout.
The spike tears straight through the Storm’s shoulder, making it howl and rage as smoky mist leaks into the sky. Before it even finishes yelping, Os launches another spike straight through its eyes, making the massive Storm explode.
“You see?” Os asks as the ground shakes and the air turns thick and we cough from the dust and debris. “Without these weapons we’d have no fighting chance.”
He hands another spike to me as proof, then reaches up to smear the blood off his cheek.
The cut on his face has opened wider from the strain, and I can’t decide if it makes him look cruel or strong.
I never thought those two things could be interchangeable, but as I stare at the broken spike, I wonder if maybe they are.
Maybe sometimes the only right choice is the wrong one, and what it really comes down to is being brave enough to make it.
Traitor, the Westerlies hiss, and this time it feels like they’re saying it to me. But what else was Os supposed to do? There weren’t any other . . .
The thought trails off when I realize that there is another option—the one Gus and Audra are already working on.
Releasing Arella wasn’t an easy decision either—but it’s better than ruining the wind.
But they should be here by now, shouldn’t they?
They left before me . . . .
I clutch my heart, trying to feel the pull of our bond. But I feel colder and emptier than I have in a long time.
It could be that Audra’s deep in the Maelstrom—but why would she still be there?
What if something’s wrong?
I drop the damaged wind spike and reach for a Westerly to carry me—but they all ignore my call, whispering, Traitor, and flitting away. I’m searching the air for any other winds that might be willing to help me when a Storm’s fist slams into our cave.
Everything crumbles.
I flail to protect my wounded arm as I skid down a rocky slope, not stopping until I’m halfway down the mountain. I’m grateful my Westerly shield didn’t abandon me, because I’m pretty sure I’d have no skin left on my chest otherwise.
I’m choking on the dust and sand when I hear Solana scream and turn my head just in time to see one of the remaining Storms snatch her away.