Let The Wind Rise (Sky Fall, #3)(45)

“That’s asking a lot of my acting skills.”

“Hopefully it won’t come up. How’s it going back there? Need help?”

“Don’t even think about it. You just worry about naked boy—and maybe cover his bits with Raiden’s blankies.” I emerge a minute later, fidgeting in the itchy fabric and wishing my new pants weren’t so much tighter than my others The stuff from my pockets barely fits. “Should we tie him up so he can’t walk out of here once he wakes up?”

“That won’t be a problem.”

Maybe it’s the unnaturally calm way she says it. But it makes me take another look at the Stormer and realize the draft silencing him is covering his mouth and nose.

“Before you freak out,” Solana says, holding out her hands like she’s calming a rabid dog, “remember, he chose to serve Raiden. He deserves whatever happens to him.”

“Not this.” I grab my dagger and try to cut him free, but my swipe grazes right through the ruined draft.

By the time I realize I need to use his black windslicer, a cold, rattly sound echoes through his chest, and he goes a different kind of still.

“You didn’t have to kill him!” I say—barely remembering to whisper.

“He would’ve killed us! And what if he’d escaped? What if he led them back to this room to wait for us? This is our exit. We have to keep it clear. This is why Aston said I should be the one in charge. He knew I’d be the only one who could make the tough choices.”

“This wasn’t a ‘tough choice’—it was murder!”

“No, it was war—and keep your voice down or you’re going to get us killed.” She turns away from me, pulling at the hem of her dress, and I notice her hands are shaking.

When she looks back my way, there’s a plea in her eyes, begging me to let this go.

But there’s something else there too. That same junkie-glint as the last time she let the power of pain take over.

Even my Westerly shield agrees, switching its tune to a song about traitors.

“We need to get back on track,” she whispers. “We’re making too much noise and moving too slow. If we don’t get Gus and Audra out of here now, we never will.”

I know she’s right.

And some part of me knows this isn’t her fault. It’s the disgusting power breaking her down bit by bit.

But I can’t be a part of this.

“Here’s how this is going to go,” I say, heading for the door. “This is my mission, and we go by my rules from now on.”

“You really think you can get us through this?”

“No, but I’m hoping the wind can. This isn’t up for negotiation. We do it my way—or we split up. Your call.”

Solana sighs. “We’ll see how long this lasts.”

I’m feeling pretty good about the whole taking-back-control thing, until we get to the door and I realize it’s locked again.

“I can open it . . . ,” Solana says.

Traitor, my Westerly whispers.

Got any bright ideas, then? I ask the wind.

I’m expecting it to sing some sort of vague melody about resisting temptation. Instead, it slips through the cracks and unlocks the latch.

Solana’s eyes are as wide as mine as I pull the door open.

Maybe the fourth language can take down the power of pain after all.





CHAPTER 24


AUDRA


We’re finally making progress.

Slow progress.

But progress.

Slipping through secret doors to new parts of the maze.

I have no idea where we are, but at least the halls have changed.

Rougher walls.

Uneven floors.

The path we walk even feels like an incline, heading for the surface.

I’d be celebrating if Gus’s skin weren’t turning as pale as a sun-bleached stone. His breaths also hold a gurgly rattle that makes my stomach knot.

I coiled the Easterly around him, but it seems to be making no difference. And Gus claims that if he absorbed it, he’d use the energy up even faster.

I keep calling for other drafts, but so far none have been around to answer. Even Raiden’s ruined winds seem to be avoiding this hall—not that they would help us.

“So I just realized you never told me the whole plan,” Gus whispers. “How exactly are we supposed to escape through the Shredder?”

“Aston’s guide maps out a path through the fans.”

Gus stops walking. “How many fans are there?”

“Seventeen.”

It sounds so much worse out loud.

Seventeen leaps through spinning blades.

The slightest miscalculation—a split second of difference—and we’re nothing more than a splatter of red.

Gus whistles. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’m in such great shape then.”

He smiles at his joke, but it still breaks my heart.

I remember Gus during the early days of my guardian training. He’d be doing sit-ups or push-ups or practicing fight moves long after the rest of us retired for the day. His focus was legendary, and it pushed me to try harder, be better.

And now . . .

“Relax. It’s going to take a lot more than this to finish me off,” he promises, getting us moving again. “I’m way more worried about the fact that we haven’t run into any Stormers.” “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”