Let The Wind Rise (Sky Fall, #3)(17)

I knee him as hard as I can.

I only manage to hit his thigh, and he grunts and grabs my throat.

The scarred Stormer pries him away and shoves him into the snow. “Get down there and cool off! I’m not facing the Shredder over you.”

The other Stormer snarls threats, but doesn’t follow as I’m dragged away.

“Thank you,” I mumble, tripping over my shaky feet.

“I didn’t do it for you,” the scarred Stormer says.

I follow his eyes to his marked hands, where the pale lines almost glow in the dim light.

“You’ve faced the Shredder before?” I guess.

He doesn’t answer. But the set of his jaw tells me all I need to know.

I probably shouldn’t ask my next question, but . . . I have to.

“What did it feel like?” I whisper.

“How do you think? The Shredder has seventeen fans, and each one carves different edges into the drafts. So when the wind hits, it’s like having seventeen spinning blades liquefying your insides.”

If my stomach weren’t so empty, I’d vomit again.

Instead, I let out a sob for Gus—but only one.

I spend the rest of the walk trying to compose myself. Which is why I don’t realize the crucial information I’ve been given until I’m locked away in my cell.

Seventeen fans.

Now I know what Aston meant about the fortress having more security than anyone could ever need and none all at the same time.

Aston escaped through the Shredder.





CHAPTER 9


VANE


Flying with Aston sucks.

Actually, “sucks” isn’t a strong enough word—but breaking my parents’ Language Rules feels like admitting that I’m really not planning on seeing them ever again.

It’s not just the scratchy broken winds Aston uses, or the way they turn the world into a blurry mess.

It’s that Aston’s, well . . . holey.

He’s still wearing his cloak, but he has the hood down and his sleeves keep blowing back. And when you surround any of his skin with a ton of rushing wind, it makes this constant screeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaach.

I lose track of how many hours I spend gritting my teeth through the nails-on-a-chalkboard whistle, but my jaw is aching when we set down in the middle of a field with long, swooshing grass and one of those round, silver windmills with the fin sticking out of the back.

“Why are we stopping?” I ask.

“I know I may ooze power and prestige,” Aston says. “But I do occasionally need to rest.”

The confession reminds me how long it’s been since the last time I slept. Raiden spent weeks using his shattered winds to torment me with nightmares—and now I can’t sleep. Not when Gus and Audra are . . .

“What time is it?” I ask.

Arella glances at the sun. “Looks like it’s getting close to noon.”

“NOON?”

“Oh, spare us the freak-out,” Aston tells me. “We’re losing time as we head east.”

“How does that make it better?” I ask.

Aston shrugs. “If you want to move faster, we’ll have to ditch some dead weight.”

His eyes dart to Solana, and she gives him a glare that practically shoots ice beams.

“You call this ‘dead weight’?” She stretches out her arms, and all the nearby breezes sink under her skin.

“You do realize that windcatching is essentially the worst thing you can do when you’re facing the power of pain, right?” Aston asks. “What do you think will happen to all of this”—he waves his hands in front of her, outlining her curves—“if I shatter those drafts you’ve tucked away?”

The color drains from Solana’s face. “Can you really do that?”

Aston pulls aside his cloak to reveal a long row of perfectly round holes, piercing through skin and bone. “Anything can be broken.”

“Well, he won’t break me,” Solana says, calling more breezes and soaking them up.

Aston shakes his head and growls a scratchy word.

A grayish draft tangles around her, but Solana absorbs it like the others. “You were saying?”

“That is . . . unexpected,” Aston says.

He studies her so closely that Solana starts to fidget.

I save her by getting back to the much more important subject. “I think we should use pipelines for the rest of the journey.”

I hadn’t suggested the rapid wind tunnels before, because they can be unstable and deadly. They also suck worse than traveling with Captain Screeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaach.

But we’re wasting too much time.

“We’re moving faster than you think,” Aston promises. “We’ve already made it to that middle part of the country where there’s far too many cows for my liking. Kansas, is it? Or Dakota something?”

“Nebraska,” Arella murmurs.

The name feels fuzzy in my ears, matching the memory that resurfaces with it.

A hazy afternoon—the sun so bright it whites out the blue. I follow a dark-haired girl as she finds the tallest tree and climbs. I can’t see what’s in the nest, but I’m mostly there for the songs. Her voice makes me forget that I’m supposed to be afraid.